EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALOctober 8, 1998
Pwllheli, Wales
All's Right
Our Welsh breakfast awaits: a rack of toast , cereal and milk and a
plate of eggs, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread and hashbrowns. Rich's plate
includes ham and sausage and bacon.
We negotiate the little red road (on the map it’s red) towards
Rhymney. We are surrounded by farmlands and perspecta-sheep (that’s sheep that get
smaller and smaller as they get farther and farther away) and cows and stone walls. The
roads are very narrow, but we are getting used to the parametres of the car. The only
problem arises when a large lorry comes hurtling towards us and we are forced to pull over
so as not to be compacted. The rolling hills are very green and rugged-looking.
The sun shines for a perfect Fall day.
We are quite bewildered by the dual language signs; the part that reads
in Welsh contains very few vowels so as navigator I am having a bit of trouble explaining
to Rich what town to head towards…I try to pronounce it as it reads on the map but if
he sees it on a roadsign he reads it entirely differently. Then we are both utterly
confused. We fill up with petrol at a town called Penrhyndeudraeth.
At Barmouth there is a spectacular white sand beach that continues for
miles along the coastal highway. The stretching shoreline is visible from the hilltop
road. We stop in the town and take a walk...it looks like quite a seaside resort for
summertime holiday-makers and is equipped with a lot of parking spots and concession
stands and toy and game shops, as well as beach accessory stores and an amusement park. As
we drive away from the town the ribbon-beach continues around Barmouth Bay, with beautiful
old homes on the cliff top and paths that go down to the water’s edge.
There is an awful lot of Welsh being spoken in the streets of Pwhelli.
We are in the most remote part of Wales. The Lleyn Peninsula has the lowest population and
has been touched very little by British culture. We find a guesthouse overlooking Tremadog
Bay. We inspect the little narrow streets. A market provides us with supplies for a
picnic. The promenade takes us to the marina and and then to a hidden beach. This is where
the residents of Pwllheli walk their Irish Wolfhounds and gallop their horses. It’s a
spledid spot. All's right in the place we have found ourselves. The sun disappears
and as the temperature dips we make our way back to our guesthouse.
