Yesterday we moved from Beaumaris to Dolgelau, from a coastal location where the weather was forecast to be showery to one in Snowdonia promising persistent rain. Staying put was not an option as Covid restrictions meant we had to pay for all our accommodation outright in advance.
Luckily our departure coincided with a sunny interval and Hyma, (the obscure Greek goddess of campervans mentioned by Motor-Homer) poured further blessings upon us by magicking a Morrisons en-route in Caernavon, so all our desires might be fulfilled - a small bag of paella rice and some contact lens soaking solution. We have modest aspirations.
Ever since we left home I have had an uneasy sense that the entire trip has been some kind of exercise in predestination, days unfolding like protracted deja-vu, if such a thing is possible. Admittedly it was inevitable that we would end up doing some stuff for a second time as we had stayed at both campsites previously. However we seem fated to repeat the exact same things in minute detail. For example, on reaching the outskirts of Caernarvon I missed the turning into Morrisons car park, luckily there was a public one adjacent to it off the next roundabout. Even better it had longer length spaces for motohomes.
It was only when I had reversed into it that it struck me this was the exact spot where I parked on a previous trip to Caernarvon in 2013. The Morrisons had not been built then but the nearby swanky marina and apartment complex 'Doc Fictoria' certainly had. I remember it well because it prompted a rambling blog post about the evils of gentrification and trickle down economics.
If neo liberal economics happened to be the theme of our last visit, socio-linguistics became the focus of this one. When We went shopping on Beaumaris yesterday I would guess there was a roughly 50/50 split between locals speaking Welsh or English. In Caernarvon's Morrisons we seemed to be the only English speakers.
Over lunch I found a map on-line of the distribution of the Welsh language across the country. Our rule of thumb experience exactly mirrored the shading on the map. The mid blue patch around Beaumaris indicated 50% of people using Welsh as their primary language, whereas the purple stripe stretching southwards down the coast from Bangor to Aberbdaron revealed this area of Gwyndd to have the largest concentration of native speakers in the country. Over 70% of people hereabouts use Welsh as their primary language.
This resulted in some interesting compromises in Morrisons as they attempted to balance their UK branding with the predominant vernacular.
Foodstuff signage - bi-lingual, equal font size, vernacular first
General signage - standard Morrisons branding in English.
Customer and staff announcements used English, whereas the check-out operator greeted us in Welsh but swapped to immediately to English realising we looked non-plussed. Fellow customers conversed in Welsh with the odd idiomatic English phrase thrown in here and there. The two oldish guys having a good old chat beside me by the veg, all in Welsh, ended their conversation with a jolly, "See you soon." A cute couple in their twenties wandered by, they were having a good humoured row in Welsh about something or other, the girl prefaced every riposte with a fiesty, "No way!" It's a good sign that Welsh is flourishing when younger people are using it as a matter of course, not just the young couple in the store but teenagers messing about on the picnic benches when we took a post lunch stroll up the cycle track that runs along the shore line.
In between stopping to take photos, and looking up unfamiliar spring flowers on Google (purslane) we chatted about how it seemed the use of Welsh had increased since we first visited here in the 1980s; back then, so far as we recalled, it had been older people speaking it mostly. That it seems ubiquitous now has to be one of the successes of devolution.
That we found this fact notable reflects how England remains stubbornly mono-lingual despite becoming increasingly multi-cultural. We need to acknowledge that we are the outliers, for most of history humans have had to speak more than one language, either to communicate with neighbouring tribes or trade further afield. Even today most people are multi-lingual, not least because the world's two largest countries are patchworks of differing language groups. China, with a population of I.4 billion, has 302 local languages; in India which is similarly sized, has 121 languages and 19,000 local dialects! It is an embarrassment to only speak one language, I regret not making the effort to become fluent in at least one other.
We headed south towards Dolgelau. The road skirts the edge of Snowdonia National Park, hereabouts an upland landscape rather than a mountainous one. Dotted with abandoned slate quarries and run down hill farms it looked impoverished. Near Portmadog we took a left turn following the valley of the Afon Dwyryd into the heart of Snowdonia, a very beautiful drive through steep ravines and beech green woods, then more open rugged countryside, past the silver waters of Llyn Trawsfyndd and the sinister looking nuclear power station on the far shore.
When I booked the campsite last week the owner asked me for an ETA, I said a round four. It was purely accidental that it happened to be 3.57pm when we stopped at the barrier. That this unplanned moment of almost perfect punctuality made me mysteriously happy is yet another sign that I am further into 'the spectrum' than I like to pretend. The site was pleasant enough, a bit basic and expensive for what it has to offer. Perched on a hillside about ten minutes from the town centre the place is also somewhat exposed, not a pleasant prospect given the stormy forecast.
The promised downpours failed to materialise so we took the opportunity to walk into town. Like many country towns Dolgelau doesn't look as if it is thriving, quite a few buildings in the centre are unoccupied, I think the past year has been tough for all small scale traders. A few doughty souls were huddled into temporary gazebos erected outside the pubs, we are still a few days away from the happy day when indoor socialising is allowed. With the temperature struggling to reach double figures you have to admire their pluck. Generally the welcome too felt somewhat chilly. The few people scurrying about were all wearing masks and as they approached swerved into the road to perform an overt social distancing ritual. Back home it's more relaxed, here feels somewhat downbeat. Perhaps our perception of the place was affected by the sign in a cottage window that we passed on the outskirts of the town.
This is hardly going to endear you to a place, I guess that was the intention. Moreover, the dull weather, the dreary effect of the slate-stone buildings and he prospect of Cader Idris towering gloomily over the town all made us feel ever more dis-spirited.
We have spent far too many rainy weekends in the Lake District to be under any illusions, bright weather makes time in the mountains worthwhile, rain is miserable. BBC weather promised that things might perk up enough by tomorrow for us to manage a cycle trip down Mawddach Trail trail to Barmouth; fingers crossed, because this was the sole reason for being here, otherwise we felt distinctly unwelcome and happy to comply with the local's request and head home.
Still, beyond our grumping we did manage to find where the trail began and walked about a mile or so up it. Though it was puddly the surface was not too muddy, OK for tomorrow so long as the weather improves, we agreed.
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