Wednesday 11th April 2018
Ok so this was the biggie, taking in most of the length of West Wales. My final hotel of the trip was situated deep into the Llŷn Peninsula (that sticky-outy bit just underneath Anglesey), one of the more remote areas of the country. Why there? Well you may not be entirely surprised to learn it was mainly down to a pub (more about that though on Day Seven).
Another great chat with my Tenby landlady Patricia over the fry up, this time about the town's scooter rally, which was less than a month away - doh! I gave her my farewell and thanks for looking after me, particularly given her sad family circumstances of late. I was soon out in the car park in full waterproofs, Vespa packed, hitting the road at 10am. It was another damp grey morning, but mercifully wind free.
If the weather had been better I may have been tempted to go a longer route around the very tip of Pembrokeshire to take in Fishguard or even St Davids, but as it stood I was anxious to break the back of what was already a long day's riding. Leaving Tenby I didn't fancy the satnav's suggestion of going back east a bit to Carmarthen, so instead I headed towards Haverfordwest and up through Cardigan (Aberteifi) towards my midway point, the seaside resort of Aberystwyth.
It's testament to how the beauty of Wales was spoiling me that what would, on any other day, have been a lovely scenic country ride was now feeling like pretty standard stuff, and I didn't really stop for photos on this first half of the journey, despite some views of distant small estuaries and a brief section over wet, misty moorlands. At one point a flock of sheep was being herded up the main road by a couple of farmers and their dogs, resulting in a standstill for a good 15 mins, but I must say it was quite a nice reason for a traffic jam for once, and I enjoyed watching it.
The approach to Aberystwyth started to hug the coast a little more and I popped down into the town for the briefest of coffee stops at a seafront caff around lunchtime. I parked up next to an identically coloured machine, a Ducati - making the Vespa seem like the homely, curvy cousin of a brasher, more glamorous Italian. But somehow I liked to think you could tell they were related.
Not wasting any time after my caffeine injection, it was back on the horse. From here on the scenery got ever more impressive as Snowdonia loomed. The beautifully maintained Welsh roads were as ever a joy to ride on, drivers were generally not right up my jacksie, and very slowly the weather improved as the miles ticked by. There were also beginning to be some seriously ominous looking mountains looming either side.
After another petrol/coffee stop at some services outside Dolgellau I hit a crossroads which gave me the choice of either following the satnav further north through the depths of Snowdonia, or following my instincts and heading west on the smaller coastal road past Barmouth. I was soon very glad that I did the latter, as the views from the road, which hugged the northern shore of the Mawddach Estuary, were amongst the best of the trip.
The route from here up to the start of the Peninsula wasn't completely new to me (unlike virtually all of the Welsh roads covered so far) and although beautiful I didn't have the fondest memories of the last times I visited, nearly 35 years ago. Firstly, just north of Barmouth is a caravan park at Tal-y-bont where I was invited to stay by a primary school classmate and his family during a half-term heatwave in the mid 80s. Sounds idyllic, right? Well for a start, I got badly sunburned, and sleeping in a small tent made for some very uncomfortable nights. Plus it turned out that despite having very kind parents who thought we were best mates (and us both having a similar sense of humour) the fact is that a lot of the time we just didn't get on and wound each other up. And we were in each other's pockets 24/7 - even sharing the tent. Couldn't wait to get home!
