Today, I'm actually in Ireland, "enjoying" what could best be described as an authentic Irish day -- translated that means heavy rain, dreary skies and gusty winds blowing the trees about! Fortunately I'm cozied-up, warm and dry, inside a glass solarium at my B&B and thought this would make a good time to catch-up on my journal entries.
I ended the last journal entry reluctantly leaving Scotland and heading for Wales. No one ever talks about visiting Wales -- it's typically treated as the "black sheep child" of the United Kingdom which only added fuel to my curiousity about going there -- unlike Scotland where I was sure I'd die of boredom, I had no preconceived notions re Wales. As it turned-out, I found another country to fall in love with -- one with gorgeous coastlines -- scenic, wild mountains that stretched upward and onward seemingly forever -- and friendly people who went out of their way to make me feel welcome!
My first stop in Northern Wales was in a small village, Pentrefelin, that was little more than a "wide space in the road" -- don't think there was even a "business" there, just old stone houses. My actual lodgings were at a four hundred year old farm about two miles outside of "town", down a narrow one lane road with no address -- and at this point no GPS for directions. The actual directions I received in an email were something like -- "go through town, turn right at the 'Y' in the road, go aways, take the first right turn, then turn onto the first dirt road on your left which will take you to our farm -- we won't be there but will leave the key in the door -- and don't worry about our border collie, Murphy, his bark is worse than his bite (usually)". Turns out the "Y" was a "T" -- the first two "dirt roads" were other people's driveways (over here, roads and driveways look interchangeable) -- no one was there, the key was in the door -- and Murphy was barking his head off!
What they forgot to tell me about was that I would be crossing a metal cattle-guard "bridge" down the dirt road, after which I would need to weave my way through a herd of big beef cattle (with horns) that considerd the road their property and weren't inclined to move out-of-the-way for a mere car -- with my comings and goings, this "attitude" resulted in a number of "stand-offs" -- and that when I finally reached their farm buildings, I would need to exit my car and open a metal swing-gate while keping an eye on my cattle "friends"! In the end, it all went well and Murphy turned-out to be a "big puppy dog" who just wanted to be everyone's friend and play catch with his ball.
My accomodations were in an old converted two-story barn and hay loft -- rustic with a steep staircase (where the ladder used to be) and the original wood-pinned beams and low ceilings (still amazed at how short the people here are)! Turned-out to have gorgeous views of the mountains and ocean -- I say "turned-out" because, with the rain, mist, low clouds and fog -- it was day four before I even realized there were "views".
Spent much of my time driving through the Snowdonia Mountains -- desolate, high peaks and broad valleys with little more than heather, sage brush, the occasional patch of flowers and stones (massive and otherwise) -- the kind of place, where on a sunny day, you could easily spend hours mesmerized by the views -- or as on the days I was there, watching the mountain tops play "peak-a-boo" with the fog and clouds drifting through. Again, narrow roads where you met relatively little traffic (although when you met other cars they were typically doing 70-80mph like a road race you see in the movies), no signs of civilization and plenty of free-roaming sheep.
Visited one of only two or three still in existence "workhouses" where those who couldn't pay their debts were sent until they paid what they owed (rarely), had their debt voided by a judge (occasionally) or were shipped-off to the "New World" (most of the time). The back-story was quite interesting -- the place was not intended to "punish" -- many people ate better here than they had on the outside, many had private cells that they could decorate, they could have visitors, could read books and write letters -- they did have to perform manual labor which could leave them bloody and sore -- breaking rocks, washing laundry, building roads, pulling apart creasote-drenched rope (off ships) to be recycled into new rope, etc....
Saw some more castles -- a lot of the same-old, same-old -- but each one I visit I learn something new so I'm enjoying it.
Relocated to mid-Wales for a few days -- again, did a lot of driving through the countryside -- also went to a place called the Devil's Bridge. Had a "devil" of a time finding it -- once you get out into the countryside, finding anything (except sheep) is a challenge -- they have no concept of signage for tourist attractions -- it typically consists of a small sign with an arrow pointing in a given direction -- no mileage or mention that you will need to make two or three turns onto side roads in order to actually reach the place -- European tourists simply accept that that's "the way it is".
I was told that many American tourists (myself included) are different from European tourists. European tourists typically book accomodations within five to twenty minutes of the sites they want to see and expect their hosts to provide detailed directions as to how to reach a destination. American tourists frequently book accomodations an hour or more from some of the places they want to see and many, many times the hosts have heard of the attraction but have absolutely no idea as to how to reach it and thus cannot provide directions. People in Europe (especially in rural areas) tend to rarely travel more than twenty to thirty miles from where they live, except on rare occasions. The people that I stayed with are typically amazed that I'll drive an hour or two to see something as opposed to moving frequently from place to place -- they shake their heads and remark that they can't imagine doing that. I was told by many people that if they had to drive more than ten minutes to get to work they would absolutely, positively move or get a new job! It is a different world here.
Anyway, Devil's Bridge consists of three bridges that have been built directly on top of each other over the ages. The earliest (and lowest) bridge was built sometime in the 1100's by the Knight Templers, followed by a second bridge being built above it during the 1700's and then a third bridge on top of that in the 1800's. The origin of the name lies in a "folk" tale -- a widow wanted a brdge across a stream and bargained with the Devil to build it -- his price was that he would get the soul of the first thing to cross the bridge -- he built the bridge -- the widow tossed a piece of meat to the other side of the bridge and her dog ran after it, becoming the first to cross the bridge -- not exactly what the Devil had in mind but he was stuck with his deal!
I also went on a tour of a nearly two hundred year old abandoned slate mine -- in the 1800's, slate was a major industry in Wales sending slate all over the world. The tour was the "real deal" -- hard hat, battery pack and helmet, boots (Wellington's or Welly's) a safety harness, ropes and carribiner clips (like they use in rock climbing). The mine closed unexpectedly in the 1970's and the miners just walked out and closed the doors on most of the shafts -- leaving everything behind, which is how I found it on this tour. Unfortunately it was too dark to take photos.
On the tour, we walked through mud and water up to our ankles, rock-strewn passages, crawled across massive rocks and rubble fields where a misplaced step meant a forty foot slide across razor sharp pieces of broken slate, through tiny openings where I had more than a few doubts as to whether I'd fit (again, these people were and are small) -- and then had to do two forty yard traverses on a fourteen inch, slippery, wet, uneven path across a rock face -- one at a time hooked onto a safety rope (bolted into the wall) with our ropes and carribiners -- if something went wrong, it was a shear drop over one hundred feet straight down into the black abyss -- all this with a headlamp putting out about as much light as a cheap flashlight on its last legs -- to think, the miners did pretty much all this in the pitch-black darkness.
Our guide was the head of the local mine search and rescue group which was a little reassuring -- at least if we screwed-up, there'd be someone to recover our bodies -- as he put it. It was pretty tough but fun and everyone made it back safely, if a little muddy, tired and wet. He explained how the miners worked in family groups (males) and only got paid for the usable slate they hauled out (typically a couple of tons at a time) -- they were assigned a spot in the slate seam to mine and many spent their entire career (forty+ years) working on that same space (opening up an area hundreds of feet high, wide and deep). No way the health/safety regulators would allow this trip in the US.
Then it was off to catch the ferry to Ireland.
Northern and mid-Wales easily rivaled Scotland for the most interesting and beautiful place that I've seen so far -- and I still have to journey to Southern Wales after Ireland.
