Day Eight - Bala, Ponderosa...Home.

Friday 13th April 2018

Today's famously unlucky date started out on form. A quick look out of the hotel window and the mountains had disappeared into the dampness. This was to have been my last mini adventure, heading home via Llanberis at the foot of Snowdon  - maybe even with a trek to the top of the highest peak itself, time allowing? I didn't much fancy attempting it whilst stuck in a rain cloud though. Lots of wet, and no view. Never one for the 'I don't let the weather stop me having fun' mindset (especially in North Wales), I took a rain check on that one.

So over my breakfast at The Woodlands Hotel I chatted with landlord Nick about my options for getting home. My first instinct was to hug the north coast on the fast moving dual carriageway, maybe taking in the famous Menai Suspension Bridge (including that train station with the longest place name in the UK just over the other side in Anglesey) and maybe even a stop at Llandudno, the location of that blissful Easter family holiday three years ago.

The voice of reason though, Nick reminded me that the road (A55) was essentially a motorway to/from Ireland, and could well be packed with lorries fresh off the cargo ships and ferries. Not a lot of fun in the rain either. He suggested going via Bala Lake, which would  take me in a perfect line due East, straight to my front door. I would even pass Llangollen, a favourite place for day trips in our house due to it being just over an hour away.

I agreed it was a good plan. The usual rigmarole of getting packed up took me a good hour after brekkers, then it was a fond farewell to Nick, Nerys and family. Despite the circumstances of their recent bereavement, there was still a most welcoming atmosphere to the place that would mean I'd book up with them again like a shot, should I ever return to the area.

I had a different feeling hitting the road today. There was less of that tense/excited quality that I'd experienced on previous days. It was more of a combo of sadness that the experience was over, but relief that I was on my way home. It comes at the end of most holidays I suppose.

There wasn't a lot to report for most of the somewhat soggy journey back. The straight, flat Llŷn roads changed into wider, hillier ones as I approached Snowdonia. There were none of the imagined vertiginous snaking lanes that I'd feared traversing in the rain though, it was all very comfortable. I had the sense that there must have been massively impressive mountains all around me but I could see nothing of them. I was coming out of The National Park before I knew it, down from the as yet consistently drizzly mist into outright rain as I caught glimpses of that favourite haunt of outward bound weekends - Bala Lake.

It didn't seem to be very long after this that I was approaching the pretty Deeside location of Llangollen, and the magnificent sight and sound of one of its steam trains, racing me into town along the valley below. I would have loved to take a picture but even if I found a safe stopping point it would have been gone by the time I got my camera out.

Although it meant a slight detour north, I knew that I just had to make one last stop in Wales - The Ponderosa Cafe, up on the Horseshoe Pass a few miles outside the town. This is a legendary biking location which I had visited a few times before, but only once by scooter. The pass itself is very spectacular, with a decidedly twisty Alpine feel as you ascend up the Llantysilio Mountains onto a sort of windswept plateux.

The Horseshoe can get quite scary in places if you think about it too much, or try and take your eyes off the road to admire the view. At the very summit is The Ponderosa, which today was just underneath the clouds.

One thing that struck me was that I was the only two wheeler there (it was around 1pm by now). This made me realize just how few motorcyles of any variety I had come across during the trip. I can safely say that, apart from those stationary Abergavenny Angels (now THERE's a movie I'd pay to see...) the amount I saw coming the other way over the week was barely in double figures. I was only overtaken once, by two big tourers, during the first day on that stressful Shropshire main road around Ludlow. I can only imagine that it was just too early in the season for the cruising tanks and twisty loving power rangers to be out midweek, which suited me just fine!

I went in to wet my whistle. The cafe itself is great value given the location and normally I'd have been all over something greasy and good to eat but I still had The Woodlands Fry floating about. I unstrapped the smaller of the two bags (which held all the technology) whilst a rather cheeky crow watched me from atop the signpost. You can just see it in the photo above - but here it is up close :

Whilst sitting looking out of the window supping an OJ feeling the ever nearer presence of Home, instinctively, somewhere in my torso, I started to reflect and conclude a little on the trip as a whole. Here are some of the things, for better or worse, that went through my mind.

Good Points

 I had...

