Day 9 • Sept. 7

What with a ferry to catch for a scheduled 10:00 a.m. departure, we were up, packed and down to the breakfast table by 7:45 a.m.  Coco joined us for breakfast and so did a lady from parts unknown.  After breakfast, Mrs. Callanan gave us directions on how to get to the ferry port.  The directions involved taking the train.

Ah, the train—convenient, clean, fast, and comfortable.  If only we had taken it the day before.  We got off the train near the bus station to catch a connecting bus.  Instead, we took a taxi the remainder of the way, which used up the last of our Irish money.     

We reached our ferry about thirty minutes early and it left about thirty minutes late.  Once aboard, we made our way to the top and toward the stern.  The weather was clear, cloudy, rainy—take you pick—but always chilly.  Pulling out of Dublin Bay was a bittersweet experience: glad I got there, sorry I didn’t get to stay longer.  From the bay, one can see straight down the Liffey into the heart of Dublin, where they remember James Joyce, who had remembered them.

The ride across the Irish Sea was uneventful until toward the end of the voyage, when we witnessed a helicopter pull three men from a small raft.  I couldn’t really tell but perhaps the raft was marooned.

Back in Holyhead, we made our way to our car and got on the road.  Only this time, for the first time, Sharon was at the wheel.  Without going into the gory details, it was touch and go for a little while.  (Actually, she did quite well except for engaging second gear, which gave us fits the whole trips, and negotiating the narrowest of roads this side of a goat trail.)

We drove across the Isle of Anglesey and then cut south once we hit the mainland.  This section of Wales is called Snowdonia—a mountainous region of winding narrow roads, lush green valleys, seemingly endless low stone walls meandering across the hillsides, and sheep.  There were very many sheep.  We stopped for lunch at a café snuggled in a picture postcard setting.  The fare included scones with whipped cream and mugs of good coffee.

Back on the road, we set off in search of a Welsh castle—Harlech Castle in particular.  Along the way we passed through the idyllic town of Betws-y-coed but didn’t stop.  We did pull off the road, however, a few miles farther on near (or in) the village of Dolwyddelan to take some pictures and a look around.  I didn’t see anything resembling a village, but I did see what I considered to be one of the most peaceful, green, rich, isolated valleys I could imagine.  It even had its own castle, a small one up on a hill.

While we were taking pictures and shouting at the sheep, an old fellow wandered through a field up to the stone wall, aside of which our car was parked.  We walked over to him, somewhat apprehensive.  For the next hour and a half, we stood on the other side of the low stone wall enrapt in the tales of this old Welsh shepherd.  His accent was as heavy as Welsh rarebit, but as charming as the Welsh countryside.

He was 71 years old.  His name was Ellis Evans.  When I told him that my name was Evans too, he replied, “Aye, you must be an important man.”  I pointed out that we’d seen the name “Evans” on many war memorials in Wales, which led me to believe there were a great many Evans’ in Wales or else they were poor fighters.  He laughed at that.  He told us of his brother who tended the flocks with him, of his mother and father and grandfather (who also lived in this same valley) and of friends past and present.  He recounted a tale of a farmer who some years ago jumped into an old, water-filled, abandoned mining pit because the weather had been so bad.  The day they buried him was a lovely day.  Ellis’ brother said it was too bad he didn’t jump in a month before. 

Mr. Evans had never been to London, and when I asked him why, he said, “what for” or something to that effect.  Standing in that valley, I could understand what he meant.  I gathered that he hadn’t ever married.  But I’m certain he was a perfect neighbor.  And it just so happened that his neighbor, and as far as I could see, he only had one, was named Lloyd.  Only in Wales.

We hated to say goodbye to Mr. Evans, but evening was drawing near and there were castles to see (as well as a water-filled hole, where once a forlorn farmer took his life because the weather was not to his liking).  I took the wheel and drove to Harlech, where we arrived near dusk.  The castle was closed, so we only got to see it from outside the walls.  Then we drove southbound, up above the coast of Cardigan Bay, while the sun set.  Our sights were now set on finding a place to dine and place to bed.

We drove through the coastal resort town of Barmouth but didn’t stop.  I wish we had because it was an enchanting village.  We did stop in the town of Dolgellau.  But I wish we hadn’t, although I would wager that it’s the quaintest biker-town the world has ever known.  We ate dinner at an old roadside inn.  It was a charming place with excellent food—I had beef kidney pie while sitting on couch in front of an unused fireplace.  Unfortunately, they had no vacancies because of the weekend crowd from London.

Our efforts to find lodging for the night were once again fraught with frustration—either the place cost a mint or they had no vacancies and sometimes both.  We ended up backtracking to an inn that we had passed up earlier in our hunt.  We had a pleasant, paneled room with a television, on which I believe a good movie was playing.  But I was not long among the awake.  I opened a beer, slipped into bed, and was asleep by 11:30 p.m.

Notes:

• Along the coast of Cardigan Bay, we saw several huge trailer parks, which struck us as rather out of place in quaint, rustic part of the world.

• Ellis Evans—the very best part of a splendid holiday.

• I can’t remember a thing about our motel room.  (8/98 commentary)