It rained and rained and rained some more last night, and
when we rose, even allowing for the change of daylight saving time, there was
no change in the weather. This was very disappointing given that we had allowed for two nights
in this corner of the country and might well have extended another, but Mt
Snowden, the base visible from our camp here on the farmlet, was still shrouded
in cloud and the forecasts promised little improvement.
In fact the weather was so bad this morning it was tempting
to simply return to bed and wait for the morrow. Instead we decided to head
into Caenarfon and consider a visit to the well-famed castle, that where the
current Prince of Wales, Prince Charles of England, was invested back in 1969.
He obviously had the privilege of celebrity to premium parking; even today,
Sunday, there was a little man in a kiosk gathering 4 GBP for an hour or less
near the castle, the one way streets around the castle and the town centre were
a nightmare, and generally speaking, tempers were pushed to the edge as we
tried to navigate our way around the centre of Caenarfon. Speaking for myself,
as we drove around the base of the Castle, an impressive structure started by
Edward I in 1283, and up around the Segontium Roman Fort on the hill, I
suspected one could spend many fascinating hours here in this spot, but it
would be after a battle of wills with my beloved chauffeur.
And so we moved on, eastward along the Menai Strait and
across the waterway on one of the two bridges to the Isle of Anglesey, an
island of gentle rolling hills sometimes labelled as Mam Cymru, The Mother of Wales, for the
fact that over the centuries it has proved to be the country’s breadbasket. In
the twelfth century, Giraldus Cambrensis noted that “When the crops failed in
other regions, this island, from its soil and its abundance, has been able to
supply all of Wales”. Later today we saw reference to the fact that in 1277,
Anglesey was valued for “its vital corn harvest”. Our observations today only proved that sheep
do as well here as anywhere else in Wales, although I was particularly
fascinated to see that the black sheep were indeed very very black. (Usually
“black sheep” are more brown that black.)
I was interested to learn that the Menai Strait is a
fourteen mile long tidal race that narrows in places to 200 yards wide, forcing
the current up to eight knots as it rushes between Conwy and Caenarfon bays.
The A55 runs directly across to Holyhead (pronounce
“Hollyhead” or otherwise locally known as Caergybi) and there folk wishing to
take the ferry across to Dublin line up for their turn across the Irish Sea.
Beside this sterile motorway, (and I use this term as a Kiwi, rather than being
terribly technical with “dual carriageways”, and the like) runs the lesser and
more interesting A5 road and it was that we took, exiting the very wet major
highway at Llanfairpwillgwyngyllgogerychwyndrobwlllandysiliogogoch otherwise
known as Llanfairgpwill. The Welsh name of the town in its fullness means “St
Mary’s church in the hollow of the white hazel near a rapid whirlpool and the
Church of St Tysilio near the red cave”. Before one considers the profound
traditional meanings of place names and gives some kind of misplaced credos to
the ancient Welsh, it should be noted that a Menai Bridge tailor in the 1880s
thought it up in an attempt to draw tourists, and indeed has been very
successful in doing so.
Both of us were surprised to discover that Holyhead is not
located on a peninsula but is on a separate island entirely, Holy Island,
connected by road and rail bridges. We drove on out past the ferry terminal,
fascinated by the extent of the town crowded upon the hill, all based upon the
long standing marine route to Ireland, and supplemented by fishing.
By now the weather had improved ever so slightly; we debated
our next move, Chris still hoping for the clouds to clear off Mt Snowden and I
more pessimistic about the chances, we headed east across the top of the island
and down the east coast, pulling into the charming little harbour at Camaes,
wedged between two power generating systems. Alas the harbour car parks and any
other space for visitors was crowded with motor cycle enthusiasts and we were
moved on by officials relishing their power. I was hugely disappointed; the bay
reminded me of that in the fictional village of Portwen in Doc Martin and deserved a dozen photos. Alas, the opportunity was
lost and the loss was also Camaes’; we were hungry and looking for extra treats
to add to our lunch of bread and cheese.
