12 July 2018: This will be our second night here at Dol Einon, a very rustic
Certified Site with electric hook-up, toilets, coin operated showers, no
internet, no cellphone or television reception; it is easy to understand The
Chauffeur’s reaction late yesterday afternoon. He was not happy with our selection
of camp site and not willing to stay the number of nights we had initially
booked. His dissatisfaction could not be tempered by this beautiful spot here
in the southern area of the Snowdonia National Park, lodged deep in a valley
between the 892 metre high Cadair Idris and another mountain of 667 metres.
Even to the east of us are other peaks of over 600 metres. Alas I am not the
only one to think this stunning landscape worthy of lingering in; NATO pilots
practice low flying through these narrow valleys, two F15s at a time followed
by a couple of MV-22 Osprey, buzzing the natives and the wildlife at low
altitudes. Our octogenarian hostess reckons she is a one woman crusade against
the world, not only fighting the unwanted presence of these incredibly noisy
war-craft, but all the political correctness that goes on in the world about.
The first time the jets flew through, almost low enough for the pilots to count
the hairs upon my head, the noise was so great, even with my hands over my
ears, I felt as if I had been physically struck to the ground.
But getting back to where I last left off, I had planned our last full
day in Ceredigion, on the Cambrian Coast, to be a relatively restful day,
aware that the hot weather seems to be taking its toll on our stamina, and as a
“mop up” day, exploring Cardigan where we initially thought we had arranged to
stay and Cilgerran Castle that had been on the earlier Teifi Valley agenda.
Cilgerran Castle, a National Trust asset, is a mere four miles
from Cardigan, but we approached it from the north, via a series of narrow
lanes, through countryside even browner and drier than when we last ventured
into the valley. Here in the lower reaches of the Avon Teifi, at the most
northern reach of the tidal section, the valley is more a ravine, if such
descriptive words can ever be applied to the gentle geography about. There is
no parking facility here, only a widening of a nearby street, and given that
this is not somewhere you spend a whole day, the administrators and neighbours
must surely rely on the regular turnover of tourists throughout any one day.
The castle was first erected as a citadel for the Lord of Emlyn
about 1092, but rebuilt early in the 12th century by Gilbert de
Clare, one of my distant ancestors. It was captured in 1166 by Lord Rhys,
Prince of Wales, who has featured in earlier blog postings, then seized by
William Marshall, Earl of Pembroke (who has also made an appearance here) in
1204. In 1213, the castle was retaken by Prince Llewellyn ap Iorwerth, but
recovered by William Marshall the Younger in 1223, who set about rebuilding the
castle. The present ruins belong to this metamorphous and as early as 1272, the
castle lapsed to the Crown, was labelled a “ruinous fortress” in 1387 and
abandoned by 1400.
In 1938 it was purchased “from Sir Lewes Pryse of Gogerddan by a
Mrs Colby, widow of John Vaughan Colby Esquire, late of Ffynnone ad Rhosygilwen”
and presented to the National Trust in memory of her husband and of the long
connection which has existed between him and his family and the parishes of Cilgerran
and Manordeify; a rather generous memorial, a little like those “gifts” to the
church by the purgatory fearing Christians of old.
We spent some time in the ticket office listening to the praises
heaped upon our homeland by the National Trust employee who had recently
travelled DownUnder, before wandering on into the castle complex. It is a ruin,
but quite impressive for all that. Access is still open to the ramparts and two
entry towers where the thickness of the four foot walls is obvious and the
views down across the river and the countryside beyond are worth the effort of
the climb.
From here we drove on into Cardigan, easily finding a pay and
display car park down by the river. The streets of the town rise steeply from
the river, and being narrow, are travelled about on an efficient one way
system.
According to our guide book, until the Afon Teifi silted up in the
19th century, Cardigan was one of the greatest sea ports in Britain,
but we often read such statements and one becomes a little sceptical of such superfluous
boasts. Today as we walked about we found it to be a vibrant little centre, a
little old fashioned but meeting the everyday needs of everyday folk.
