Wales; Scotland I
Aug. 20th, 2006 07:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
selenakIn haste, as always:
Friday started with me realizing that we were one week in Britain now; it seemed so much longer because of all the new impressions. After a warm farewell from our Welsh landlady and landlord we started our trip through Cymru. It was cloudy, but so far it looked like we would be spared rain. We had barely passed Betws-y-coed – one of those charming Welsh villages where most of the houses are made of rocks – and were on our way to Harlech when our landlady from last night called in something of a panic. This had been the one time where I hadn’t kept the room key and thus hadn’t returned it. Instead, my Aged Parent had put it in his pocket, and there, as it turned out, it had remained. Fortunately we had mentioned on the previous evening that we were planning on staying on Chester for the next night. Which meant we’d basically make a half-circle through Wales before leaving it. She asked whether we could stop on our way to Chester to return the key, and filled with remorse, we promised to do so. Suddenly I recalled this had also been the one time where I had forgotten to tip and felt like even more of a wretch.
“We still have that Franconian wine wrapped up as a present,“ my Dad said.
After this intermezzo, we enjoyed the beautiful landscape of Snowdonia, aka the mountains of Eryi, with the term “mountain” depending on your definition. The thing is, despite not being that high above sea level, it really does look like Switzerland with its clear mountain rivers and green vegitation and cliff tops, and the occasional white spot in form of a sheep. Add to this that the country roads were wider and hence safer than they had been in Cornwall, and the AP was moved again to declare his preference for Wales.
About fifteen years ago, I had visited Harlech before; it was the first of the castles I saw which Edward I had build to demonstrate his rule after conquering Wales. Since Sharon Penman had made me fall for the Welsh cause big time via her “Here Be Dragons”, “Falls the Shadow” and “The Reckoning” trilogy (Ellis Peter helped somewhat as well with her four novels about the same era as Edith Pargeter), I had a somewhat constricted throat. The power of favourite books; I have no feelings one way or the other about what Edward when battling the Scots, but though I loved both Llewelyns (Llewelyn Fawr and his grandson, Llewelyn ap Gruffyd), my favourite character (is anyone suprised?) was Llewelyn’s highly ambiguous brother Dafydd, who changed sides repeatedly but in the end chose the Welsh and losing one, and got drawn and quartered by Edward as a result. Anyway, back to the castles – Harlech looks magnificent, as do the others we were yet to see – from the outside. The inside is gutted, nearly nothing left, carved out by the centuries. Works either as a symbol of what Edward did to Wales or what history did to Edward; take your pick.
Many centuries later, another man bit by the building bug, William something or the other, spent decades of his life creating an artificial village apparantly reflecting what he liked all over the world, and thus you have Buddhas and representations of Kali next door to Welsh dragon in the place which is called Portmerrion. It borders on kitsch but doesn’t cross over but remains on the charming side of excentric. When we visited, we discovered we had run into yet another wedding. The bride didn’t wear white, to my father’s indignation, but three of the male attendants had been put into ghastly bright blue suits. I thought only the bridesmaids in English-speaking countries were obliged to be dressed horribly and in the same way?
Next on the schedule was Caernavon, probably the best known of Edward’s castles, as carved out as Harlech had been but with some small exhibitions in the towers. One of them displayed a video showing Charles being made Prince of Wales there during the 70s, which was Dad’s cue to mutter “get rid of ‘em, get rid of ‘em all” yet again. I assure you, British readers, he does not mean the English Royal family alone. He’s like that about all nobility, everywhere on the globe. Anyway, he did like the castle enough to make yet another picture from the other side of the bridge and then, when we walked back through the harbour (called “Royal” as many things in Britain tend to be), he longingly said he wanted to have a boat of his own. Said sentence was promptly rewarded by a rain drop from above. Followed by many more rain drops. Caernavon, alas, turned out to be the last sight we saw in Wales without rain. We passed Bangor (from which people must have emigrated to Maine, I take it) and made our way to Conwy, which doesn’t just display the most imposing and impressive of Edward’s fortresses from his “iron ring” around Wales but also a splendidly preserved city wall, but by now, it was showering so heavily that the light was too bad to make a photo even from within the car, let alone from without. The Botnant (spelling?) Gardens, supposedly the most magnificent of the realm, thus fell of the schedule as well. We drove all the way to the entrance, heard the rain, saw the rain, looked at each other and drove on. To Llandudno, by the way, which as a town at the sea reminded us somewhat of a place we had been in Rügen; the promenade with its air of slightly faded late 19th splendor makes for an agreeable sight, even in rain.
