There is nowhere on earth freer than the road. And I was made to wander, following my feet in relentless pursuit of… what? A new view? A new experience? A sense of belonging? Wandering feet and a wandering heart. I thrive on the road. Most at home when I am nowhere and everywhere.
A friend and I had a couple days going spare. Of course, the conversation turned to road trips. Maps were dragged out. Routes plotted. We needed a challenge, where had we not been? So it was that, on a cold and misty morning, we set out to visit the Welsh national parks.
Wales has three national parks: Snowdonia, all sharp angled mountains and starkly remote beaches, in the north; the Pembrokeshire Coast, lush countryside and soft sands, to the west; and the rolling green of the Brecon Beacons in the south. North to South, it takes somewhere in the region of 7 hours to get round them all. More like 12, if you take the scenic route and stop frequently (which, of course, you must). I have been to them all, at one point or another; though, besides Snowdonia, not for many years.
We begin with Snowdonia, driving north through the Cheshire countryside, flat and uninspiring in the rain, and across the border into the mountains. There the road curls and twists between naked scree slopes, rising up into an ethereal mist. South, south, we run; passed Dolwyddelan Castle, which looms regal with crenelations over the road, and then the slate quarries half buried in the rubble of the ruined rock face. Later, we will drive through the smoky pine forests of Coed y Brenin. They remind me fiercely of Norway – yet the forests here are somehow tamer, quieter. Were they always? I think not and that saddens me. What happened to our wildness and wilderness? Is there truly no place left for it in our barren modern world?
We make our first stop at Llyn Trawsfynydd. And no matter how romantic it appears in the rain (and it does), I remain unimpressed. A vast, man-made reservoir, it was created in the 1920s to supply water for a now defunct power station. While I have nothing against reservoirs, or this one in particular, I must admit that I find them a little sterile when compared to a proper lake. It’s coming down cats and dogs, so we practically jog down the gravel path to the waterfront. There, we stand for a while by two carved monoliths, take a few pictures, and walk about a bit. With a haze rising off the water in the distance between fogged hillocks, it is remote and grey and beautiful.
We outrun the rain as we follow the road south to Aberystwyth. The skies clear. Bedraggled shafts of sunlight begin to peek through the clouds. Aberystwyth sits on the west coast, a sprawl of colourless buildings crawling along the front and up a hill. I once thought of going to university here and was put off by the steepness of the hill leading to the university buildings – not to mention the very ordinariness of the place. We don’t stop, pushing through the one-way system and continuing on our way. And, in a short while, a glimmer to our right becomes the sea, becomes an expanse of blue as wide and deep as the sky.
We’ve been on the road for several hours and I’m gasping for a cup of tea when we arrive at Aberaeron. A quiet fishing town turned summer tourist trap, it has some sort of reputation for its beach. It’s quaint and pretty enough, with its square harbour filled with blue and white fishing boats and rows of white cottages lining the narrow streets. Children fish with buckets and long lines over the concrete bulwark. I buy a cup of tea at a little café with buckets of pretty red flowers outside and we wander down to the stubbornly stony beach.
It feels good to be outside in the fresh air. We walk a little way along, shivering against the cold and laughing about nothing much – the way you do when you’re on a jaunt and the world is fresh. The wind plays with my hair, caressing with bitter fingers, stroking each strand and curl through the currents, only to drop it again.