The covered market set in a two storeyed affair behind the Council
buildings was full of antiques, models and craft materials, the former suited
to men with too much time on their hands, and the latter best suited to women
who spent much of their lives knitting and sewing clothes for themselves and
their extended family. I was one such once upon a time, but these days have
joined the lazy masses who buy items manufactured in countries overflowing with
cheap labour.
The medieval castle of Cardigan has a similar illustrious history
as that upriver, bulging onto the thoroughfare up into the town. But it is the
more modern restoration that impresses the visitor on arrival. Apparently the
castle’s last occupant only left in the late 1990s to be cared for in a nursing
home, so the castle was put up for sale. The Ceredigion County Council stumped
up with the funds in 2003 and the renovation continued right through to 2015.
There is still a heritage centre here to remind the public of the
structure’s past, but it is the accommodation and restaurant facilities that
are most obvious to the passing tourist. We were not tempted to explore the
former and I did wonder at the modern reimagining of the structure, which
apparently won Channel 4’s restoration award.
We spent less than two hours in the town, heading off instead to
the Tesco supermarket where we paid the lowest diesel price per litre we have
paid for some time. Back at camp Chris settled in front of the box to watch the
cycling while I carved up the rotisserie chicken, some for our dinner and the
rest for the freezer.
Wednesday arrived and with it our departure from Cross Inn. We
hung about until well after 10 am, although not too late because not only does
the administration insist on departure before midday, but the extremely narrow
entrance lane just would not accommodate one outward caravan rig confronting
another coming in.
After all the weeks of sunshine, it was unfortunate that the day
was cloudy, the precipitation leaking from on high, sometimes just enough to
warrant the windscreen wipers, and mostly not. We continued on up the edge of
Cardigan Bay, on past Aberystwyth, the traffic slow. We soon joined the road
across from the high country we had travelled in the rented motorhome a few years ago, and came on down to the
Dovey valley, now familiar with the wooded surrounds we passed through and the estuary
of the Afon Dyfi as we neared Machynlleth. Once across the river, we climbed
steeply away from the town, now on the south east boundary of the Snowdonia
National Park, then down again to the Talyllyn valley where we soon found our
camp, described above.
A reception committee of three golden brown hens met us, clucked
about then once approved of, we were left to set up. Once we had ascertained
there was no access to radio, internet or television, we set about considering
how we could possibly cope with the events that required our attention that
very day.
I suggested that one of the tiny villages directly south of us,
between here and Twyn might have a pub, and might have television and be
planning to show The Game; the semi-final in the soccer World Cup between
England and Croatia. The country was in the midst of World Cup fever, a
mounting hysteria which was cleverly masking the more important Brexit issues.
We set off, very soon finding ourselves following the shores of
the lake, Tal-y-Llyn, and on the southern shore, found a charming hotel, the Gwesty TynyCornel, which
owns the lake and where we stopped to check out their facilities. There we were
able to book in for dinner and have a little table reserved in the television
lounge so that we could dine, drink and join the excitement with several guests
who had requested the same service. One problem solved.
We continued on for several miles, mainly because I was adamant
that there should be some purpose to our outing other than chasing sports viewing,
until we reached the Dolgoch Falls. There we parked in a council car park for
the sum of £2 and walked up past the conveniently located tearooms to check the
falls out. We might have bought ice-creams but were still bristling from having
to pay out for a ten minute walk up to the falls. Actually the walk to the head
of the gully and back apparently takes forty five minutes, but Chris was not
particularly keen with the outing at all, so we kept it to a minimum.
An easy path takes one up through the woods beside a pretty creek,
under the small viaduct of the Talyllyn Railway to a look out over a fairly
modest waterfall. Give that we did not continue up the gorge, this description
may well be unfair, for I can only report what we saw.
