First Welsh Weekend

It’s a good day when you’re awakened by the sound of sheep a few yards from your window, complaining about whatever sheep complain about at six a.m.

I suppose this wouldn’t always be the case, but if you happen to be sleeping in a three hundred year old farmhouse in North Wales, the sheep are a lovely alarm.

Our journey to the farmhouse was (at moments) stressful but (overall) uneventful. We’d landed a little ahead of schedule, and after grabbing bags, getting some of the local coin, and – for those of us with the need – purchasing some coffee, we headed to the National car rental location by way of a bus from the airport to “Car Rental Village.”

The weather was beautiful. It was likely in the upper seventies, and even with a little cloud cover, it could easily have been a July day in Northern California. After they’d issued us two snazzy Volvo’s (leather seats, bells, whistles and – we’re officially here! – left-hand drives, we waited briefly for the eight member of our group to join us. Susan was coming from Scotland, and intrepid traveler that she is, managed to get the train to the airport and the bus to the car rental and find us sans cell phone.

We drove to Chester, and while we’d hoped to get somewhere closer to the castle, ended up having lunch at The Boathouse, a restaurant on the River Dee. We had a lovely late lunch and then half the group started out for the farmhouse and Wales while the other half spent a few more minutes both seeing Chester and gathering some basic groceries, the fear being that the local grocer in Bala might close at 5pm.

I was in the group that left Chester first, and after a slightly harrowing trip along the fast, tight, winding road that the Garmin nav-sat suggested (which conflicted with the printed Google maps directions the restaurant staff had kindly printed for us), we made it to the house and met our hostess. I felt for Jerry, the driver, who was jet-lagged and driving on the wrong side down roads that would have been challenging even on the right side of the road and not after 14 hours of travel. 

But we arrived safely thanks to his skill, and after dropping off bags and settling in for a few minutes, headed into town to grab a bite and have a drink. We ran into a local woman sheering sheep in a field, and I couldn’t help but stop to take a picture. She had a son with her – maybe ten years old – and she was issuing instructions to him in rapid Welsh. I made my first foray into speaking the language by saying “Thank you again,” after snapping some shots, and she asked where we were from (“California!”) and asked why I spoke Welsh. I told her it was just an interest I had and she said, “Well, I’m a Welsh teacher, so that’s brilliant!” Lucky for me that this was my introduction into trying to put the hours of study to practice! She was used to hearing learners stumble through the words, no doubt.

We also passed by our comrades as they drove past on the way into town. They’d had a harder time of it from Chester, having been lost between Wrexham and Llangollen more than once, so they took a few more minutes to settle in before some of them joined us at the White Lion.

Those of us who’d been out walked back to the house in the warm night air under puffy high clouds made gloriously orange and pink by the sunset. The lake was beautiful, and I was in Wales.

Back at the house, exhaustion trumped jet lag. It was dark, though warm (we slept with the window open), and I slept well.

The second thing I was aware of in the morning, apart from the sheep, was the smell of coffee. I showered, had breakfast with those who were up, and after spending some time settling in, we had a morning writing session. Terry described the exercise of listening to excerpts of what some of our comrades were reading and then doing some free, or automatic, writing as “priming the pumps,” and all I can think is that my pumps are plenty primed.

After we wrote, we figured out what we could of getting wi-fi from the caravan park next door, and then headed a few yards down the road to the local narrow-gauge railway for a trip down the eastern side of Lake Bala. We arrived at the last stop, in Llanuwchllyn (there having been only one other, smaller, stop before that) and because we had about an hour and a half to spare, we walked through the town to the pub at the other end. Just past an old church and its nineteenth-century cemetery and graves, we converged upon The Eagle, where they were not serving food until they realized there were eight of us, and then they offered to do us some sandwiches. The choices were ham, cheese, shrimp or tuna on white or brown. (The “brown” was wheat.) Because the girl behind the counter had been speaking Welsh, and at the encouragement of my colleagues, I ordered my sandwich by asking for “caws” on “brown” with “dˆwr.”

We ate and walked back to the train, taking one of the windowless carriages as our own, with Terry asking how one would say it’s the “bards carriage” in Welsh. The local older woman who was manning the counter at the shop and café at the train station was unsure about “bard” and had to even ask for the word for “author” – (awdur). This even though she and her young red-haired assistant had been speaking rapid Welsh to one another!

The train ride back was pleasant, the sound of the cars rattling along the tracks putting one of our party to sleep. A few of the poets, led by Terry, played around with the rhythm (duh-duh-duh duh DUM, duh-duh-duh duh DUM) by saying, “We’re riding on the train, I hope it doesn’t rain, it’s such a lovely day, even though it’s not May. What else can we say?” etc.

Back at the house, some napped and some of us tried to access the internet yet again. I went for a walk along the lake and into town while a few people worked on making a lovely dinner of two whole chickens, salad, broccoli and (it turns out we all had some) wine. I took a picture of the table, it was that lovely, and asked if all the cooks would marry me.

After dinner, it was late enough for bed.  The bat that had come in during the night and crawled into a pocket inside Susan’s suitcase was released into the wild. We’d been told by the house owner that hundreds of bats would come out and fly around the house at night, and when one of us had asked where they lived, she’d said in the walls of the house! This makes more sense when you realize that the walls are three feet thick in some places.

After the excitement of ushering the bat out of Susan’s room was over – I missed that part of the action, as I was finishing the washing up of dishes - I scribbled then slept.

[If the internet connection were not so spotty, I'd be filling this post with pictures. As it is, I will have to fill in those pictures later, I suppose.]