Thursday 12th April 2018
I love a good pub. Just like my Dad, I'm perfectly happy to walk into a nice one on my own and sit in a corner with a pint. In fact, I'm doing that right now as I write these words. So the thought of walking into a pub on a remote and scenic Welsh beach, only accessible by foot, ticked lots of boxes, as I'm sure it does for many. On paper, it's a brilliantly simple and romantic combo of pleasures. Months ago, when the decision was made to tour Wales, the very first place on my list of stops was 'that pub on the beach everyone goes on about'. A combination of a few friends mentioning it in the most glowing terms over the years, and a high profile placing as the third best beach bar in the world had not only brought it very much to my attention, but quite possibly elevated it to dangerously mythical proportions in my mind. I would just have to experience it for myself and see if it lived up to the hype.
You see, I had picked the Woodlands Hall hotel purely because it was the nearest accommodation to this hostelry, which is called the Ty Coch Inn. The fact that the hotel turned out to be so great is one of those bits of pure luck which leaves one feeling very smug. Pub and hotel were in reasonable walking distance, which meant I could have a decent drink there too. I had actually packed one of those LED headband torches in my luggage, as I had visions of stumbling back along the beach and lanes at chucking out time in the dark. However, the friend who knew the place best, Mancunian DJ ledge Paul Hughes (who holidays in the area regularly and is one of the pub's DJs - yes they provide quality music on occasion too!) had warned me that it would close at 5pm as the season was yet to kick in. So I had to make sure I got there nice and early (rattling the doors at midday even...?) to savour the experience in full. No problem.
But there was a fly in the ointment. The previous night, whilst sitting at the hotel's dining room window enjoying my Blue Moon with a view, I started glancing at my Facebook feed and saw to my most pleasant surprise that another DJ friend of mine, Gaz Lenton, was staying with his family at Abersoch, just a few miles south. Well I couldn't let him have complete peace in this remote part of the country, could I? It would be rude not to pop and say hello - especially as Abersoch was another place on the list. It would mean the window of opportunity at the beach pub would be lessened, but for a very pleasant and justifiable reason.
So, plans made via messages, I saddled up on the Vespa after another top breakfast (I could quite happily have a fry up every day..) and found myself on the tranquil Llŷn backroads going the long way round to Abersoch, via the south westerly village of Aberdaron, at around 11am - with a view to meeting Gaz at 12. I never quite made Aberdaron, as on approach I got side tracked by signs for a beach with the intriguing name of 'Whistling Sands'. Very aware that time was ticking away (I hate being late to meet people) my curiosity got the better of me and I decided to have a butchers. I was very glad I did, as it was a cracking little beach, even with the grey weather.
Nice as it was, it did mean I was running late for my meetup with Gaz... so it was twist n' go to Abersoch. I was meeting him at a pub in the high street, and I had 2 minutes to spare as I crossed the bridge over the little estuary into the village. Phew, OCD boy wouldn't be late... but then I spied a familiar shape and gait sauntering over the bridge. I couldn't believe it - a colleague from the school where I work, here of all places! I yelled at him and pulled over and we had a brief but nice chat. He warned me it was notorious around these parts for bumping into folk you know. He was staying very nearby with his young family and had been sent on a shopping run into town on foot to pick up the raw materials for a Full English, and very kindly invited me to come and join them. Opportunities in Llŷn it seems are like buses - three come along at once! Anyway I'd already had my sausages a couple of hours earlier. So it was a farewell and off up to the pub (The Vaynol) to meet Gaz, only a little bit late.
Gaz is another Black Country boy, but we only met last summer when he and his two mates Danny and Ian invited me to DJ at one of their gigs. They go under the name The Drop In Sessions and do a gem of a night in a small but perfectly formed cellar at Katie Fitzgerald's pub in Stourbridge. It's not a big money making enterprise by any means - they are true music lovers and just want to spread that love. As well as passionate promoters they are also born DJs and play blissed out sunny music on warm Sundays during the summer months in the beer garden of The Fox just outside the town. I've yet to attend one of their 'Fox & Sounds' sessions but I'm determined this year.