From here we walked back and up to the Dolgoch Station where the
volunteer operated train stops for the passengers to admire the natural wonders
of the area. The station was originally
opened in 1867 to serve two farms and to give access to the ravine and its
falls. In the 1870s there was a serious attempt to quarry slate in the ravine
and there was talk of a siding to serve the workings, but these came to
nothing. Public access was increased when the land was purchased by a Twyn
pharmacist, Robert Jones Roberts, who laid out the area with additional trees
and paths and just before he died he gave the ravine to the community, which I
guess accounts for the fact it is the Council who collects the parking fees
near the road.
Apparently the 27 inch gauge railway, which runs from Twyn on the
coast up to Abergynolwyn, was the inspiration for Thomas the Tank Engine. Whether
it’s true or not, I thought that to be a delightful snippet of trivia. And
another gem relating to the railway; in mid-August each year, there is a “Race
the Train” event, when runners attempt to beat the train on its fourteen mile
trip to Abergynolwyn and back, a feat that some manage to do.
And so later that afternoon, or early evening, we took ourselves
to the charming lakeside hotel, where guests sit out on the terrace looking
across the lake, or in the well-appointed dining room, or like us, crowd around
a television set to cheer on a win or groan when things do not go well. And
they did not go well for the English; Croatia won in extra time and in our
inexpert opinion, deserved to do so. But we did have an excellent evening all
round. Second problem solved.
And finding we had cellphone reception, phoned forward to our next
camp to ask if we could arrive one day earlier. “No problem”, we were told;
third problem solved. (We had been rather vague with our hostess at Dol Einon
when she said we could pay in a day or two, so it was evident that three nights
or four made little difference to her.)
This morning saw us away on a tikki-tour further inland, crossing
through the impressive mountainous country, dropping down the sides of scree
mountains that seemed to descend longer than they took to climb, which is all
quite illogical. We headed north toward Dolgellau, then turned east on the A470
, until we turned away from the National Park on the A458 and continued on
through wide open valleys, beautiful rural scenes, until we reached Welshpool, renamed
thus as recently as the 19th century to differentiate it from Poole
down on the south coast of England, in Dorset.
Welshpool lies a mere three miles from the English border, in the
county of Montgomeryshire. We parked up, keen to check out the farmers market
that we had read occurred every Thursday. Instead we found ourselves in an
indoor market in the centre of town that was not even one tenth as good as that
in Cardigan, which we had considered rather poor. Later we realised the
farmer’s market was a livestock one, held on the edge of town; of course. Still,
we did walk up and down the main street and decided it to be quite a pleasant
place, the streets wider than many in Britain, and then found our way down to
the canal.
The cross-border Montgomery Canal runs just over thirty three
miles from its junction with the Llangollen canal at Lower Frankton in
Shropshire, to Newtown in Powys, It was built in three sections by three
different canal companies between 1796 and 1819, for boats to carry limestone
destined for fertiliser through the twenty seven locks.
From 1936 on, sections were neglected and it was officially
abandoned in 1944. The canal became a Remainder Waterway under the 1968
Transport Act but its restoration by volunteers of the Shropshire Union Canal
Society was begun the same year, as they fought a campaign against a
proposed bypass planned to run in the
bed of the Canal at Welshpool. Nowadays only the fourteen mile section between
Arddlin, south of Welshpool, to Refail near Berriew, is open, although the
towpaths for the entire length have been restored. Whether the navigation
itself will even be open is a big question because there are two sections that
would require rerouting roading systems and this is not likely to ever be
considered feasible.
In the meantime, aside from the annual marathon run the entire
length of the restore towpaths, there is a good little canal museum in
Welshpool to check out, which we did in rather a hurry, anxious that our free
parking at the Sainsbury superstore car park might expire.
The
main destination today, apart from enjoying the journey to and from, was Powis
Castle, a National Trust property which we had also seen featured in a recent
televsion programme. The castle is situated on an earlier Norman fort, but the
structure more or less as it is today, was started in the reign of Edward I by
the Gwenwynwyn family who had to renounce all their claims to the Welsh princedom
to qualify for the site and the barony of De la Pole. 
In
1587, Sir Edward Herbert bought the property and began to transform it into the
castle one can visit today. Like all such properties there are stories to be
told of the fine and of the not so fine family members, the winners and the
losers.