Speaking of sights, there was a surprise one on the way: “Bison Corral” a sign said, and there were indeed bisons, not normal cows, standing inside, looking vaguely interested when we stared. We took this as a omen, returned to Corwen to hand over key and alcohol to our poor former landlady and made our way to Chester.
Just before we reached Chester, the rain finally stopped, which meant that after dropping our stuff at the night’s B&B we could stroll through the town. Which is definitely worth strolling through. Not only does it offer a great Roman/medieval wall which you can walk on endlessly but also “The Rows”, lots of Fachwerk houses (the English term for “Fachwerk” escapes me for the moment, which frustrates me to no end – houses with dark wood and white wall?) which have a first floor of terrace which joining each other form a second street on that level. I loved it about fifteen years ago, I loved it now. What I loved less because I found it puzzling was when Dad, wishing to do me a favour, said we’d meet again in half an hour which I could spend at the local Waterstone’s. Except that the local Waterstone’s had already closed shop at 5:30 pm, as did most stores at Chester, so no book browsing for me. I did find an internet café, though, which I could use later to catch up with some of my mail. Briefly. Anyway, we found a good restaurant to have dinner at, which made for splendid fish dishes for the second time in England (on this journey).
Returning to our B&B, I cought the owner just as the later and his wife were about to head out for an evening on the town of their own, which was lucky for me, because I needed to settle the bill in advance, since we were planning in leaving very early on Saturday. Which we couldn’t have if we had returned just a few minutes later. As it was, we could start Saturday as planned, leaving Chester at 7:00 am. Which meant no traffic jams on our way out of town or later on the part of the motorway which is just between Manchester and Liverpool. On the downside of things, this was our day to consume horrid motorway restaurant food; first breakfeast, and later lunch. The later was bad enough to make me nearly throw up. Come evening, we bought some fresh fruit and were happy, but back to the journey.
Until we arrived at the Scottish border, it was rainy throughout, which unfortunately meant that the side trip to the Lake District was a thoroughly drenched affair as well. Windermere, Grasmere, all those places around the lakes which inspired Wordsworth and Coleridge (and Oscar W to name characters after) looked great in rain as well, but we would have appreciated some sunny breaks in between. On the bright side of things, we had an odd encounter with a pair of deer which crossed the empty road in front of us. Also, with the exception of one family who remained in their car we were the only visitors the stone circle of Castlerrig had, and we nearly would have missed it, due to sheep walking and sitting between the stones and the rain covering the rest. But out came the umbrellas, and we stepped through sheep and grass and mud to admire the megoliths, 38 all in all.
The break from rain came in Scotland, as I mentioned; the sky cleared up, and we presented horrible renditions of „Here Comes The Sun“, versions which would have sent George Harrison right back to the grave. Glasgow, which looks ugly even to drive through, aside, we’ve loved every Scottish minute so far. The first “loch” we drove on the shores of was Loch Lomond and though the AP took it rather personally that there were occasionally trees hindering his view of the lake, sorry, loch, we still ooh’d and aaaaaah’d every other minute. This just got stronger the more remote the loch in question was – Loch Lonnhie, Loch Leven, the Firth of Lorne (yes, Lorne, but alas due to my father being not into the fandom in question I could not remark on it). In the meantime, I had gotten a small collection of Highland tales somewhere and translated stories about various battles, hauntings and massacres for him while we drove through the scenery. The one which touched me most took place during the massacre of Glen Coe (William III having ordered the death of anyone under 70); in the story, an English soldier discovers a woman who was hiding with her baby because the baby cried and he told her to keep it quiet and he’d cover, then cut off the baby’s pinkie and presented it together with the blood on his sword as evidence he’d killed, and thus saved the woman and her son. Other stories dealt with three Vikings being killed by a local heroine called Eilidh, or with a Viking princess who fell in love with a Scot and haunted her father and brother till she got buried with the guy.
When you look at the landscape, those deep fjords the ocean cut into the country, the water of the lochs which remains nearly black no matter how much sun glitters on it, those high green hills, the myths don’t seem far away. The Scottish countryside had the kind of remote beauty I had imagined, and I was awed.
As we hadn’t had any of the expected traffic problems, we arrived several hours before our estimated time in Fort William, which meant our landlady gave us the most quiet room. This time, too, we started for an evening walk at once, and discovered that one of the local hotel owners had added a gallery to his establishment, and presented an exhibition of Goya prints, which meant our evening ended not just in Scottish beauty but in Spanish nightmares.
