May 2010
We drove up to Anglesey on the Friday taking the long route via Ruthin. Although we were looking forward to crossing Denbigh Moors, a stretch of moor land that for all the world looks like a part of Dartmoor transplanted onto Welsh territory, we managed in some way to miss the moor itself but instead travelled through the gentle valleys of that region which glowed with muted golden colours in the late evening sun.
On Saturday we woke to clear skies and bright sun. After breakfast Sue and I walked into town (Beaumaris) and went to the pier, musing on the new plans to re-plank and develop the pier. We saw a family crabbing by the pier, their yellow plastic seaside bucket containing a few crabs scrabbling at the bottom and thought about the many times that we had spent happy hours engaged in this simple activity ourselves and with our own children. It is often the case that simple pleasures are the most memorable and the most redolent with gentle thoughts of happiness.
We stopped for tea and cake overlooking the Straits and were joined briefly by Ceri, Sue’s mother before heading back for lunch.
After lunch we made our way to Penmon, taking the car to the very end of the road that reaches the pebbled beach rather than walking the road as we have done so often. Penmon is a special place – it has an atmosphere about it that is difficult to put into words. It is a recipe made of past memories of visits, the sight of Puffin Island crouching in the sea temptingly within reach and the sound of the lighthouse bell as it drops its deep and heavy chimes into the air. There was a couple of people canoeing over to the island despite the running tide and I did envy them in their little boat, with their ability to approach so close and almost touch the island.
We left Penmon behind and drove by way of the ‘top table’ to Red Wharf Bay, which appeared before us in wide expanse as we overlooked from a high vantage point. Making our way down the narrow lanes we stopped awhile and I spent a few minutes on the beach collecting shells – treasures from the deep to keep and provide a remembrance of that place.
The following day was Sunday and we rose to more sunshine. In the morning we walked the gasworks path. The title must be the worse misnomer possible, for it conjures up images of an industrial landscape of disused gasometers and ugly structures. Nothing could be further from the truth, for it is the most delightful woodland path that leads through a gentle dell, past the ruined remains of a watermill to a shallow pool where fresh clear water falls over a ledge into a chattering waterfall. The path was strewn with wild garlic either side which sent its heady scent into the air and the bright sunlight streamed through the foliage to create an ever-changing dappled display of light on the ground below and dancing points of light on the moving water. A gentle breeze moved through the trees and birdsong could be heard. The atmosphere was still and calm and stopping for a while at a bench by the pool one felt refreshed and renewed. After a while we made our way up to the top path and along the ridgeway to the cemetery hill bridge where we descended to the cemetery, where we took some time to look at the graves of grandparents and others that were known before we made our way back home.
After lunch we persuaded Sue’s parents to accompany us to Pilli Palas, the Butterfly house. We spent some time gazing at the large butterflies that fluttered in the air and stopped on leaves or rotting food left for them to feed. One large blue butterfly landed on my fleece jacket. There is always something special about being so close to butterflies. They enchant partly I think because they are so fragile and fleeting. Even if we are not aware of it, I feel that we see much of the transient nature of our own lives in their ephemeral existence. We stopped for tea and cakes but made our way back quickly for we were expected at the evening service at Llanfihangel church.
Llanfihangel Din Sylwy church is set on a remote hillside on the northern edge of the island with a superb view overlooking Penmon island. The evening was clear and bright although it had turned cold. The little church itself spoke of time and generations past – an island of continuity in a world of constant change. The Rector preached a sermon on Calvary and how we should not romanticise a spot that was basically a rubbish tip outside the city walls of Jerusalem. I found his sermon thought provoking and enjoyed the service even if all the hymns and liturgy were in Welsh!
The view across to the mountains was clear and sharp and the local folklore, I’ve no doubt backed up by much experience over the years, is that such clarity in the air foretells rain. We knew that in London there were heavy downpours and the forecast had been for rain in Wales as well, but we woke on our last day to the best weather so far, with skies of pastel blue, flecked with a few pure white clouds and a bright sun hanging in the sky. It looked and felt more like June than May. But the weather had a surprise in store for us as well as there had been a fall of snow on the mountains overnight. The mountain tops looked as if they had been dusted with the finest icing sugar which sparkled in the sunshine. We made up our minds that we would drive home through the mountains rather than along the coast road.
But we still had the morning to ourselves and took ourselves off after breakfast to Newborough Warren where we stopped in a forestry commission car park at Malltraith. There we found the Anglesey coastal path and walked through a narrow path alongside the wide flat marshland of that area. I had never been so close to the wetlands of Malltraith and the glorious expansive views that it afforded over the bay. The path wandered through gentle woodland where trees were festooned with lichen giving us some notion of the weather conditions that must prevail in winter. There were boardwalks built over sections of the path to make walking easier and we walked for half an hour along the path before returning and retracing our steps. The silver birch trees were just coming into leaf, their new foliage a beautiful light green which gave the impression of a gentle green mist that hung about the tree. On our way we had seen several white butterflies with bright orange patches on the ends of their wings which delighted us and at one point we came across a lizard on the boardwalk that skittered off into the undergrowth.
After dinner we started our journey home taking the route through the mountains. Much of the snow had disappeared but the grandeur of the mountains was in no way diminished. We drank in the sight of the valleys and mountains and thought how lucky we were to know such a place as we made our way back to London.
