Day 102
Abersoch to Pwllheli: 9 miles
Album of the Day: Jerry Springer, the Opera
Reason: About as rude and out-of-place as you could possibly imagine, for some reason I have this on my iPod, and listening to the whole thing in this setting was fairly amusing.
Up, around, and art
Walking out of Abersoch involved first a quick jaunt up a hill, past some clearly brand new architecture that, while probably affording wonderful views, looked rather strange to me for where it was. After a further bit along a road, the path dives down through a forest at Tywyn y Fach, to a long beach in front of a caravan park.
Although it's hardly noticeable that it's in front of a caravan park - the small cliff that backs the beach hides most of the buildings from you as make your way down toward the slopes of Mynydd Tir y Cwmwd - a 330ft hillside that juts out at the end of the beach. As the weather report had mentioned yesterday - today was pretty grey. Since I'd understood it was suppose to rain later in the day, I tried to get out as early as I could.
So, by mid-morning I found myself on top of Mynydd Tir y Cwmwd, with views back to Abersoch, and down to Pwllheli. I know I've said it before - but in nicer weather this vantage point definitely would have afforded a view of the whole sweep of Cardigan Bay. It was perfectly nice now, but the water was reflecting more of a steel grey than the teal you would get if the sun was out.
But as I walked along, I did stumble upon the 'Iron Man' statue - placed at one of the best viewpoints up the beach. This was actually the third statue that's been here - the first one was a wooden ship's figurehead put there by the owners of the nearby estate. After it was burned by vandals in the 1970s, it was replaced by a 'Tin Man' statue made by a local artist and sculptor. When it seemed this had rusted significantly, the town commissioned the 'Iron Man' statue (I've actually seen it called variously the Tin Man or the Iron Man in different descriptions, so I'm not really sure at this point), and it's sat here overlooking eastern Llyn and views up to Snowdonia since 2002.
After taking in the views with a sleeping walker and a young couple who spent most of their time making out, I continued on my way. At this point, the path descends along many, many, many steep steps, through what used to be the gardens of the 19th century mansion of Plas Glyn-y-Weddw. Though the woodlands here have an 'Ancient Woodland' designation of some sort, meaning they are more than 400 years old, most of the original trees were replaced in the 19th century with non-native species like larch. Apparently they are also still fixing what was a pretty serious laurel and rhododendron problem - in that these plants had been planted when this area had been a 'pleasure garden' and had since entirely taken over the woodland floor. And so the owners are now pulling them up to clear paths, and replacing them with native species.
But I'm getting a bit ahead of myself. When I popped out of the ancient woodland, I wasn't at all surprised to find a little theater offering a non-stop viewing of a modern artist's film, nor was I surprised to find a mansion with a huge conservatory that has been converted into an art museum. And that's because Oriel Plas Glyn-y-Weddw is well-known as a unique and very popular art gallery that has a relatively good variety of pieces. (I was surprised, however, that the film involved a table laden with a banquet in a Spanish looking hillside landscape, which was eventually entirely destroyed by a random flock of really pretty disgusting vultures.)
The mansion itself was buit in the 19th century for a widow who assumed when her son was married she'd live here, since he would get ownership of the family's estate and she'd need to move out. This family - Jones-Parry, or some combination of these last names, it's really pretty confusing and I didn't totally understand it - is somehow a different branch of Elihu Yale's family. Elihu Yale, of course, was the man born in Boston, who grew up in England, but whose family's ancestral home Plas yn Ial is just outside Wrexham, who founded Yale University. For the record, 99 per cent of Wales is much nicer than New Haven. Wanted to make sure that was clear.
Anyway, the aforementioned widow (possibly related to a Yale family somehow but their family tree totally lost me) never actually moved in because her son never married. After her death, and a series of other deaths and inheritances (one of whom I'm certain was Sir Thoms Love Duncombe Jones Parry - who went on to found the Welsh settlement in Patagonia, where you can still find a derivation spoken today), the final inheritor sold the estate to a Cardiff businessmen named Solomon Andrews in 1896, because of inherited debts. Andrews turned it into an arts center, with a permanent collection, as well as pleasure gardens and dances. There was even a tramway to shuttle people back and forth from Pwllheli.
After WWII, the mansion was sold at auction and after a period of being used as apartments and a warehouse, was left to rot. When a local artist and her husband bought the building in the late 1970s, there was water pouring in the roof. Nonetheless, they completely and painstakingly refurbished the entire building, and turned it back into an art gallery. Eventually they sold it to a charitable trust, which also recently bought the parkland that hadn't been included in the most recent sales.
