Post: Today has become a fascinating read, starting with his monetary problems and a do or die determination to get away at all costs. And he does us, the reader, very proud indeed. Charlie tells us he must travel light, as he is only going to be away for four days, and the list of things he packed in his saddlebag is so brief you might miss it. And get this. They started from Bolton at 5 ish in the morning and fetched up at a B & B at 10pm at night. Now that is what I call cycle touring !
Tuesday, June 30 Bettws-y-Coed and the Wilds of Ogwen
It is the Bolton ‘Wakes’ Week annual holiday – it has been since Friday night, and by rights I ought to be miles and miles away by now, but I am not. A simple money calculation has shown me that it is impossible to go away for a whole week, so after much juggling and scraping I might manage four days. Blackpool ? No! Isle of Man ? No! Where then? I am asked. That was the great question – where shall I go? One thing is absolutely certain – it will not be a resort.
I have a friend – Ben – who cannot do very much cycling, and who, like me, wanted to go somewhere, so we put our heads together and decided that a-touring we will go. But now we come to the original question – where? It is really hard to decide where to go when one is in such a country as this is. There are so many places where we would like to go. The Lake District, the Yorkshire Dales, Derbyshire, the Midlands, Salop, Mid Wales and North Wales, the Dukeries, Sherwood Forest, the Cotswolds, Warwickshire – oh, a hundred and one districts accessible in four days. At length we fixed on one…. North Wales, and so as to make the most effective break in the holidays we fixed the start for Tuesday morning, 5am.
A long first day would get us right out, and that was all we wanted. As we were only going for four days, our luggage was light – cape, tools and a handkerchief or two sufficed besides maps. I took Bartholomew’s half inch to a mile sheets of Cheshire, North Wales and Shropshire; the one map which we might need most I had lent, not expecting to use it at first – the Aberystwyth sheet. I forgot, there were two more items, which were the most necessary of all that I carried, a towel and a drinking cup.
By the look of things we were in for a beautiful day when Ben called round at 5am, and we immediately got started. After a bumpy half hour we left the setts of Leigh behind, heading for Lowton, where we entered the bylanes. Just as we reached Winwick I punctured (back tyre) but it was soon repaired and once more we started, dropping down into dirty Warrington for 6.45am. Cheshire now, on a quiet main road, really a beautiful main road – and new to Ben. Daresbury, Sutton Weaver, then the foliage coloured slope of Frodsham Hill, with the red, rocky headland of Helsby before us, giving a remarkable silhouette of a judge’s head from the road. People were going to work in Helsby – we hardly envied them, then the road became quiet again, and at Mickle Trafford – Mrs Dennisons – we stopped for a snack.
Another four miles brought us into Chester, where we stopped at 9am to see one or two of the ‘Lions’, walking down Bridge Street to the old River Dee bridge. Ben is a stranger to the City of Legions. We decided to cut Wrexham road out, entering Eaton Park instead, and enjoying a beautiful run through the woodlands to the Hall, and making a worthy detour to the iron bridge over the Dee. The river here, with its wooded banks and deep, smooth flow makes a lovely picture.
As we rode through the trees towards Pulford, hundreds of rabbits fled at the sound of the wheels. The sun had now warmed up to its work, and with a steady breeze behind, we began to get warm too. From Pulford we entered Wales, coming to Rossett, and turning right, we rode by the tiny river Alyn in the pretty Vale of Gresford. A sharp ascent brought us above the Vale, giving us a heat-hazed view of the peaceful plains of Cheshire. Level now to Llai, then with the ruin of Caergwrle Castle before us, we dropped to Cefn-y-Bedd in the Hope Valley. This road becomes more and more useful to us for getting into Wales – if one is not in a hurry. The little valley, then the long climb, the drop to the twisty little parapet-less bridge, then the climb out of the glen by Glasfryn, with the tall hedgerows on each side and the foxgloves adding colour to it all.
At the Nant-y-Ffrith entrance we walked down to a vantage point above the gorge so that Ben might see the scene. He was now getting wildly enthusiastic – I was taking care not to lead him over many dull stretches, for on this tour I wanted both of us to see the very best in the time at our disposal. We reached the summit at Bwlchgwyn, launching therefrom on to the moors for two miles, until we slipped between the hills, and after another two miles of verdant fields, reached the Crown Inn at Llandegla for lunch.
We were fully started now (so I considered, though Ben avowed that we had really started at Warrington!). We climbed a little, getting a good view of this valley of the Alyn, and its encircling moors, with now and then a glimpse of the Llangollen road as it climbed over Maes-yr-y-Chain, prior to swooping down the Horseshoe Pass. From the Llangollen branch, we started switch-backing downhill, between high, flowery hedges, and with a strong breeze behind, we fairly ticked the miles off. Up a little again, then down to Bryn Eglwys (The Church on the Hill) in the valley of the Morwynion, and with the pleasant green slopes of Llantysilio Mountain across to keep our interest at par. We were immensely thirsty, but all the wells and streams had dried up or were unfit for drinking.
