Tan-y-Bryn Farm, Bryn Pydew, Llandudno Junction, Conwy

 

The first days of the weather front arrived overnight, initially only with wind. Other parts of the country had been beset with hail and a deluge of rain, not so welcome after months of drought. My weather app suggested that we might escape rain all day so we set off out for a drive making the best of the day.

The seaside was theme of the day, although it did not remain so. We arrived at Deganwy on the south west corner of the Great Orme, and parked briefly near the beach. From here there are views across to the rugged coast to the west where the A55 hugs the coastline, often passing through tunnels. From this distance it appeared there was no habitable coastal band at all, an impression almost totally true.

Along the promenade, walkers held their hats and jackets on against the wind, and it was not very pleasant at all. We had intended to drive clockwise around the Great Orme on Marine Drive from here, but soon found the road closed off with a high fence. So we drove across to Llandudno, briefly considering an attempt to drive the eastern side of that same route, but then realising we would have to pay the toll of £2.50 for a partial experience or possibly a far shorter one than that. Instead we parked up in this seaside town that impressed from the moment we arrived.

It was mid-morning and being Saturday, full of holidaymakers, weekenders and locals; busy and most attractive, sitting tightly against the base of the Orme. Mostyn Street, the main shopping street, runs parallel to the beach promenade, close enough for dual purpose walkers and shoppers, but far enough to feel like a real retail mecca as opposed to a seaside resort. There are of course a lot of hotels and B&Bs up the side streets and along The Parade, all so much smarter than Wales’ other seaside resort at Aberystwyth. The Promenade is a wide band of clean and easy walking surface, the shore is made up of large ”pebbles”, my husband’s words; I would call them rocks. This is a beach on which to promenade and shop, and maybe swim at if you can manage the stones on bare feet.  At the end of the beach, tucked even tighter against the high cliffs of the Orme, is the pier, the approach which seems to be full of shoddy shabby horrible amusement arcades and souvenir shops; I say “seems” because I could not bear to check it out, not wanting to ruin the good impression I had of lovely Llandudno.

We were not willing to part with our hard earned cash to ride the Great Orme Tramway or the Aerial Cable Car, although I suggest this latter would not have run with the high winds. We imagined that it would be cold, windy and quite unpleasant up at the top and even the views on offer would not compensate.

So back in the car, we debated where we should next head. Chris was keen to drive east to Rhyl; I was not so enthralled with the idea. I read him a description from our guide book: “For raw and raucous seaside shenanigans, Rhyl is probably your best bet. The two mile long Promenade is a powerful assault of the senses, all pulsing lights, whooping arcade games and the ever present smell of candy floss and vinegar on chips”. Chris was a little excited about the “vinegar on chips” but he did understand that this was the sort of place I do not like and have seen enough of around the United Kingdom to understand that British folk are very different to we who have been raised DownUnder.

To his credit, even with a little hesitation, he agreed we should head for the National Trust’s  Bodnant Gardens, an attraction on my itinerary, if not earmarked for today. 

Alas, even our departure from Llandudno was not without event. As we reversed out of our parking spot, there was a thump: we had backed into the side of another vehicle. The very elderly man settled down when he heard our foreign accents and agreed that we would sort this out without insurance companies becoming involved. Unfortunately he and his distressed wife do not own a computer, let alone be email and internet savvy. With parents of a similar age who email, Whatssap and surf (the internet) perhaps I have unrealistic expectations. Last year when Chris managed to similarly dent a fellow camper’s vehicle at Skipton, we easily settled the matter with emailed quotes, emailed correspondence and internet banking transfers. This time it may not be such an easy matter. However the damage is minimal; in New Zealand a dent repairer would fix this simply with a suction device, but we don’t know if they do this here in the UK, let alone North Wales.

Now I could remind the reader of all The Chauffeur’s little faux pas over the course of our overseas travelling, and put myself on some sort of perfect-pedestal but that would be overlooking the fact that it is he who does 99.9% of the driving and this year, all of it. (However I do sometimes remind him about filling the fuel tank with petrol.)

Details exchanged and explaining our movements over the next few months, we parted company, although I have to say his wife did not look either forgiving or even resigned. We headed south along the A470, that travelled in reverse the previous day, pulling into Bodnant Gardens just south of Glan Conwy after suffering road works traffic control jams.

Here we found all those who were not strolling about Llandudno, the car park almost full. We donned our caps and coats and set off into the gardens, these set on the side of a hill, on the east bank of the River Conwy, hence promising a good physical workout.

The gardens cover an area of eighty acres, a mix of formal Italianate gardens, shrub filled glades, water gardens, woodland and meadows, crowned by the fine looking Bodnant Hall which is not part of the National Trust. The gardens are renowned for their blooms in May and June, when the rhododendrons and azaleas which seem to monopolise so much of the less formal sections of the gardens, are at their best.  For us it was the hydrangeas that showed most of the colour, along with the lush greenery that had not suffered the dry summer at all.

I was disappointed with the explanations and information here; there was a little that offered hints rather than full histories. A chalk board at the Old Mill advised that this a Grade II listed building and was built around 1837, first used as a power source for a blast furnace. It was later used to turn the wheels of the estate flourmill and then the estate sawmill. It has been partly restored, but lack of money has left it with a small room suitable for intimate events and children’s activities.