And now, that charitable trust manages what is a very pleasant art gallery. I actually had been about to walk right past without going in (which would have been a huge mistake) simply because I didn't have much money on me. But, catering to those walking the Wales Coast Path which literally goes right past the front door, signs encouraged me and my disgusting uncleaned clothing to come inside, as there was no entrance fee.
Really, any free art gallery converted from a mansion with plush carpets and a sign by the stairwell relating to not bringing your muddy boots upstairs (i.e. understanding that many passers-by have muddy, and in my case duct taped and pretty gross if not currently muddy, boots) is ok with me. But I actually liked the gallery independent of that. They have a permanent collection, but there are also visting works, and the theme is obviously Wales. I saw lots of very interesting Welsh landscapes, some of which I considered buying (they were semi-reasonably priced, and although I didn't have cash I did have a credit card) but soon realized I wasn't going to carry around a giant canvas for the next few days.
Adding to the exhibition, of course, was the loveliness of the surroundings. The massive stained-glass windows let in a tremendous amount of light, making even the dark beams of the oak roof seem bright and airy - considering it wasn't even bright outside today, this was no small feat. But eventually I did have to leave - as I really wanted to avoid being poured on if the rain was coming in in the afternoon.
On to Pwllheli
So I followed the path back down and eventually hit the beach, where I found the famous brightly colored beach huts of Llanbedrog. Even on a grey day they were nice - though the colors really would have been something against a turquoise sea and blue sky. Oh well, it wasn't to be.
The path largely followed the beach at this point, occasionally going back up over the cliffside that backed the beach through cow pastures. It was at this point I realized that while I am still wary of cows, I'm not sure I'm afraid of them anymore. Because these were bullocks, and they seemed to want to know more about me and started coming closer. At which point I started yelling, holding my arms out and running towards them, which someone recommended to me recently. And they ran away in terror. So now I truly feel like Queen of the Cows. I may have yelled 'Fear me!' at one point, but I'm not one for torturing poor animals, even ones I hate, so I just kept moving.
And after clambering around a small rocky headland and then eventually to a long, straight beach, I found myself in Pwllheli. This town is considered the 'capital of' and the 'gateway to' the Llyn Peninsula. I'd been through here once before in January when we drove past on our way from Criccieth to the Cwrw Llyn Brewery and I'd thought it'd looked rather grey. Well, it still looked rather grey, even though it wasn't January anymore.
But Pwhelli's claim to fame is that Plaid Cymru was founded here in 1925, during the Eisteddfod. If you aren't sure what that is because you're not from the UK - it's effectively the Welsh nationalist party. They advocated for independence for Wales, and for the promotion of the Welsh identity via language and culture, among other things. The party still exists, with support going up and down over the last century, and from what I understand Gwynedd and North Wales are where they get the large part of their votes.
And walking around Pwllheli, it's easy to see why. While I'd heard lots of Welsh in Anglesey, and some in Caernarfon, and lots in Llyn, here it really does seem like the majority language of the town. In other spots (besides the couple I'd stayed with in Caernarfon, and, obviously, at the Eisteddfod) I'd mostly heard older people speaking the language. Here I ran across all ages, from the very young to the very old speaking Welsh. And then of course, there's my ultimate arbiter of what the go to language in any given place is - the checkout of a grocery store. Welsh, Welsh and more Welsh, and I tried my best to say 'Croeso' (thank you) wherever it might be an even remotely appropriate response, and mumbled my way around saying good afternoon (which because I'm not sure how to pronounce, I just make sure to specifically NOT say hello, and instead mumble incoherently the same number of syllables of whatever the person speaking to me sounded like they might have said, while smiling like a lunatic).
And finally, my shoes
Although it was a grey case, you could say I was still enjoying taking in the sounds of Pwllheli. Until I stopped moving and went into a pub. And then, well. . .
Let's just say there are times in every woman's life when she realizes exactly how much her feet smell like sheep pee. Today was one of those times.
For example, you go into a pub and hope that the service can't smell your feet. From behind the bar. But you know they can. But you really want a meal so you decide to just try to order and scuttle off to a corner by yourself. And then a large party of Welsh-speaking teenagers comes to sit at the table next to you. And you try to hide your feet under the bench you're sitting on, but you know that the sheep pee smell is probably overpowering everything in a small blast radius around you.
Needless to say, when I got back to where I'm staying, I left my shoes outside. But P had insisted, absolutely insisted a few days ago that I'd brought other sneakers with me when I came from the States. I personally thought I'd left them at home, which is why I had assumed they weren't an option. But I emailed him and asked him to meet me tomorrow with my sneakers, if they existed. And also with my iPhone but with the SIM card taken out of it - because I really want to be able to take at least a few pictures of the last week of my walk. . .
So we'll see - maybe tomorrow I'll feel like an entirely new woman.