Just a mile or two up the road from this is Llanbedr, which a year before that had coincidentally been the location of a particularly unpleasant primary school trip. Partly this was due to falling foul of the head of year, resulting in me being grounded at the Youth Hostel for days at a time. I can't for the life of me remember why I was in trouble, but I was somewhat of a gobshite even aged 10, so no doubt I deserved it, despite feeling VERY hard done to at the time. Secondly, it was at this precise moment that my lungs decided they were going to have their very first asthma attack, which hit completely by surprise during the night. Medication was sought from the cottage hospital next day, which was a big physical relief, but it was deemed sensible for a parent to come and collect me ASAP. My poor Dad had to drive there and back in a day from The Black Country, not exactly a short schlep. About the only fond memory of that one was of my Dad, who was a six and a half foot, twenty four stone ex rugby playing deputy headmaster, towering over the relatively miniscule head of year when they met, much to the amusement of the other kids who were convinced he was there to straighten him out. Disappointingly, only pleasantries were exchanged. The asthma has never gone away since of course, but kept very much under control with minimal medication, enabling me to keep fit and active. But it's still a pain in the arse.Well, not literally, but you don't want to hear about my Emma Freuds, I'm sure.
So with these mixed feelings about two decidedly pretty yet personally loaded places behind me after Llanbedr, it was onwards up past Harlech and its spectacular castle.
However, there was one last town that I had to pass through which had yet another tale to tell. Exactly two years previously myself, the wife and kids had to endure an Easter weekend in Porthmadog. I say endure, not because there was anything wrong with the town or area, but because Storm Katy decided to hit North Wales, which meant the four of us stuck in a family room in the Travelodge - which it turns out, has no restaurant or bar, and is placed in a charming bijou spot between a scrap metal yard and an industrial estate. We abandoned any plans to visit nearby sights like Portmeirion or the Ffestiniog Railway, and spent much of the weekend cooped up watching Rising Damp repeats on the telly. Nobody's fault of course, just a bit disappointing, especially as we don't get away often. It was nice to spend some time together all the same, but it did make me promise never to book a holiday for us all in the UK again unless it was at very short notice, and with a favourable weather forecast. This was a shame as one year previous to THAT we had our best UK weekend break ever, in Llandudno - sunny, warm, lots to see and do. It had all but cured me of my aversion to North Wales too, based the aforementioned childhood bad luck.
So in my life, North Wales had been a bit of a pig three out of four times, and wonderful once. How would it decide to treat me this time?
Passing Porthmadog with a slight wince, you'll be glad to know it was finally off with the emotional baggage, and I was soon entering The Llŷn area. The roads here were the best of the trip, in terms of being straight, smooth, fast: exactly what was needed after so many hours in the saddle. I just wanted to get there now. That said I couldn't resist a quick stop for a snap of painter's favourite, Criccieth.
I arrived at the Woodlands Hall Hotel in Edern just after 5pm, which I thought was not bad going considering the distance, the vehicle, the detours and the stops. I unloaded the Vespa in the secluded and peaceful car park and headed in.
The landlady Nerys showed to me to my room and said that her husband would be in the bar for drinks and evening meals from 6. I was starving so after a quick wash and brush up was down on the dot, where landlord Nick was indeed ready to serve me with a draught pint of Blue Moon - which virtually brought steam out of my ears, it went down so well. Whilst being a very genial host as I looked over a menu, he did tell me some bad news : Nerys had lost her father a few days before, and had not long been back from the chapel of rest today. The funeral was tomorrow. I was doubly sad and shocked that a) this was such a similar situation to the last hotel and b) Nerys and Nick were both able to go about their business all the same, and reacted so warmly to their guests - just as Patricia had in Tenby. It really hit home that the trade they were in must be one of the most unforgiving in terms of allowing time off for such life moments - guests would still be coming, and had to be catered for. Luckily Nick's Mum and Dad, who used to run the hotel themselves, were at hand to muck in too but even so I was in awe of their ability to carry on under the circumstances.
Of course as soon as I knew I offered to make myself as invisible as possible - go out for a meal at a local pub that evening, brekkie somewhere nearby tomorrow etc but Nick wouldn't hear of it, and before long I was sat at a window with a fantastic view of the mountains, eating a superb fresh meal that Nick (a highly trained caterer and teacher of cookery) had prepared himself. Before long the food, Blue Moon and long ride conspired to droop my eyelids, and it was off to bed, happy that I'd have another whole day to explore the area on scoot and foot tomorrow.
© Rich Lane 2018