There being nothing of great interest except the beauty of the surrounding countryside, on this road, we kept a lively pace up, covering the eleven miles to Corwen without a dismount – and without seeing one motor vehicle. We did not touch Corwen, but joined the Holyhead road about a mile west at Tyn-y-Cefn, and proceeded towards Cerrigydrudion. Soon we reached the banks of the Alwen, and had a wash – which in itself is a good cure for thirst. Remounting, we came to Druid, where the new Bala road branches off, and then we entered a paradise. On the right, the hillside was deeply wooded, whilst on the left was a gorge. Niches have been built into the wall here and there, and I recommend anybody who traverses that road to get off at each niche and peep over. All we could see was a dense array of leaves, with just an opening here and there to show us a sheer drop to the river which boiled and foamed over its rocky bed. It was gorgeous.
A little beyond Y Maerdy we spotted a stream, and allayed the returning thirst. Through such scenes of wooded beauty we passed, until, gradually climbing, we came upon the open moors and reached Cerrigydrudion ‘The Rock of the Heroes’. I cannot say anything of the five miles between here and Pentrefoelas. The wind faced us, and made the straight road almost unbearable, Ben started to feel it. Once more we were on the lookout for water, obtaining it near Pentre. From here came another change, from the dullest five miles in North Wales to the beginning of some of the loveliest valley scenery in the world – the descent to Bettws-y-coed. It started to rain here, but soon gave over, although we had one disappointment. The mountains were mist covered, and only Moel Siabod and the lesser heights were visible.
As we entered the woods, the wind was screened from us, and riding was at once easier. The River Conway accompanied us, giving us peeps over the wall or through the foliage of a boulder-strewn bed, of a lightly dancing river, of cataracts, waterfalls, and rapids, whilst on each side the rocky slopes were tree-protected. Ben was again delighted, and when we came in sight of the Lledr Valley on the left, with the rock-strewn slopes above and the semi-circular precipice of Moel Siabod behind, he raved over it. Never in his life, he said, had he seen anything half so beautiful.
The descent down Dinas Hill continued until we reached that earthly paradise, Bettws-y-coed. We crossed Waterloo Bridge, got some postcards (by the way, I commend Judge’s for the very best views), lingered on Pont-y-Parc, then left Bettws behind, climbing uphill for two miles, (which, because of the scenery seemed like two yards) to Miner’s Bridge. We stopped on the bridge for a little while, watching the boiling Llugwy down the gorge beneath. Then feeling a hunger, we crossed the road to the cottage of Bryn Hyfryd, where we obtained a decent plain tea for 1/3d. Thirty five miles since lunch, and 84 from home!
An hour later we emerged, eager to be getting amongst the mountains properly. We were in the right country now, what mattered where we went for the night, five miles or fifty? The road climbed gradually by the side of the high-spirited river, which provided us with many charming pictures. The sun had gone now, and a heavy gloom and close, still atmosphere pervaded, which, I feared would rob us of the mountain views. Coming to Pont Cyfyng, we stopped a minute to watch the water madly leaping down a deep, rocky gorge, then pushed on to Capel Curig, where a heavy drizzle came on – and where we just caught the post.
The river was there alright, the view that I was afraid the rain would spoil, the view of three immense peaks. Snowdon. Dull, but clearly outlined, and there were the Glyders too. And Moel Siabod, from here looking like a huge moor, dreary, uninteresting. “So that is Snowdon”, said Ben, “I never dreamed there were such high mountains in Britain”. Of course, he has never been on holiday anywhere but the Lancashire coast resorts before, so mountains bigger than the Bolton moors were a surprise to him. “But wait”, I said, “Before we ‘pack’ for the night you will see the cliffs and masses of rocks different than the Anglezarke quarries!”, and at that we remounted and continued along the Holyhead road.
The drizzle continued as we climbed gradually on to a kind of moor. The scenery here was nothing to go dotty over, but in front were dim mountains, half obscured precipices, into which we had to go, and through which there seemed no way. The next three miles brought in the region of these crags, giving us an idea of the rocky nature of the pass in front, but the next mile seemed never to bring us nearer to that for which we were impatient. On the right were the slopes of Pen Llithrig-y-Wratch and Pen Helyg, with the Carneddau beyond them, whilst to the left successive cwms broke the foothills of the long Glyder range. Then, as we rounded a cliff called Gallt-y-Gogof, the ‘Cuckoo Cliff’, the whole wild view bursts suddenly before us.