• seen some truly beautiful and completely new places
• spent some quality time with friends and family
• spent lots of quality time on my own
• made the wise decision to enjoy three rest days
• been very lucky with my hotels, and the people that ran them - despite they themselves having had some awful luck recently
• remained dry and warm throughout even the longest ride
• lived with very restricted luggage for a week under perfectly civilised conditions
• not encountered a single technical problem with the scooter itself
• been very lucky with the weather on the whole - it could have been so much colder (7 degrees when I write this, two weeks later)
• managed to tackle longer rides and faster roads than I had experienced before, and coped. Even enjoyed quite a lot of them!
• been impressed by how well maintained and 'safe' most Welsh roads seem to be
• strengthened my relationship with the country that makes up half my blood

Not So Good Points :

• Guilt. I'd never been away from my family for this long before. There were times, off scoot, when I REALLY felt my wife and kids should be there with me to enjoy it too, especially in Tenby. They would have loved it there.
• The weather did spoil some plans eg Snowdon, St Davids. We had a heatwave of mid 20s and blue skies one week later (imagine The Ty Coch Inn with that... would it have been any more relaxing though, really? Would certainly have been a lot busier...)
• Luggage on the Vespa - whilst handling the travelling perfectly, it was a pain not being able to park up and wander off, leaving it all there securely (in The Shropshire Hills, for instance). If only everywhere had left luggage lockers!
• Satnav would sometimes lose the connection with the phone, prompting a pull over and a reboot of both.
• Mucky moments. From a pigeon depositing it from a tree, to tractors spilling it on the road, to squelching through a field of it.

If I'm honest with myself, I probably enjoyed the rest days more than the riding. I did settle in to a more relaxed mode on the long rides, eventually - but I still always had this sense of counting down miles and 'getting there', plus a sort of tension about other road users, and weather changes, and fuel etc. This meant I felt a good buzz of relief and achievement when I'd completed a stretch without incident, but as for any euphoria 'living in the moment of the ride', I think I'm a long way off that particular zen state being the default. However, I had an abundance of those 'be here now' moments when off the bike. Not sure what that says about my relationship to the Vespa. Is it essentially just a means to get places? Is this really the point of all vehicles? Is getting there really way less than half the fun after all? 

Whatever, it certainly got me around on the cheap at least - less than £50 of unleaded over the whole week.

Anyway, experience pondered and thirst quenched, it was straight into the ace gift shop. This is an Aladdin's Cave of Welshness, and perfect for me to pick up some souvenirs as presents - some Welsh cakes, stuff with dragons on, a stick of Ponderosa rock - that sort of thing.

On my way out, the previously lonely Vespa was now flanked by a line of five Harley tourers. Perhaps the riding season was literally just starting, and I had picked my week perfectly from that point of view. I looked at my somewhat effeminate and underpowered machine next to these expensive macho beasts and felt a surge of pride. It had not just coped with what I had asked it to do, but handled it perfectly. I may have got to my destinations a fair bit more slowly than the 'proper' bikes would, but I arrived in so much more style.

I took some last pictures of my Wild Hog in the scenic car park before the final stretch.

The road from Llangollen to my front door was unremarkable and familiar. I felt quite emotional passing the 'Welcome To Shropshire' sign that signified the end of Wales. I had got used to seeing 'ARAF/SLOW' daubed on the tarmac along my travels, and would miss it. The road surface instantly became familiarly poor in quality, and potholes became an issue again. It was obvious that there had been some substantial rainfall recently too, as there were some flooded sections of road. It would have been very depressing if it weren't for the thought of being back with the family, not to mention their promise of steak & chips later.

Home. I pulled the Vespa up under the rain porch, in its usual resting place. I looked at the odometer, which I had remembered to reset about 2 or 3 miles into my trip, a week ago. Almost exactly 650 miles in all. That'll do nicely, bach.

Key in the door, I call out : 'DAD'S HOME..'

THE END

(Click here to start reading my next adventure - wild camping!)

© Rich Lane 2018

Day Seven - Llŷn Peninsula and The Ty Coch Inn

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.

Easily on a par with Barafundle in Pembrokeshire I'd say. Apparently it gets its name (Porth Oer in Welsh) from the strange acoustics of the place, where the sand doesn't so much crunch underfoot, as whine. I didn't notice it myself, but it was certainly a special bit of coast, and a most pleasant bonus.

