| Product: |
Aberystwyth |
| Date: |
06/09/02 (749 review reads) |
| Rating: |
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Advantages: Magnificent countryside, Some pleasant spa towns, Yr iaith Gymraeg
Disadvantages: Parking in Aber, The so-called "pier"
First, the disclaimer. This op is really a "Wales in General" review, but since that category doesn't exist, and I want to publish this while the days are still long enough for the route to be followed (we took twelve hours door to door for the round trip, and that was rushing a little in some places), it's going here as the destination was Aberystwyth, even though most of the day was spent on the roads of mid-Wales. (I'm intrigued to see the "auction at eBay" button, incidentally - do Dooyoo know something we don't...?)
This trip started as something of a novelty family get-together - "let's all go to the seaside for the day". That's quite an undertaking if you live in the Midlands, so first we had to decide on our destination. Weston-super-Mare? Done it before, and the sea's halfway to Ireland usually. Llandudno? A nice place, but horribly crowded on Bank Holiday weekends. Ah! Howsabout Aberystwyth? This got the approval of all concerned, as "it is better to travel hopefully to arrive", and there looked to be some excellent countryside along the way.
We set off at 8am from Bewdley (Worcs), and despite the slightly murky weather took the A4117 over Clee Hill to Ludlow (see my "Titter(stone) ye not, missus" op for more on Clee) - not a lot to see; even the Malverns, under 20 miles away, were almost lost in the murk, and the idea of seeing the spiky peak of Skirrid at twice that distance was laughable. Still, the weather forecast had said that things would improve as we travelled west.
From here, we aimed west towards the border town of Knighton (in Welsh, "Tref-y-clawdd", "the town on the Dyke" - Offa's, that is), and despite an unintented diversion at Leintwardine, which took us on a brief and not unpleasant trip around Bucknell, we were making decent time when the famous "Croeso i Gymru" sign hove into view. (Okay folks, we'
;re on-topic now - this *is* Powys!) Even in these Anglicised border areas, many roadsigns now have the Welsh first, and this helped to give a sense of adventure to the trip - we were in a foreign country now.
We saw very little of Knighton, as almost before we entered the town we turned southward towards Radnor Forest, passing through the interestingly named village of Evenjobb. Old Radnor (Pencraig), perched precariously on the side of a hill, was once the home of King Harold, while New Radnor (Maesyfed - only briefly Radnorshire's county town before losing that status to Presteigne), a few miles to the west, has its castle with a long and eventful history - most famously being captured by Owain Glyndwr in 1402.
Now we followed the A44 over some fairly low hills and turned south at the Crossgates roundabout to the Victorian spa town of Llandrindod Wells, which is quite an interesting place for a bit of aimless pottering. It's home to the National Cycle Exhibition, and you can still drink the (revolting!) spa water for a small charge. Today they were putting on a Victorian fair, and the odd people we same in period dress seemed to fit in perfectly with the surroundings! Slightly more recent, but still of note, is the town centre garage that still dispenses petrol from roadside pumps via long overhead hoses - far less intrusive than the usual forecourt and canopy.
After buying a local paper so dull I can't remember its name (The Cambrian Times, perhaps? All I can remember is a p2 story about a man in a "shopping basket fracas!), we returned to the car (which we'd left round the back of the town hall, parking not being too easy in Llandrindd), and headed out of town towards Builth Wells (Llanfair-ym-Muallt). Builth is rather dismissed in most of the guidebooks as an "earthy, agricultural place" with little to detain the tourist. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing - too many towns have been overwhelmed
by visitors and lost any semblence of independent life - but from the brief view we had it must be said that it didn't look particularly inspiring.
A couple of miles west of town was the small village of Cilmeri, with a startlingly large "Prince Llewelyn" pub. The reason for this was revealed shortly afterwards - a large stone set up to mark the place where Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, last true Prince of Wales, fell to the English in 1282. Several wreaths of fresh flowers adorned the stone - it is still a place of pilgrimage for some.
For a few miles now, the road followed the Heart of Wales railway, an unlikely survivor of the Beeching Axe that wanders for around 100 miles between Craven Arms in Shropshire and Llanelli, stopping at numerous tiny hamlets along the way. It's certainly recommended if you have the time. At Garth, the A483 continues to Llanwrtyd Wells (Llanwrtud), but we would be getting there another way, as we wanted to "bag" all four spas, so turned off left onto a yellow road.
This lane took us down to the valley of the Irfon, a river we would meet again later, as we travelled through pleasant though unspectacular countryside to Llangammarch Wells, now forgotten save by anglers but once a centre for the rich and powerful, with such as David Lloyd George coming to savour the delights of the barium spa. A mile to the north lies the rambling black and white pile where they stayed.
The lane ended at our fourth and final spa, Llanwrtyd Wells, but we had no time to dally - a shame, as this is perhaps the most unspoilt and most Welsh of the spa towns, and despite some well-publicised difficulties (Barclays removing the only bank, and concern even over the post office), it seemed a pleasant and reasonably prosperous place. We were headed across the way, though, along the famous "Mountain Road" to Abergwesyn and Tregaron.