Friday started with me realizing that we were one week in Britain now; it seemed so much longer because of all the new impressions. After a warm farewell from our Welsh landlady and landlord we started our trip through Cymru. It was cloudy, but so far it looked like we would be spared rain. We had barely passed Betws-y-coed – one of those charming Welsh villages where most of the houses are made of rocks – and were on our way to Harlech when our landlady from last night called in something of a panic. This had been the one time where I hadn’t kept the room key and thus hadn’t returned it. Instead, my Aged Parent had put it in his pocket, and there, as it turned out, it had remained. Fortunately we had mentioned on the previous evening that we were planning on staying on Chester for the next night. Which meant we’d basically make a half-circle through Wales before leaving it. She asked whether we could stop on our way to Chester to return the key, and filled with remorse, we promised to do so. Suddenly I recalled this had also been the one time where I had forgotten to tip and felt like even more of a wretch.
“We still have that Franconian wine wrapped up as a present,“ my Dad said.
After this intermezzo, we enjoyed the beautiful landscape of Snowdonia, aka the mountains of Eryi, with the term “mountain” depending on your definition. The thing is, despite not being that high above sea level, it really does look like Switzerland with its clear mountain rivers and green vegitation and cliff tops, and the occasional white spot in form of a sheep. Add to this that the country roads were wider and hence safer than they had been in Cornwall, and the AP was moved again to declare his preference for Wales.
About fifteen years ago, I had visited Harlech before; it was the first of the castles I saw which Edward I had build to demonstrate his rule after conquering Wales. Since Sharon Penman had made me fall for the Welsh cause big time via her “Here Be Dragons”, “Falls the Shadow” and “The Reckoning” trilogy (Ellis Peter helped somewhat as well with her four novels about the same era as Edith Pargeter), I had a somewhat constricted throat. The power of favourite books; I have no feelings one way or the other about what Edward when battling the Scots, but though I loved both Llewelyns (Llewelyn Fawr and his grandson, Llewelyn ap Gruffyd), my favourite character (is anyone suprised?) was Llewelyn’s highly ambiguous brother Dafydd, who changed sides repeatedly but in the end chose the Welsh and losing one, and got drawn and quartered by Edward as a result. Anyway, back to the castles – Harlech looks magnificent, as do the others we were yet to see – from the outside. The inside is gutted, nearly nothing left, carved out by the centuries. Works either as a symbol of what Edward did to Wales or what history did to Edward; take your pick.
Many centuries later, another man bit by the building bug, William something or the other, spent decades of his life creating an artificial village apparantly reflecting what he liked all over the world, and thus you have Buddhas and representations of Kali next door to Welsh dragon in the place which is called Portmerrion. It borders on kitsch but doesn’t cross over but remains on the charming side of excentric. When we visited, we discovered we had run into yet another wedding. The bride didn’t wear white, to my father’s indignation, but three of the male attendants had been put into ghastly bright blue suits. I thought only the bridesmaids in English-speaking countries were obliged to be dressed horribly and in the same way?
Next on the schedule was Caernavon, probably the best known of Edward’s castles, as carved out as Harlech had been but with some small exhibitions in the towers. One of them displayed a video showing Charles being made Prince of Wales there during the 70s, which was Dad’s cue to mutter “get rid of ‘em, get rid of ‘em all” yet again. I assure you, British readers, he does not mean the English Royal family alone. He’s like that about all nobility, everywhere on the globe. Anyway, he did like the castle enough to make yet another picture from the other side of the bridge and then, when we walked back through the harbour (called “Royal” as many things in Britain tend to be), he longingly said he wanted to have a boat of his own. Said sentence was promptly rewarded by a rain drop from above. Followed by many more rain drops. Caernavon, alas, turned out to be the last sight we saw in Wales without rain. We passed Bangor (from which people must have emigrated to Maine, I take it) and made our way to Conwy, which doesn’t just display the most imposing and impressive of Edward’s fortresses from his “iron ring” around Wales but also a splendidly preserved city wall, but by now, it was showering so heavily that the light was too bad to make a photo even from within the car, let alone from without. The Botnant (spelling?) Gardens, supposedly the most magnificent of the realm, thus fell of the schedule as well. We drove all the way to the entrance, heard the rain, saw the rain, looked at each other and drove on. To Llandudno, by the way, which as a town at the sea reminded us somewhat of a place we had been in Rügen; the promenade with its air of slightly faded late 19th splendor makes for an agreeable sight, even in rain.
Speaking of sights, there was a surprise one on the way: “Bison Corral” a sign said, and there were indeed bisons, not normal cows, standing inside, looking vaguely interested when we stared. We took this as a omen, returned to Corwen to hand over key and alcohol to our poor former landlady and made our way to Chester.
