Lloyd George knew my father....

Sometimes, even in a marriage of 35 years vintage, a veritable Grande Cru of a relationship, there can be times when your nearest and dearest simply stares at you nonplussed, just as if you'd sprouted Mr Spock ears or taken on a vaguely viridian tint reminiscent of Yoda. Relaxing last Saturday outside a cafe in Caerarfon's market place in the shadow of the town's magnificent castle and the statue of  its most celebrated former residents - Lloyd George, Gill and I had  such a moment. 'Lloyd George knew my father,' I quipped. 'Really!' Gill replied guardedly, quite clearly unsure how a small unassuming chap from Dunblane who veiwed a trip to York as 'going South' could ever have been acquainted with one of the towering figures of early Twentieth Century politics. 'No,' I added hastily, 'I mean the song, Lloyd George knew my father, father knew Lloyd George.....' trailing off as I realised she had absolutely no idea what I was going on about.

Lloyd George knew my father.....

In truth the entire cafe visit was not going terribly well. We'd just agreed that the last time we had traveled this way had been during a cycle-camping trip to Snowdonia in May 1980. Furthermore, we also had just asserted that although our 25 year old selves had been slimmer, fitter, and far more energetic, nevertheless in certain respects, namely in a quest for acceptable barista standards, our late fifty-something selves were more discerning. 'I suppose I should have known that simply having an Illy sign was no guarantee whatsoever that people actually know how to make a cappuccino. Its not just hot milk with chocolate sprinkled on it,' Gill whispered darkly.

Cafe life, Caernafon style....

It's Cappuccino Pete.....

....but not as we know it!

The problem with my tendency to bathe in the golden light of nostalgia and reminisce romantically about how this or that part of Gwyndd seemed just as empty, undeveloped and 'unspoiled' as thirty years ago, is what I'm hankering after is not the past, but a version of the past with all the advantages of the present. So, if Caernarfon seemed just as I remembered it - that it had barely changed - why then did I expect it to serve up Italian coffee to a standard honed in the caffe's of Portifino, Gargagno or Vinci? Not even I, at my insufferable best, would be willing to assert that we've changed, but Wales hasn't. In truth both the area and ourselves have changed in unexpected ways over the past thirty-odd years.

However, the medieval centre of the town did indeed appear much the same, a bit sad, dilapidated and unloved for all its World Heritage status. This is in marked contrast to the swanky 'waterside development' - Doc Fictoria' - situated a couple of hundred yards away. Very New Labour, a local, nano-sized variant of trickle-down economics. I imagine just as Messrs Balls and Brown believed that a supercharged de-regulated City would draw in sufficient investment and capital to fuel  a more general national revival, then I suspect the thinking behind Doc Fictoria was that the affluent boat owners using the marina and the middle class apartment dwellers would increase business in the town and make Caernarfon more prosperous generally. I have no idea if this has worked out in practise, but it does not look as if it has. Of course what we should have done is read the visual clues; patronised the trendy cafe-bars on the dockside where we probably would have been served a passable coffee, then just wandered around the central historical area gawping at the architectural heritage like good  tourists. That way we would have had a more satisfying 'visitor experience'. We also would have inadvertently reinforced the skewed effect of 'inward investment' economics where the invested-in new environment gets richer as the traditional declining area next to it gets busier, but not necessarily more affluent.

Doc Fictoria

Having left Maisie in the coach area of the large FREE car park next to the marina we returned and headed back a couple of miles along the Llanberris road to 'Riverside Camping'. It's a really pleasant small site next to a garden centre. The owners were busy having a big family 'do', so they promised to simply tape the pitch number and map onto a greenhouse window, and true to their word the instructions were there when we arrived. After all of the fuss of Camping and Caravan Club sites where a 'meet and greet' welcome committee of logo'ed, sweat-shirted wardens swarm about and dole out advice about parking, the required 6.m distance between neighbouring vans and rules concerning which side caravan doors are meant to open, it was a relief just to roll-up and sort ourselves out. Where does customer service end and harassment begin - I much prefer smaller more relaxed sites.

We had a quick walk down to the river, then wandered a few yards up an old railway track. Gill had fun popping the spring-loaded seed pods of Indian balsam plants, I joined in and generally became silly and puerile, which is one of the joys of camping - you can become a big kid again and nobody cares. There was just time to sit outside and have a beer before twilight fell. We amused ourselves by failing to get the TV to work then watched an episode of 'Luther' on DVD. By the time we'd polished off a bottle of Minevois between the pair of us it was time for an early night; fresh air is is definitely the best sleeping pill of the lot.

Yesterday, having peppered Caerarfon with my usual mix of ill-evidenced assertion and prejudice, next morning we drove south towards Criccieth. It is a lovely part of the world and even the main 'A' roads on this bright, late September Sunday were virtually empty. The road snakes along the coast skirting towering headlands scarred by slate quarries, then heads south across a broad muddy estuary. Criccieth itself, dominated by a ruined keep overlooking Tremadog Bay, is a pretty little coastal village.

Criccieth - looking towards Black Rock Sands

Too blustery for a pleasant stroll

 I have no doubt it gets overwhelmed with trippers in  July and August, but out of season it was peaceful. We had planned to walk along the beach towards Black Rock sands but a blustery, unpleasant easterly breeze sprung up, so we wandered towards the castle, then stopped of to see if Cadwaladers Ice Cream cafe could rescue Cambria's reputation on the coffee front. I'm glad to say it did, the resultant macchiata passed even Gills stringent standards - 'all good,' as she is wont to say.

The macchiato meets with approval

In Cadwallers Ice Cream cafe

Lunch with a view

Then after a quick lunch back at the van it was time to head home. The return journey, through Dolgellau and Bala was less spectacular than yesterday's drive over the Pass of Llanberris, nonetheless a pretty drive through a mix of wooded and moorland scenery. From time to time I pulled into a lay-by to let the line of frustrated car drivers behind get past. Every so often we'd meet another motorhome coming the other way; I'm still not quite fully at ease with the various masonic hand signals that other owners make as they pass. At some point I suppose I will simply accept that I've become enmeshed in a sub-culture and stop feeling self- conscious when I wave back. Let's face it, I never have been a person likely to indulge in a cheery wave, or a cheery anything for that matter. in fact, thinking about it, maybe I find cheeriness an unsettling concept altogether....

So, what did I reckon on my first one night stand with Maisy? It certainly does make you feel that you've had a break from mundane routine. Maybe the 300 mile round trip was just a bit too far and we'd be better to explore a little closer to home- Shropshrie or maybe Worcestershire next time, but we're only a few weeks away from the end of BST and soon the weather will break and the van will need to be prepared for the winter - a less than cheery thought....