One
of these more celebrated owners was Edward Clive who married the sister of an
earl who died without issue. Edward was the son of Robert Clive, victor of
Plassey and Commander in Chief of British India, who had returned from India as
the richest man in Europe, bearing booty from his battles. Edward and his wife
Henrietta also acquired more Indian art when he served as Governor of Bengal at
the time of the British victory over Tipu Sultan, the ruler of Mysore, hence
the castle became full of memorabilia and the spoils of colonisation. Part of
the ballroom has been set aside to display much of this bling and booty, and
while much of it did not excite, it is all part of a very important part of the
history of the British Empire. I enjoyed
more the pianist who was playing in the ballroom, the enthusiatic strains of
her music very audible in the little museum.
It
was the 4th Earl and his wife, Violet, who did much restoration to
both the interior and to the magnificent terraced gardens, however he was to
tragically lose both his sons in the 20th century wars and his wife
in a car accident. In 1952, at the age of ninety, Lord Powis decided to leave
the castle and the gardens to the National Trust, prompted no doubt by death
duties that were fast piling up.
We arrived in time to join an introductory talk about the property
then spent time filing through the rooms with the crowds of other tourists.
Alas many of the rooms were very dark and not conducive to reading the
information sheets left here and there. After lunch out under the trees, we
spent another hour wandering about the glorious gardens, glad that the rain
which had been threatening most of the day had moved elsewhere.
From Welshpool, we set off for home, but this time on a more
southerly loop, on the A483 to Newtown, which would have been merely a waypoint
had I not spotted an interesting snippet in our guide book. In fact there were
several interesting facts about this unknown town, but only one we went to
check out.
W H Smith is an institution here in the United Kingdom, the
newsagents, bookshops and stationer in every town, at many motorway service
centres, at airports, railway stations and surely other places I have omitted.
But here in Newtown there is a little museum dedicated to the story of this
success and it is only here because during the company’s modernisation drive in
the 1970s, this particular shop was found to have the space, marvellous old oak
shelving and other 1920s fixtures and fittings.
We soon found the local store and made our way upstairs to the
museum after making a half-hearted attempt to track down a book we are keen to
secure. I was interested to learn that the business had started as a modest
newspaper agency, which grew to huge proportions when Smith No 1 grappled with
the concept of getting the London newspapers out to the regions in a timely
manner, rather than having to be satisfied with three or more day old
news. He managed this so well that
papers were delivered to the regions fourteen hours before the arrival of the
London mail.
The business has passed from one generation to another, evolving
from the railway kiosk pile, to warehousing and High Street outlets. Another
arm of the business was the lending library before the councils took over the
role in 1961. One of the several W H Smiths realised that although many people
could read, they could not afford to buy books for themselves. The bookstalls
would make ideal sites for lending libraries; passengers could borrow a book
from one bookstall and hand it in at another. Space was a problem on the
bookstalls and originally most novels were printed in massive there volume
versions. What was needed was a cheap, single volume lightweight series of
books which would take up less room and be much more convenient for everyone to
handle. So W H Smith encourage the development of “yellow-back” books,
especially reprinted for the bookstalls and bold in distinctive yellow covers.
These were the fore-runners to today’s paperbacks.
From here we walked up through the town to the bridge over the
River Severn, that which eventually makes its way out past Bristol, then found
our way back to the car and headed out through the town passing several reminders
that this was once a centre of weaving and textiles. It was here that Robert Owen
of New Lanark fame developed his socialist ideas and there is a museum to
celebrate this important contributor to Britain’s history, as well as a Textile
Museum tucked away somewhere else in the town. Alas, today we had not the time nor
the inclination, as we were keen to get back before the weather closed the
mountains in.
And so our homeward route took us back toward Machynlleth on the
A470, then back up the valley to Malwyd where we re-joined the picturesque road
we had travelled this morning. This afternoon we crawled up over the mountains
at snail’s pace, well back in a long queue held up by a long truck and trailer
unit heavily laden with freshly baled hay.
No comments:
Post a Comment