Just before we reached Chester, the rain finally stopped, which meant that after dropping our stuff at the night’s B&B we could stroll through the town. Which is definitely worth strolling through. Not only does it offer a great Roman/medieval wall which you can walk on endlessly but also “The Rows”, lots of Fachwerk houses (the English term for “Fachwerk” escapes me for the moment, which frustrates me to no end – houses with dark wood and white wall?) which have a first floor of terrace which joining each other form a second street on that level. I loved it about fifteen years ago, I loved it now. What I loved less because I found it puzzling was when Dad, wishing to do me a favour, said we’d meet again in half an hour which I could spend at the local Waterstone’s. Except that the local Waterstone’s had already closed shop at 5:30 pm, as did most stores at Chester, so no book browsing for me. I did find an internet café, though, which I could use later to catch up with some of my mail. Briefly. Anyway, we found a good restaurant to have dinner at, which made for splendid fish dishes for the second time in England (on this journey).
Returning to our B&B, I cought the owner just as the later and his wife were about to head out for an evening on the town of their own, which was lucky for me, because I needed to settle the bill in advance, since we were planning in leaving very early on Saturday. Which we couldn’t have if we had returned just a few minutes later. As it was, we could start Saturday as planned, leaving Chester at 7:00 am. Which meant no traffic jams on our way out of town or later on the part of the motorway which is just between Manchester and Liverpool. On the downside of things, this was our day to consume horrid motorway restaurant food; first breakfeast, and later lunch. The later was bad enough to make me nearly throw up. Come evening, we bought some fresh fruit and were happy, but back to the journey.
Until we arrived at the Scottish border, it was rainy throughout, which unfortunately meant that the side trip to the Lake District was a thoroughly drenched affair as well. Windermere, Grasmere, all those places around the lakes which inspired Wordsworth and Coleridge (and Oscar W to name characters after) looked great in rain as well, but we would have appreciated some sunny breaks in between. On the bright side of things, we had an odd encounter with a pair of deer which crossed the empty road in front of us. Also, with the exception of one family who remained in their car we were the only visitors the stone circle of Castlerrig had, and we nearly would have missed it, due to sheep walking and sitting between the stones and the rain covering the rest. But out came the umbrellas, and we stepped through sheep and grass and mud to admire the megoliths, 38 all in all.
The break from rain came in Scotland, as I mentioned; the sky cleared up, and we presented horrible renditions of „Here Comes The Sun“, versions which would have sent George Harrison right back to the grave. Glasgow, which looks ugly even to drive through, aside, we’ve loved every Scottish minute so far. The first “loch” we drove on the shores of was Loch Lomond and though the AP took it rather personally that there were occasionally trees hindering his view of the lake, sorry, loch, we still ooh’d and aaaaaah’d every other minute. This just got stronger the more remote the loch in question was – Loch Lonnhie, Loch Leven, the Firth of Lorne (yes, Lorne, but alas due to my father being not into the fandom in question I could not remark on it). In the meantime, I had gotten a small collection of Highland tales somewhere and translated stories about various battles, hauntings and massacres for him while we drove through the scenery. The one which touched me most took place during the massacre of Glen Coe (William III having ordered the death of anyone under 70); in the story, an English soldier discovers a woman who was hiding with her baby because the baby cried and he told her to keep it quiet and he’d cover, then cut off the baby’s pinkie and presented it together with the blood on his sword as evidence he’d killed, and thus saved the woman and her son. Other stories dealt with three Vikings being killed by a local heroine called Eilidh, or with a Viking princess who fell in love with a Scot and haunted her father and brother till she got buried with the guy.
When you look at the landscape, those deep fjords the ocean cut into the country, the water of the lochs which remains nearly black no matter how much sun glitters on it, those high green hills, the myths don’t seem far away. The Scottish countryside had the kind of remote beauty I had imagined, and I was awed.
As we hadn’t had any of the expected traffic problems, we arrived several hours before our estimated time in Fort William, which meant our landlady gave us the most quiet room. This time, too, we started for an evening walk at once, and discovered that one of the local hotel owners had added a gallery to his establishment, and presented an exhibition of Goya prints, which meant our evening ended not just in Scottish beauty but in Spanish nightmares.
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Re: throwing a random amusing icon your way
Date: 2006-08-20 09:19 pm (UTC)Penman trilogy: read it read it read it!
Re: throwing a random amusing icon your way
Date: 2006-08-20 09:32 pm (UTC)Re: Joss -- I admit I must have absorbed the conventional "Joss doesn't care about grownup characters" wisdom b/c I'd assumed he'd be all about Lee & Kara. But apparently, he's watching the Laura/Bill show *g8