Before us rose that remarkable pyramid Y Tryfan, with the mountains beyond Llyn Ogwen in the background. Then we crossed the Llugwy, a tarn which lies just below the Long ridge of Carnedd Llewellyn, and we soon reached the highest altitude (1,000 ft) at Llyn Ogwen, by the banks of which we rode to Ogwen Cottage, a habitat of cragsmen and anglers. To say that Ben was astonished and awed is to put it mildly. Think of the effect of this lake, grandly set in a deep hollow between the black and rock-strewn slopes of Y Glyder Fawr and Braich Du, the precipitous spur of Carnedd Dafydd to one who has never really seen a natural cliff. We left the bikes by a wall and took a self-made route by a leaping stream to Llyn Idwal.
There was not a soul about besides ourselves, and we stood in the rain, in a kind of half-light, which, however, did not cap the peaks, but gave them a shadowy, unnatural air. I could quite believe that anyone with a weak nerve suddenly transported from, say, our home town to this spot would be terror-stricken at the savage, sombre, picture – we were awed to silence – our voices might break the spell.
The Llyn is overhung by the precipice of Glyder Fawr, a very steep scree coming from the base to the lake, chock-full of boulders. Not a tree, not a sign of life, hardly a blade of grass relieved the wild chaos of rock and the impenetrable blackness of Idwal.
Whichever way we looked, it was the same, the towering precipice of the Glyders with the huge crack of Twll ddu (the Devils Kitchen) scarring the cliffs above the screes at the head of the lake, the line of cliffs which wall Nant Ffrancon on the West, Y Garn, Foel Goch etc, the dreaded impasse of that mighty cone, Tryfan, unclimbable (except to the expert) on all but one place, a scarred jumble of jagged grey rock, Braich Du, (the Black Arm) extending a rugged maw out to enclose Ogwen. Ah, a scene that, under such conditions could easily unnerve one, even I, who by this time got quite used to the Welsh Mountains, could never have imagined such a thing, could never have dreamt that those piles of rock could possibly assume such a menacing, awful aspect.
“Ye are the things that tower, that shine whose smile
Makes glad – whose frown is terrible – whose forms,
Robed or unrobed do all the impress wear…”
That night they were unrobed – stark, startling, fear impelling. And this on just a drizzly evening!
We walked back to Ogwen by the slippery path, then climbed over the bridge and looked down the gorge, where the water from Llyn Ogwen forms an impressive waterfall. Owing to the abnormally dry weather recently, little water was flowing, indeed, of all our tour we never saw a decent fall, and many planned detours to waterfalls were dropped – they were hardly worthwhile. The run down Nant Ffrancon Pass was punctuated by innumerable stops – we found it impossible to rush it, for the views behind were too fine. At Ogwen Bank at the foot of the pass, the rain ceased, and we packed our capes away. Having no watch with us, we had completely lost touch with the time, so we decided to ask at Bethesda, and then decide about lodgings. Bethesda is a quarrying town, therefore of no especial virtue, and as we found that it was not yet 8.30pm, we decided to push on. The road, after leaving Bethesda, runs through some very pretty woodland scenery by Afon Ogwen. There were hordes of flies on the descent too – I caught with my eye, four in ten minutes. They were an absolute pest; probably a National Fly Week, and judging from the attendance it was a phenomenal success.
We pottered through the woods, obtaining a glimpse of Penrhyn’s turreted castle as we dropped to the main gateway at Llandygai. When we reached Bangor, we found that the time was 9.20pm, but the crowded aspect of the place and the knowledge that it was a city deterred us from staying there. The next place listed in the CTC handbook was Port Dinorwic, six miles away. Could we reach it? (they retire early to bed in Welsh villages). We decided to chance it, and as Kipling wrote, ‘With our best foot first, and the road a-sliding past’ we made famous headway. The scenery, as I knew, was nothing to linger over except where it skirts the tree-shaded Vernol Park just on the outskirts of Port Dinorwic, so we, being in form, just ‘blinded’ to Port Dinorwic, which is a place for the shipping of slate and granite from the quarries at Bethesda and Llanberis.
It is a very picturesque village away from the quays, and lies on the Menai Straits. “Sea view Terrace, right up the hill to the top” came in answer to our enquiries, and we turned left, up a steep hill, climbing for about a mile until below us lay the silvery straits, the broad lands of Anglesey and the blue sea beyond. It was 10pm when we located Mrs Perry, 5, Sea View Terrace, but we were given a warm welcome, and after a wash we had a hearty supper, turning in at 10.45. From the window, we enjoyed a fine red sunset, tinting the sea beyond Anglesey with a ruddy glow, and lighting the sky beyond. After a long, happy day we were tired and slept right away, with a gentle sea breeze blowing over the green fields of Mona into our room. 126 miles