The sun was shining on the beer garden of The Vaynol whilst Gaz and I supped shandy and chatted about how all this was going. Other topics of conversation included : the wonderful Welsh tarmac (how do they do it when the English can't? Is it EU money..?); how he and his wife got married in the church in Netherton which was at the end of the small street where I grew up; the fact that Abersoch had become somewhat of a 'millionaire's playground'; and what Gaz very poetically described as the pleasure of coming to this part of the world with his family to 'just be'.
A positively balmy Gaz Lenton
By 2pm we were both of the opinion that we could've quite happily sat there burning our bald bonces all afternoon but Gaz had a family to get back to (huge thanks to his missis Mel for letting me pinch him for a bit), plus my window for the Ty Coch was diminishing by the minute. Remember, I had to get back by scoot (half hour, easy) and then get sorted for a fairly long walk to reach the fabled pub. I had originally planned to wander around Abersoch and take some snaps but I had to forego this, only pulling over for a split second on the way out for a quick pic which does it no justice.
Was nearly 3pm when I parked the scoot at the hotel. The weather back here on the north side of the Peninsula was not like in Abersoch - it was very grey again. Only two hours pub time left, and a 40 minute walk to tackle first! Popped up to my room to stuff a few things in a bag, and it was completely silent as of course everyone was at the funeral.
Strided off under the directions of Google maps on my phone. After 5 mins I came across what I thought was a helpful map on a notice board, showing me a circular walk which would avoid the roads (I was a bit worried about lack of footpath and the speed of some of the cars on the lanes) and lead me to my destination that bit quicker. VERY aware of time, I gladly took the suggested route and jumped over a stile onto what appeared to be a very pleasant, green, sheepy footpath which followed a stream.
About 500 yards into this walk and I became aware of two things : 1) an increasing awareness that I was headed in the wrong direction; and 2) my trainers were covered in mud and shite. Me Airmax was well ruined though, innit Bro.
I bottled it and turned back. Double the shite on the trainers. When I reached the sign on the road again I had a proper look, and realised I'd taken the WRONG direction on the circular walk - I'd gone clockwise from the 6 o'clock position, to get to 3pm, if that makes sense. Anticlockwise would have got me there 3 times quicker. By now it was now 3:45pm - one hour until last orders. Arseholes!
Marco Polo here strided up across ever muddier fields, with no confidence that I would ever reach this bloody pub, and with the local ovine population mocking me with a combo of indifference and pitiful glances.
At one point, whilst doubting myself again and about to turn back (Google maps was about as useful as tits on a fish) I bumped into a very posh but kindly lady walking her dog. Turns out she was from Knutsford in Cheshire, not that far from where I live. She reassured me that I should carry on, I was nearly there. Goes to show that technology can't always top human interaction - at least not in North Wales anyway.
Past the golf course and I started to see lots of people coming the other way - a good sign I thought. It was a fair old hike to this place I must say, and I was spitting feathers. Over a last hilly bit of cliff and I WAS THERE - The 'Red House'.
A bit like when I got to Tenby, I wanted to do things properly. I practically covered my eyes from the view and impatiently strode into the pub for a pint. I wanted to savour the vista with a beer, that was the point. Sad, I know. At the bar I looked behind me to sneak a glimpse through the doorway..
It was fairly busy but I got served immediately, and I sat outside on the wall with a fine Welsh stout.
For months I'd thought of this moment, bigging it up in my head - usually the kiss of death that, isn't it? I'm a firm believer that the best life experiences tend to be the most spontaneous. That midweek quiet pint with a mate that turns into a corker because you weren't expecting it, is often much more satisfying than that date in your calendar, the one you've been looking forward to for weeks. It's the reason why I don't do New Year's Eve - it's such a colossally depressing communal anticlimax.
So, was I enjoying it? I'll admit it took me a few minutes to settle. I was still hot, flustered, and a bit panicked from the unnecessarily complicated and mucky hike (I should have just gone on the roads). It was also busier than I thought, considering it was a grey midweek school term day (the Welsh schools had finished their Easter holidays by now, although some English schools hadn't) and such an effort to get to. I can imagine it must be heaving on a sunny summer's weekend. There were lots of picnic tables outside but all were taken. I had to sit on the wall which meant a precariously balanced pint. That scourge of all such moments, a kid kicking a frigging football around a few inches from me, made me nervous about smashed glass and why his parents weren't telling him to move away, onto a patch of the mile long empty beach that stretched out before us. Each 'slap' of the leather on the wall had me digging my nails into my palms. It was like being back at work.