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

Day Six - Tenby to The Llŷn Peninsula

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.

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© Rich Lane 2018

Day Five - Rest Day, Tenby

Tuesday 10th April 2018

Another day of no riding. Tomorrow was going to be the big one where I tackled almost the entire length of the country, so I felt a bit of battery recharging was sensible today.

Up with the lark, and it was indeed grey and wet looking outside. Downstairs to a superb full English and a nice chat with the landlady, Patricia. She told me all about the Iron Man Wales competition, which is hosted in the town every September. The hotel is apparently filled with participants (mentalists?) and supporters from all over the world, all here to 'enjoy' this toughest of triathlons. It involves a 2.4 mile swim off the beach, then straight on a bike (in the car park behind the hotel, apparently) for a 112 mile ride around Pembrokeshire, and then to top it off, a full marathon. All in a day. Just hearing about it made me want to go back to bed.

The hotel, Ashby House, really was very lovely and I'd definitely recommend it. The downstairs lounge area looked inviting as a potential base for my rain-avoidance today - cosy, plush, classy - almost like a Gentleman's Club. However, by the time brekkie was over it looked like the rain had at least stopped. So I thought I would hit the streets of Tenby with my camera and just wander...

I had only seen the South Beach side of this little town so far, and had no idea what was round the corner of the headland I had photographed yesterday. Time to find out. Despite overcast skies I was absolutely blown away by how pretty Tenby is. I would suggest it may be the most 'perfect' seaside resort in the country, in terms of providing a cultural template of what we want from a holiday in a quaint coastal fishing village : a small harbour, great beaches, dramatic rocks and pretty coloured houses . It reminded me of childhood books depicting the seaside, particularly Rupert Bear annuals. The few hours I spent exploring took in every inch of the North Beach (which was virtually deserted now the weather was less perfect) and the fascinating back streets and alleys of the town, which were crammed in behind a castle wall. It was one long extended happy attack, and I'm afraid I got a little trigger happy with the snapping...

Come lunchtime I certainly wasn't hungry after the huge breakfast, but I was getting a little thirsty... so I settled on The Buccaneer Inn which had its own micro brewery (called Harbwr) out the back. The cask ales they make are suberb, and by 1pm every table was full of folk eating, so I guess they are doing something right there too.

I ended up vacating my corner table to allow a family to eat, and sitting on a barstool I found these plaques which made me smile. 'Titch' is my family childhood nickname too, especially in Wales. It's because I'm the youngest of four siblings (Gareth, my host on Day One, is the eldest). Enquiries with staff revealed them to be commemorating three local fisherman legends who had propped up the bar for so many years that they were now part of the furniture.

After scribbling up my notes the combo of writer's cramp, sea air, and one ale too many conspired to make me sleepy, poor dab. What the hell, I thought, I'm on holiday - so it was back to the hotel for that ultimate indulgence, The Afternoon Kip. Bliss. Wake up early evening and it's time to eat, so off to a place I had clocked earlier - an award winning pizzeria called Top Joes. Now, spending a fair bit of time over the years in Italy I have inevitably become a bit of a pizza snob, but I'm pleased to say this was as good as I've ever had in the UK. The plain, salted slices that came with the starter were particularly ace. And ice cold Moretti in a proper glass, too.

Whilst tucking into my dessert of affogato, the sun suddenly lit up the street outside for a few seconds. So bill paid, I decided to go back and grab the camera again for a last saunter. I had perhaps got a little over excited as it wasn't exactly blue skies, but they were certainly less leaden than before, and I found myself undertaking a long walk to the very end of South Beach at dusk.

I'd got quite a sweat on beneath my armoured parka by the time I got back to the start of South Beach, so before the steps up the cliff to my hotel I nipped in to the South Beach Bar, which had been heaving in yesterday's heatwave, but which I now had completely to myself. Sat outside with a delicious Welsh porter, it was mild, still, and quiet, with just the sound of the waves coming out of the gloom. It really felt like I was on holiday, and was the perfect end to my lazy day getting acquainted with this gem of a place. I made a promise that I would be back before long, to introduce the family to its many treats.

Despite the hour's snooze earlier, I was off to bed at a respectable hour as I had potentially the most challenging day's riding to contend with tomorrow...

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© Rich Lane 2018