The first part of the road, though narrow and winding, was e
asy enough, climbing gradually with the dwindling Irfon through conifer plantations (boo!) and past an isolated hotel and a small chapel with its gravestones running up the hill behind it, until we reached the tiny hamlet of Abergwesyn, where the lane from Beulah joined. This was, if you like, the Last Homely House - there would be no more settlements larger than the occasional farm (and one phone box!) until Tregaron, 14 difficult miles to the west.
We passed the point of no return (well, sort of), and began to drive along the Irfon valley, a wonderful (and well-surfaced, though very narrow) road which hugged the right-hand hillside giving superb views across the bracken-covered valley below. Every so often small laybys allowed us to leap out and bang off zillions of photographs (anyone following this drive, do *not* forget your camera, or you'll kick yourself for months!), and to say hello (again) to the cyclists who we had already passed three times!
The fords marked on the OS map were no longer there, and had been replaced by low wooden bridges, but almost immediately afterwards things took on a darker tone, as the road zig-zagged up the now forested hillside at what seemed an impossible gradient - the (in)famous "Devil's Staircase"! In fact, provided you have a working clutch on your car, the only thing you really have to worry about here is meeting a car coming the other way, as though very steep (the sign says 25% or 1 in 4, but some parts are 1 in 3), it's clean and not too narrow, and provided you don't take the corners too tight you'll be fine. There is a good passing place on the left (as you climb) about halfway up, though it's not labelled in advance.
A little later, we had a choice between the direct route past the (gas-lit!) youth hostel at Dolgoch or a longer loop around the Esgair Ganol forest. We chose the latter, and it was a good choice, with the views opening out after Soar y Mynydd to
show us wide expanses of empty hills covered with great swathes of heather as we came back north along the Camddwr stream. Not far from a small lake, we stopped the car, and had one of the most memorable sights of the day. No, not a red kite - in fact, we didn't see a single one of those, which was a pain - but a buzzard, so low above our heads we could see individual feathers clearly, and taking no notice whatever of our presence. It stayed close for five minutes or so, and for that time we forgot all else. A wonderful, fabulous sight, and worth the drive on its own.
Not far further on was a somewhat complicated junction, with roads winding in all directions, though the presence of a white house (possbly a pub) helped us work it out, and we made our way west towards the Berwyn Forest, reaching our highest point of the day (481 metres; around 1500 feet). We were running late, and had no time to stop here, but it would make a fine location for forest walks.
Gradually now the country became more populated, and wound inexorably downhill towards the old droving centre of Tregaron, which is famous for its Bog (Cors Caron), a haven for wetland birds. The (Welsh-speaking) town also boasts the Rhiannon Welsh Gold shop, and was the birthplace of Twm Sion Cati, a local Robin Hood figure who featured in the TV series "Hawkmoor". The Talbot Hotel here features a fine programme of live roots music. The road junction at Tregaron is a right pain, but somehow we got it right, and drove north along the A485 on the last leg of our outward journey to Aberystwyth. The A485 is an odd road - one minute it's wide and fast, the next it's narrowed so much that passing places are required. By and by the western horizon disappeared, a sure sign that the sea was at hand.
Here we were in no doubt that this was "Y Fro Gymraeg" ("the Welsh-speaking Wales), as the many political posters bore witness. Most of them were either too deta
iled to be read at speed, were in difficult Welsh, or were faded and peeling, but one stood out, calling for "Tai, Gwaith, Iaith" - "Houses, Work, Language" - a slogan that would be at home in many small states around Europe. (In fact, a rock by the A487 south of Aberystwyth bears one of the most famous graffiti in the country: "Cofiwch Dreweryn" ["Remember Treweryn") - a protest against the creation of a reservoir for Liverpool in 1963.)
Sure enough, the great headlands at either end of the bay appeared, the southern hill bearing the ruined castle and (on a somewhat smaller scale) the town's war memorial; and the northern being the location of Europe's largest camera obscura, reached either by an exhausting slog up the hill or (for preference) by the very handy cliff railway (which costs £2 return; the camera obscura is free).
Parking in Aberystwyth is utter hell. There is a park and ride, but we assumed (erroneously, it seems) that it did not run on Sundays, so wasted a lot of time looking for a long-stay car park. There isn't one, as far as we could tell, only rows of one- and two-hour bays, all packed solid. The Commodore Cinema has a tiny car park, but that was full too. We eventually ended up in a leisure centre almost two miles out of town and walked in.
Aberystywth itself is surprisingly small - certainly nothing like the size of Blackpool or Torquay. It has more of a non-beach life than most resorts, however, with the usual mess of Woolworths and suchlike a couple of streets back from the front. The roads were being dug up this Bank Holiday, which made things even worse than usual as regards traffic. We flopped down in the first chippy we could find (which didn't appear to have a name other than "Take Out - Eat In - Same Price", and luckily it was a good decision - big portions of fish and crisp hot chips.