Luckily him and his parents pissed off very soon, as in fact did quite a few others. It was now gone 4pm and the pub would close by 5. Plus it was getting gradually more grey. As the porter started to be enjoyed, the place started to work its magic. It was misty but mild and without a breath of wind. I was snugly comfortable in my big coat and couldn't stop just staring and snapping photos.
The sea was like the clichéd millpond, and the views had the peaceful, dreamlike impressionist quality of a Turner, or Monet.
I looked around at the people that remained and they all had similar, wordless expressions of contentment on their faces. There was an infectious sense of complete relaxation coupled with an acceptance that this was indeed a special place. Yes, the pub is undoubtably a great pub, and would be no matter where it was located - friendly staff, good service, fine beers, great cosy yet quirky decor. But this was more than a pub, it was a small fishing village (Porthdinllaen) in the most stunning natural harbour, with views of mountains across the bay. Apparently, the village started to be developed back in the early 19th century when the bay was considered the perfect location for a major ferry port, with crossings to Ireland. Luckily for us Thomas Telford's London to Holyhead Road meant that they instead ruined a chunk of The Holy Island and this place was left alone.
A lady with a scouse accent arrived and stood next to me with her 5 year old son with an expression of wonder. She popped in to get half a lager and sit on the wall a bit too, saying to her lad 'don't tell Daddy we found a secret pub and Mummy had a beer will ya?'. She got it, completely.
It was nearing 5 and I was in no hurry to leave, even if the pub was closing. But I got in for last orders anyway... only to be told that the pub was staying open until 8pm! I was overcome with emotion... both joy and regret - all the panic of the day geared towards the supposed 5pm closing! The rush with Gaz, the walking through dung. I would have a word with my mate Hughesy about that. Speaking of whom, I chatted with the landlord Stuart about Paul, who had been here only a few days before. When he found out I was from Stoke it was 'Oh, only down the road, you'd be here in no time for one of our DJ sessions' and I found myself already thinking about a summer return to come and enjoy some tunes here too.
Despite the late opening and feeling almost rooted to the spot outside the pub, still taking it all in, I started to get a bit chilly. I am famously nesh (a Stoke On Trent term for 'a wimp in the cold'). The air was turning from muggily misty to just this side of damply drizzly. So I went inside for a bit and enjoyed the roaring fire. After a while I realized how hungry I was and thought I should get back to the hotel for scran, before it started to rain properly. So, a massive thanks and farewell to Stuart, his great staff, and the Ty Coch, and I set off along the beach to Morfa Nefyn. I was avoiding the boggy sheepshite at all costs. Sure enough, fat drops of rain started to stain the sand at the exact moment I set off. I didn't care one bit, it was a wonderful stroll and I kept looking back at Porthdinllaen as if I'd somehow never see it again. Silly really, as I'm sure I will.
By the time I got to the road (which it turns out had a very safe pedestrian lane after all, separate from the road, and CLEAN - grrrr) it was chucking it down. So earphones in and best foot forward and I was back at the hotel in no time.
I hung my soggy jeans up to dry in the room, bagged up the soiled Airmax, got changed into some dry stuff and went down to dinner. I had worried that I would be the only person there for them to cater for after the funeral, when they could really do with some much needed space, and I had offered to go elsewhere. As it turns out though, they had a pre-booked event on in their function room - a spiritualist, a medium, call it what you will. I know... a few hours after Nerys had said goodbye to her father. 'Not exactly the most appropriate given the day's events' she observed bravely. But it had to go on, and the audience no doubt will have been completely unaware that the folk serving their drinks had been through such a sad day. I myself was still treated to another lovely meal and great chat courtesy of Nick.
This was my last day proper of the trip, and it had most certainly not disappointed. North Wales had definitely redeemed itself for the somewhat dodgy hands it had tended to deal me in the past.
(Click here to read the final part...)
© Rich Lane 2018