Elsewhere is a plaque in memory of “Anne Laura Dorinthea McLaren, DPhil, FRS, DBE, an outstanding scientist who made the world a better place 1927 – 2007” which tickles one’s curiosity and again frustrates the tourist who wants to know more.  So I set to and sought more, thanks to internet connectivity.

Bodnant was home to the Lloyd family from the time of James I, passing by marriage to the Forbes family in the mid-1700s. In 1792 Colonel Forbes built an Italianate mansion to replace an earlier house and developed the parkland around the new Hall, the River Hiraethlyn moulded and encouraged into the landscape. When he died in 1820, the estate passed by marriage to William Hanmer, 6^th son of the Baronet of Bettisfied in Flintshire. Hanmer made his own improvements, building the Old Mill and extending the gardens.

New blood arrived when Victorian industrialist Henry Davis Pochin bought Bodnant at auction in 1874 and reshaped the walled garden, woods and plantation into the world renowned garden it is today, enlisting the skills of landscape designer Edward Milner.

Pochin is worthy of mention here, a man having made good by his own merit, rather than born with a silver spoon in his mouth or a title branded on his forehead. The son of a yeoman farmer from Leicestershire, he made his name and fortune with two big ideas; one was the discovery of a distillation process to turn soap, then brown to white, the other was the production of alum cake, in great demand in the paper-making and dyeing industry. He invested his wealth into coal, iron and steel, engineering and shipbuilding industries. He entered public service as councillor and mayor, retiring to Bodnant in 1874. Here he built cottages on the estate and improved farming practices, and at nearby Prestatyn, supplied the seaside town with clean water and gas, built flood defences and developed a foreshore with promenade.  He became a JP, Deputy Lieutenant and Sherriff of Denbighshire and director of the Metropolitan Railway Company. In other words, despite the possible motivation of money and mana, he was essentially a good guy.

The transformation continued under Pochin’s daughter, suffragist, author and horticulturist, Laura McLaren, she of the plaque fame. She in turn gifted the care of the garden to her son, Henry McLaren on his 21^st birthday, who embraced everything about gardens, plant hunters and plant breeding.

It was Henry who gifted Bodnant Gardens to the National Trust in 1949, and after his death in 1952, his son Charles McLaren, 2^nd Lord Aberconway, continued to develop Bodnant Garden with the Trust, making improvements opening new vistas and adding new plants.

In turn, Charles’ son, Michael inherited the estate in 2003 and remains involved in the enterprise as garden director. This I find all rather odd; when is a gift not a gift. It seems that this is an easy out for a garden owner to have beavering volunteers do all the hard yakka and cover the costs. 

We spent about a couple of hours wandering about the gardens, dodging showers, then returned to the car for a late lunch before facing the traffic snarl ups again. It was still early afternoon but in plenty of time to watch the Tour de France time trials and the worst of the rain that crossed the area later in the afternoon. 

But with all the grief about the car incident, I have omitted to mention one wonderfully memorable experience we did have while making our way around the Bodnant Gardens; we encountered an otter in a creek, the first live otter in the wild either of us have ever seen. Alas the speed and surprise of this very active creature precluded any opportunity for photographic record; you will have to take my word for it.

As we relaxed over the weekend newspapers, two articles particularly caught my attention, the first relating to the number of cars on the road here in the United Kingdom, one triggered by the summer holiday road clogging on the roads all over the country. There are apparently 2.4 million more cars on the road here than there were five years ago, an increase of 7.7%; these figures explain so much.

The second was about the wild fires about the country, one of these a fire at Llandysilio off the Horseshoe Pass. Apparently there had been a fire there before we drove across a few days ago and the winds over the intervening days have fanned it into a raging inferno. I am glad we are now well to the west.

This morning we woke to rain, that heard on various awakenings through the night; the kind of steady rain farmers welcome but that which rather spoils holiday outings. We sat in all morning, catching up with our daughter briefly and frustratingly not able to catch up with our younger son with whom I had made a rather vague communication rendez-vous.

After lunch, cognoscente that my husband would have been happy to have spent the rest of day waiting for the grande finale of the Tour de France on the goggle box, I suggested we head out to Conwy with an abbreviated list of touring destinations. My wishes are nearly always met, unless the request is ridiculous, which I admit it sometimes is, so off we went, the three and a half miles down to this very small yet very historically relevant estuary side town. We are so very close to the tourist attractions when travelling by the tight little lanes through Bryn Pydew, and I remarked today to The Chauffeur that the locals must surely hate the campers who arrive in their numbers here on the hill. The roads are a challenge enough for locals without the “foreigners” adding to the congestion.

Down in Conwy, we found ourselves a park beneath the town walls paying a fair price for the privilege: £2 for up to four hours, a charge obviously set to encourage the tourists' time to transfer their funds into the coffers of the retailers and hospitality providers, but still enough to give a steady income to the Council. Pedestrian access beneath the wall takes one up into the centre of the town, small but with a wealth of places to visit.