Finally, off to the sea. Aberystwyth has a pier, b
ut one which is a sore disappointment - a noisy, cramped amusement arcade (not that there's anything wrong with that in itself) and a pub-cum-nightclub (well, it is a university town, I suppose). That's all, folks. What on earth is the use of a pier which has no outside areas? (There do seem to be some, but you can't get at them. Maybe they're dangerous - if so, some explanatory signs would have helped.) Oh, there is an ice-cream place, but that's not exactly remarkable in a town like this. There's a wooden jetty a few yards along the beach, but that's not exactly a replacement.
The beach itself is surprisingly steep in places, so be careful about letting small children (or adults!) run out into the water. There were red'n'yellow flags flying, but I saw no sign of any lifeguard. It's of shingle rather than sand for the most part, but not too sharp for bare feet, and there are some rocky outcrops that are good for rockpooling (footwear recommended as they're a bit slippery). You can't say that the bay is in the same class as somewhere like Llandudno or even Paignton, but it's perfectly acceptable for a day out.
We walked along the seafront for a while, weaving our way through the zillions of motorbikes that had gathered on one part of the prom (an annual event? Looked that way). Not Hell's Angels types, but rather a generally older crowd riding large-capacity machines - Triumphs, Ducatis, Yamahas and so on. Made a sparkling sight in the now-bright sun. They were being entertained by a brass band from, of all places, Cleobury Mortimer, which is not ten miles from me! Also bouncy castles and suchlike for the kiddies. Along the prom fly a large number of flags, but you'll search in vain for a Union Flag. Instead, the poles represent a variety of the minority states of Europe - Galicia, Brittany, Flanders, Sardinia... - and for the most part the posts are labelled, trilingually, with the name o
f the state, so that you might see "Llydaw / Brittany / Breizh". Unfortunately, the sticker budget seems to have run out a few poles from the northern end, so we never found out what the striking black, red and white flag was - Papua New Guinea, perhaps?
We stopped here for an ice-cream and sat in one of the (not *too* smelly) shelters watching the sea - something I never grow tired of. Behind us, a family were arguing about the name of the bay we were looking at - if only they'd turned round, they'd have seen a huge sign proclaiming the premises of the "Gwesty Bae Ceredigion" (Cardigan Bay Hotel)!
Time was getting on, so we reluctantly gave up on the Camera Obscura and wandered (slowly) back to the pier. Just before it, the green window frames of an otherwise unassuming building caught our eyes. Wrth gwrs! (Of course!) This was the HQ of the Welsh Language Society, better known by its Welsh name of Cymdeithas yr Iaith Gymraeg - best known in England for defacing monolingual English roadsigns in the 1960s and 1970s, but still actively campaigning for a better deal for Welsh. Some Welsh people find them a nuisance, but in Aberystwyth they seem to be pretty popular.
We had to start back to the car soon, as we wanted to be back in England by nightfall. Not because of any relic law that might make us targets of the bowmen of Glyndwr, but because driving at night on unfamiliar roads is very tiring! First, though, we stopped off at an excellent three-story bookshop (whose name, to my shame, I forget - but the sign was blue), and bought a few bits and bobs - an atlas of the Welsh language, a small book of poems and the odd map. Interesting to see a Terry Pratchett novel translated into Welsh ("Lleidr Amser" - "Thief of Time") - a sure sign that demand is there for Welsh reading material.
The route home was quicker than the route out, though still blessed with some fine scenery. We stopped at D
evil's Bridge, where three bridges cross a gorge on top of each other, and where the Vale of Rheidol narrow-gauge railway (from Aberystwyth) has its eastern terminus. There were a surprising number of people about for mid-evening (it had gone six by now), and standing along the narrow, pavementless road from which (some of) the gorge could be seen demanded caution. We didn't pay the necessary pound or two to go through the turnstiles down to the gorge itself, but apparently it's well worth the expense.
Joining the A44 a little further on, we wound along the valley of the infant River Wye (Afon Gwy) - this is archetypal "Kite Country", but as I said earlier we were fated to have our hopes dashed on that front. Never mind, though - the view was superb. After some miles, we turned south towards Rhyader (which means "waterfall"), which seemed a pleasant enough place, though there was no time to stop. It didn't seem very long before "the town on the dike" was upon us again, and with it a return to monoligual roadsigns and the end of the hill country (except for the brief run over Clee).
We got home just after eight - almost exactly twelve hours after setting off. The great majority of the day had been spent in the car, but no-one considered that a disappointment, as we had been blessed with good weather (for the Welsh portion, anyway), and had seen some of the most beautiful countryside in Britain. And yes, we'd managed to taste the sea. (Though as it's the Irish Sea, we'll probably be doing a Ready Brek impression for a while!) The entire distance travelled was around 220 miles, and it's definitely a journey that I would recommend.
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