We had noted the many wind turbines on the hills as we had
come across the top of the island; I was keen to find out how many and their capacity,
having developed an interest whilst in Australia where we saw so many. We
pulled into a side road signed Wylfa
Nuclear Power Station and learned that there was yet another producer of
power on this small island, the signs further back promising an Information Centre
attributed incorrectly to the wind farm. This was a bonus as I know nothing
about nuclear generators aside from the Chernabyl disaster, that devastated by the tsunami on northern
Honshu, that generating employment in Homer Simpson’s Springfield and those
strange looking “chimney” structures sighted when I first visited Belgium in
about 1986. Alas the centre, well-appointed with picnic area and playground was
shut today, so I must be left with this limited and naive understanding for
now.
We pressed on, now further frustrated by hunger and the
inability to find a suitable parking spot, however at Bull Bay, a mini-version
of that at Camaes, we found a space beside the seaweed covered rocks and dined
on our plain fare.
At Amlwch, we spotted signs mentioning the “copper trail”
and quickly consulted our travel guides. Parys Mountain immediately to the west
is the site of a moon-scaped waste, once the world’s largest source of copper.
Neolithic and Roman miners were followed by industrial production in the
eighteenth century when Amlwch boomed after the mountain’s secret wealth was
rediscovered in 1768. Within a few years, mining transformed this mountain into
an alien landscape and nearby Amlwh into one of Wales’ most populous towns with
a thriving port. A vast business empire was born that dominated the world’s copper
market for nearly a decade. It has been dubbed “the Copper Kingdom”, with local
entrepreneur Thomas Williams as its “Copper King”.
Today there are walks all about this strange reserve, but
the wind was blowing, and the rain had not entirely gone, so we did not venture
out as we would have liked, but drove on further south into the centre of the
island, through narrow hedged lanes, past fields of sheep and the odd cow,
before turning west to regain the A5025, then branching off through even
narrower lanes to thread our way down to the town of Beaumaris on the south
coast, but not before checking the horizon to see that there was still no
change in the clouds about Mt Snowden.
Beaumaris is a most charming township on the Mennai Strait,
today busy with tourists, mainly local, taking advantage of the spells in the
rain showers. From here you can take a boat out to Puffin Island although today
you would have had to be mad to do so.
The original inhabitants were evicted by Edward I to make
way of the construction of his new castle and bastide town, this his last,
largest and most picturesque fortress with its water filled moat and loop holed
ramparts. It was built in 1294 and although never completed, it is clear from
what survives that the intended accommodation within the inner ward was planned
on a lavish scale. It cost 50 million GBP in today’s values and was the most
ambitious military building of the Middle Ages.
Usually castles were private fortified dwellings of
individual nobles, but King Edward’s chain of fortresses in North Wales was
very different. This was a mediaeval state enterprise, financed entirely by the
Crown. The construction costs were immense, but so was the building
organisation. The labour force was conscripted from almost every county in
England and from the English possessions in France – nearly 3,000 woodcutters,
carpenters, diggers and masons from the English shires alone; they travelled to
their destinations on foot. Building materials too often came from afar,
usually by ship. Items such as timber and stone, lead, iron and glass were in
constant demand to keep the construction works supplied, while money, to pay
the men, came in silver pennies packed tight in barrels.
Chris and I wandered across the moat, through the gates, up
and down narrow staircases, along parapets and through miles of dark corridors;
it was all fascinating and I was delighted we had made the effort. Emerging
into the watery sunlight, we wandered up the streets of Beaumaris and back
along the waterfront before heading on the last leg back to camp.
Our day which had begun with such little expectation had
turned out well, and while we will not have climbed to the top of 3,520 foot Mt
Snowden, nor even cheated by catching the Snowden Mountain railway, that
completed in 1896, nor explored the nearby castle at Caenarfon, we have seen
some of the local sights and will have to leave it at that, because tomorrow we
move on, having booked the next three camping spots ahead.
No comments:
Post a Comment