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down into Llanberis to find a pub or restaurant where we could eat, but the choice seemed rather dismal and unappealing. We found out later that had we gone a few miles in the other direction to Llanrug, we would have found a cheery pub with good food, but never mind.
go back nearly 40 years. He was my Best Man, I was his . On the saturday, Heather and Kat took themselves off to darkest Hampshire to have a ladies lunch with one of our other friends, while George and I did guy stuff, involving steam trains and beer.
and new experiences, rather than drained and used up by a stressful day at work. To be able to make love slowly, lying in each other's arms, dozing a little maybe, then waking to make love a little more. Such a change from the frantic fucks we sometimes have to make do with because it is late and we have to be up early the next morning.
trimmings, but ALL the trimmings, including black pudding) we went down to a park by the Thames. It was as if the stress and jostle of everyday life was forgotten, and everybody was out with their family in the sunshine. There were rugs and picnic hampers dotted around all over the grass, parents kicking footballs around with their kids, several impromptu games of cricket in progress, one bloke was demonstrating the finer points of rugby to about half a dozen kids, showing them how to do line-outs properly. Along the path by the river people were jogging , cycling or just sauntering along eating ice cream, as we were, stopping every so often to feed the ducks. On the river a regatta for small sailing dinghys was taking place. The whole scene was one of peace and one-ness with the world.
break. A little cottage up the side of a valley, overlooking the town of Llanberis. I have already posted the view from the bedroom, but the view from the terrace outside was even better. On the day we arrived we were able to sit out there in the bright sunshine and relax with a cup of tea while watching the trains ascend Snowdon. Over the next few days we were able to get better acquainted with places such as Barmouth, Beddgelert and Betws-y-Coed which, until then, had just been names on a map but are now permanently linked to happy memories.
y other sign for that matter, are in Welsh as well as English (or should that be '...are in English as well as Welsh...'?). Heather chuckled at me one evening when I was channel-hopping with the TV and came to rest on S4C, the Welsh language Channel 4. Rhodri Morgan was holding forth, looking very stern and statesmanlike, and despite the fact that the only two words I understood during the whole thing were 'Alastair' and 'Darling', I just sat listening to him for a full 10 minutes (dare I suggest that this is longer than most Welshmen can take?). Two other moments spring to mind: We were travelling on one of the many narrow-gauge railways in the area and at one station a little boy of about 3 or 4 was standing on the platform watching the trains go by with someone who I assumed was his grandfather, both talking Welsh with each other. One evening in a pub in Caernarvon at the table next to ours were two young women of about 20-ish, obviously having a night on the town, chattting animatedly, also in Welsh. I don’t know why I am surprised by this. Perhaps I had assumed that it was a language kept artificially alive by official decree, but I was delighted to be proved wrong. People, young and old, were speaking it in their everyday lives and it is a joy to hear.
