Yes, believe it or not this is North Wales or ‘Ynys Mon, Cymru’ as it’s known locally. It’s on the edge of Europe, the last Celtic speaking country where my family happens to originate. Christos and I took it upon ourselves to blog the fringe where style was never meant to penetrate (but somehow it might’ve) for Shaded View.
Portmeirion was our most exciting port of call, where a 90 year old gentleman named Clough Williams-Ellis made it his life ambition to show how ‘the development of a
naturally beautiful site need not lead to its defilement’. We were thinking the contrary though – that this place was the ultimate party venue waiting for a 72-hour booking for private hire. If only we could guarantee the weather would cooperate around a DJ booth surrounding the pool. What kitsch, idealistic vision to create an entire village for himself to model the rest of Wales upon. If only we could stay here with Diane and our friends exclusively…
We decided that Hind could organise a mega-bash here all in pastels with this boat that is built into Llyn peninsula – literally. From Portmeirion, we carried on toward Ynys Tysilio, the tiny island off the main island under the Menai Bridge where the dead lie peacefully (including my own gran’s great grandparents) surrounded by whirlpools. We craved Diane’s company here most as we scoped out potential seaside cottages and Druid’s lairs.
The Welsh language – Cymraeg – probably sounds like something from Lord of the Rings to most people but for the first time in my life it was so reassuring to hear people pronounce my name with confidence and grace – Arianwyn. Watch out though because everything from supermarkets to fast food joints are bilingual so if you’re not in for tongue-twisters stay close to home. Dydw i ddim yn siarad Cymraeg 🙁 Well not yet anyway…
We stayed in Caernarfon in the Royal Celtic and accidentally fell upon a portly Welsh lady covering the Pet Shop Boys like a proper diva from a dodgy pub after dinner one night. These ladies were just on the way.
Caernarfon Castle
Perhaps it sounds a bit too much but , before they found the fair shores of Quebec, the reality is that my Mamgu (grandmother)’s family once lived here in the village with the longest place-name in the British Isles – Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. There’s not much more than the train station but I had to immortalize the moment.