Our first destination was Plas Mawr, Conwy’s grandest residence, one of the best preserved Elizabethan townhouses in Britain. It was built between 1576 and 1585 in the heart of the medieval town’s narrow cobbled streets, by Robert Gwynn, an influential merchant, who was keen to advertise his status and who entertained in style.

The interior, with its elaborately decorated plaster ceilings and fine wooden screens reflect the wealth and opulence of the Tudor gentry in Wales. Gwynn came from local money, entering the service of Sir Walter Stonor then Sir Philip Hoby, both administrators and senior officials to Henry VIII, thus travelling through Europe and widening his horizon beyond the shores of North Wales. He fought and was injured in the Siege of Boulogne in 1544 and took apart in the King’s Scottish campaigns, before settling back in his home territory.

The stories and scenes set within Plas Mawr today tell of his marriage to his second wife, Dorothy Dymock, with whom he had seven children in only six years, all in his senior years, and within ten years of his death. Perhaps she wore him out? The audio guides are a must as one makes one’s way through the house and take one back to its heyday.

Robert’s will confused the future of the house after his death in 1598, but it did stay within the greater family in a rather convoluted way, that a story all by itself.  The Mostyn family, of which we have read elsewhere, were now involved, although through the 18^th and 19^th centuries the house was let out to tradespeople and residential tenants. In the 18^th century the gatehouse was used as a courthouse, and in the 19^th parts of the house were converted to a school. In 1825 the house had twenty five tenants. In 1870 the Mostyns offered the house for sale but there were no takers.

In 1887 the Royal Cambrian Academy of Art took on the lease of the building and architects were engaged to survey and conduct repairs. By the early 20^th century, Plas Mawr’s historical significance was well understood but the cost of maintenance was overwhelming. A 1956 a survey described much of the structure as “much decayed”. Government funding did not rise to the required amount and it was not until 1993 when the property passed into the management of CADWR, that real restoration took place. Massive work was undertaken, and there is a short film in the house that explains some of this; those tradesmen deserve medals! The project cost a mind-boggling £3.3 million.

Access costs £11.50 for an adult, with concessions for families and offers a joint arrangement with the Conwy Castle.  While we were staggered by the amount fellow tourists were forking out to enter the property, we were thankful that our English Heritage allowed us free entry. In fact entry to this house is worth every pound you may have to pay; it is brilliantly presented and thoroughly enjoyable. Unlike the National Trust Aberconwy House we popped into later, this offers value for money.

We enjoyed the well-lit restored rooms, the views over Conwy from the tower and the excellent exhibition in a couple of upstairs rooms all about hygiene and health during the glory years of the house. The group of mature dancing ladies in the reception hall as we made our way out also created some amusement, obviously for them as much as us.

From here we headed up the lane to the Royal Cambrian Academy Art Gallery, soon finding it closed on Sundays, so I can offer no comment regarding this otherwise free attraction.

We struggled to find Aberconwy House, the third attraction on this abbreviated touring day  and ended up down at the pedestrianized quay, busy with the tourists that were not crowding the steep streets of the town. Here we found boats sitting high and dry waiting for the high tide as well as an elderly  traditional costumed Welsh woman, reminding me of a picture I saw recently of a “comely Welsh maid”, not so comely after all, standing outside the smallest house in Great Britain, inviting entry for a very modest fee. However the tourists seemed more intent on photographing this not-so-comely non-maiden with the wee house as background rather than squeezing into the two rooms, apparently a mere 9 foot high rooms, six foot wide. She would raise more money if she had a sign that stipulated the taking of photos required a fee of even 20p, the price to pee in public owned loos in this part of Wales.

Retracing our steps up High Street, we soon found Aberconwy House, a timber and stone house that holds the prize for the oldest surviving medieval building in Conwy. In fact it is reputedly the oldest construction after the castle and St Mary’s Church, the latter not advertising itself as a must-see attraction.

I would have been very disgruntled if I had paid for entry to Aberconwy House; it is old, built about 1300 for a wealthy merchant, although the identity of both the owner and his merchandise have not survived the annuls of time. Today the house celebrates three stages of its known history; a sea captain’s occupancy, then a Welsh businessman’s during the Civil Wars years, and finally the years it was a temperance hotel during the Victorian years.  After these occupations, the house fell into disrepair, finally falling into the Trust’s ownership in 1934. Now this story seems to be the only one of clear record and is worth mentioning.

A wealthy American who had a yen to relocate a British medieval house in his front garden, or wherever, came over with an offer that was nearly too good to refuse, however Llandudno’s Alexander Campbell Blair came to the rescue offering a more attractive sum, thus saving the house from emigration. Whether he bequeathed or gifted the house to the National Trust during his lifetime seems to be another unknown, but it was he saved the day. I accept that this is an important treasure, but the presentation for the tourist dollar is overstated, although I did read in one of the guides that an audio-visual presentation has been included in the ticket; it was not today.    

The showers of the afternoon were still about and I could see that the Armchair Sportsman was going through withdrawal. He suggested we head for home and I did not suggest otherwise. But I do hope we can return to Conwy tomorrow to see everything else this quaint little town has to offer the visitor.