In researching hiking trails around that part of the country, I had been very drawn to the romantic description of the Llŷn Peninsula to the west and expressed my interest in taking a day to go wander there. My travel guide described it as one of the more remote areas of the country, with volcanic hills and a long coastline that was a certified "Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty". A lonely, beautiful place where the Welsh language still thrived, and where you don't get too far without a car.
Finally, on our last full day, Simon agreed to go check it out, so I looked up some trails to give us somewhere to aim for, and off we went. We decided to first go along the A499, following the northern coast, and see where the car wanted to go from there. To our surprise, it parked next to what looked like the trailhead up Yr Eifl, the highest "mountain" on the peninsula, and spit us out to go scrambling through bramble and rockslide up the side of the mountain. We got a good way up, but couldn't seem to find a real trail or ankle-safe way to continue, though the voices we heard from the summit assured us that there was a trail, somewhere. At some point we were high enough for a superb view of the sun puddles that came a-splashing over the countryside before us, at which time we decided to descend and continue to other sites.
The next time the car stopped, we had just passed through the village of Morfa Nefyn and continued on foot down to the beach with the intention of walking to the even tinier village of Porthdinllaen, where there was apparently a café that sounded worth a cozy visit. However, once our boots touched the sand, a great, stormy gust blew over us, bringing sheets of rain that suddenly made a walk on the beach very unappetizing. We thus hurried back to the car and had a bit of packed lunch while the rain and wind gently pummeled the car roof with a million wet clangs.
After waiting for a while to see if the storm would pass and it did not, we decided to drive on and see if the weather was better elsewhere. Map on lap, we navigated to a smaller, coastlier road and pulled over somewhere around Capel Carmel at an old, stone structure designated as a view point, then somewhat successfully sidestepped all the sheepiepoo to have a look around.
From there I really wanted to go all the way to the tip of the nose of the peninsula, because why not(‽), and though Simon was quite fed up with the one-way country lanes and the one-and-a-half-lane tractors we kept encountering in tight spots, he kindly obliged and we followed the signs towards Uwchmynydd and the old coast guard station I'd read about at the top of a cliff there.
Once we wound our way up the worn road and parked at the top, we wandered around for a while, looking out at the Irish Sea and the medieval pilgrimage site, Bardsey Island, a couple miles away, the wind making itself known all the while.
We got hit with some more rain, but just as we were regrouping to start our journey home, the clouds cleared and the sun lit up the yellow gorse and purple heather and green fields all around us and I had to run around taking a new batch of photos.
From there the road east to Pwllheli was smooth and sunny, and it was there that we took a dinner detour and I finally found some fish pie and cider that absolutely hit the spot.
We still had a ways to drive before getting home, but the adventure didn't stop there. See, our home was snuggled below a very cliffy cliff, and a detailed map of the area showed a trail leading up and around to the house-like mystery structure on top that we had been wondering about all week. It was nearing sunset, and we decided that for our last night in Wales, the only place to truly appreciate the sunset would be from the top of that cliff, so we drove to what we figured was the trailhead and headed up into the gorse.
It was still August, which apparently meant blackberry season in Wales, and I happily snacked on them as they grew along almost all of the trails in our hiking repertoire. This trail was no exception.
Once we found our way up the mountain, we headed west to the edge of the cliff, and from there could look down on the mysterious structure that turned out to be part of an abandoned quarry, as well as the whole town, surrounding countryside, sea, and Snowdonia's more gentle peaks. The sun approaching the lower level of the cloud blanket by that point, and while Simon scrambled on to get to the quarry below, I stayed on the upper cliff as the golden light broke through and spread its magic over the glowing, purple heather and pink hillsides beyond, the air over the water shimmering and miniature town below suddenly the center of a fairytale landscape. My camera, faithful as she was ( --> cue tragic foreshadowing), simply could not do justice to those unearthly, enchanting few minutes.
As the sun sank lower, I too scrambled my way along the ledge leading to the quarry on the lower cliff, which was equally magical if not slighly spooky in its own way. There they had left a cornerstone of the mountain standing sentinel while taking a good amount of the rest of the rock away. The roofs of the stone structures built there had fallen in, while the walls and windows remained, looking new as ever, the cable that had once lowered chunks of mountain to the ground far below still dangling from its spool from the mystery house we had wondered about all week.
We got moving when the sun disappeared below the horizon, wanting to get back to the car before the light left us, so scrambled back along the ledge (which I would not recommend to any of my loved ones in times of moderate to high winds) and down the less terrifying, green, country path through fields and heather, the moon rising before us in the blue evening's descent.
About the best conclusion possible to a lovely week of adventuring, followed by a fun encore the next morning.
Our flight didn't leave Manchester England-England until that evening, so we still had plenty of time to do more exploring between saying goodbye to our airbnb and getting back to the airport. One place that I'd wanted to go but we didn't end up properly visiting was the nearby town of Bangor, which always made my stomach do a familiar little flip whenever we passed signs to it, as I'd spent about 18 years of my life driving to and from Bangor, Maine. The closest we got was our visit to Penrhyn Castle, a fortified manor house from 1438ish that matured into a castle in the 1780s. The main rooms of the castle were not open until noon, but with the grounds ticket we were still able to walk in the gardens, visit the railway museum, and the Victorian kitchens.
Seeing the old trains was fun, but the kitchens -- THE KITCHENS! The kitchens caught me off guard and before I knew what had happened, they had pickpocketed my heart.
The main kitchen was big and bright, overlooking the courtyard with one wall full of windows and another full of ovens...
...But then they had separate kitchens for all sorts of other kitchen activities, like this one specifically for baking pastries, with an elevated, cool, slate countertop (for keeping the butter cold), and which overlooked the castle gate and green fields and hills beyond.
And there were kitchens for cutting, cooling, storing meats; for baking bread, for churning butter and cutting it into delicate flowers, for all sorts of things that you didn't even know you needed a separate kitchen for! The main chef's apartment was right there as well, and he lived very comfortably, the most famous one being a French guy with intricate menus that must have taking scores of underlings to prepare each day.
It was inspiring, and I didn't want to leave, but reality called, so I bought a postcard with a picture of the kitchen from the gift shop (to put in my kitchen in Hamburg, of course), and went on my way.
The grounds surrounding the castle were pretty bovine-heavy, and all the cows were lined up under the low branches of a tree to escape the rain as we made our way back to the car.
From there we said our final farewell to Wales and set our sights on Manchester, and were glad that we left so early as traffic was very slow on the way back. All went according to plan, however, and we got the rental car topped up and returned in time to catch the airport shuttle and our flight back to Hamburg.
One of the minor aspects of this trip that I particularly enjoyed (and please don't scoff at this) was the fact that we had used paper maps the entire time, both for driving and for hiking, instead of relying on a GPS to tell us where to go. I know this is no novelty, but instead of just having a disembodied voice blindly order us around, we really got to know the streets, silly-sounding towns and trails we traveled. I also felt much more confident navigating because I always knew where we were. I've always loved maps of all kinds and this was a solid reminder why.
One of the major aspects of this trip that I particularly enjoyed was having a chauffeur to drive me around this magically misty landscaped country, and a chauffeur that also happened to be a wonderful friend for conversation as well as for times of companionable silence. Thanks, Simon!
From Manchester we flew off into the sunset, and once back home in Hamburg, I was honestly ready to stay put for a while. Norway, Italy, and Wales had been enough traveling for one summer and I very much wanted to lie low for the last few days before starting a new job, and just a couple weeks later heading back to the airport once again, this time headed west.
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