Day 1 - Menai Bridge to Beaumaris

Back in the 1970s the way onto the island by road was Telford’s elegant suspension bridge. These days it is Stephenson’s Britannia Bridge that is the main route over the Menai Straits, with the A55 coast road taking a couple of hours (and some of the charm and adventure) off the journey. The big advantage of this, when heading for the east of the island, is that the lay-by just beyond the bridge gives the absolute classic view of the earlier one-time longest suspension bridge in the world. It is a view that demands that you pull over and drink it in, whether the tide is in or out (although it is undeniably more attractive when the straits are full, rather than half-empty). It is also true that when you talk of the Menai Bridge it is Telford’s rather than Stephenson’s that comes to mind - and also gave the small town/large village of Menai Bridge its English name (in Welsh it is Porthaethwy).

It seems somehow appropriate, then, to start the description of the coastal path at the point where we first arrived in Anglesey. To do that, I parked up in Beaumaris - the destination for the day - and caught one of the regular buses back. I asked the driver for a ticket to “the last stop this side of the bridge”, only to be told that this would be “on the bridge itself”. It wasn’t - quite - but it was certainly close and I didn’t have far to walk before plunging into a little woodland at the back of the Waitrose car park. The path took a circuitous way down to shore level at the causeway to Church Island (or Ynys Tysilio) and the church of St Tysilio as mentioned in the longest place name in the country - St Mary’s church in the hollow of white hazel near a rapid whirlpool and the church of Saint Tysilio near the red cave (Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwylllantysiliogogogoch). The first time we came to Anglesey we stopped at the famous station and bought a platform ticket, the only real souvenir then available. A teenager stopped us as we exited and asked if we wanted to hear the name pronounced, for the princely sum of (probably) two new pence or thereabouts - those were the days when “penny for the guy” really did mean a penny, penny chews were actually half a penny each and coinage still had that “new” in front to show how recent decimalisation still was. Memory tells me that dad paid up and applauded the young man’s entrepreneurial spirit; nowadays he would probably consider it tantamount to begging but they were more innocent days and in fairness, the lad did have a talent for tongue-twisters.

The tide was out today and the island would have been accessible on foot even in the absence of the man-made causeway, although shoes and trousers would undoubtedly have been somewhat muddied without it. The amble out to the church and graveyard is pleasant but is undoubtedly more interesting when the island is surrounded by the tidal waters. The riptide is strong through the Menai Straits and you get a real feel for the pace and power of the current at this low level; without the waters swirling around and about, it loses a little of the drama that a fast running tide provides. When the waters are flowing, and perhaps only when they are flowing high, it is easy to understand the need to have built the bridges to provide a safer alternative than the ferries that had previously operated.

In years gone by Anglesey was the summer grazing ground for a good percentage of Welsh cattle and drovers would often encourage their herds to swim the straits at low tide, a scene at its height no doubt similar to the wildebeest crossing the Mara River in their annual migration albeit without the voracious crocodiles. Similarly when they were fattened up and ready for the trip to markets in London the hazardous return journey had to be made. With bad weather or the wrong tides came a delay in their arrival in London and the mainland competition could have their animals earlier to market, possibly vital in getting the best price. This was no doubt inconvenient but it was the increase in trade with Ireland that led to demands for a permanent link to the mainland and the primary engineer of the day - 1800 - was charged with the design of a bridge to allow easy passage and a safe, speedy solution to the problem of the Menai Straits.

That engineer was Thomas Telford and his solution was one of the most elegant bridges you would wish to see - even now, nearly two hundred years later it has a beauty about it that is denied to most engineering projects. Telford’s brief demanded that there was no impact upon ships taking the narrow route between island and mainland rather than the longer route around the northern coast and fighting the stormy waters of the Irish Sea - the bridge must therefore allow for a minimum of 100 feet clearance at high tide and construction must not cause any blockage of the route. By the time of receiving the brief Telford was into his forties and a successful and renowned engineer - the “Colossus of Roads” as he was known . He had been born in rural Eskdale in Dumfriesshire in 1757 and like so many eminent persons of the age was largely self-taught in his chosen field. By the age of thirty he had risen to the post of Shropshire’s surveyor of public works, establishing a connection with the county that led to his name gracing the new town of Telford when a number of small villages were amalgamated during the 1970s. As part of that role he was responsible for the design and building of over forty bridges, something that led to commissions further afield, including the famous Pontcysyllte Aqueduct that carries the Llangollen Canal high above the River Dee; Waterloo Bridge, also spanning the Dee just outside of Betws y Coed and the Conway Suspension Bridge, once a highlight on the coastal road of North Wales, now by-passed by the modern A55 dual-carriageway and tunnels. He returned to his native Scotland in later years to lend his expertise to the Caledonian Canal that made it possible to travel from west coast to east coast without a time-consuming and potentially dangerous route around Cape Wrath and Duncansby Head at the very north of mainland Britain. As he was also largely responsible for the development of the A5 into the modern route it was in the seventies rather than the ancient Watling Street of the Romans, it is clear that he was a man of many and varied talents, comfortable with roads, canals and (crucially) bridges.

Work on the project commenced in 1819. As you would expect, the towers to either side were the starting points, made of stone from the local Penmon Quarries at the eastern extremity of the island. Four arches on each side acted as the foundations upon which the towers stood and undoubtedly help to give it that elegance so often commented upon. Once complete, the towers had to support the weight of the huge cables which were to suspend the bridge itself. There are sixteen cables that take the weight of the surface of the bridge, each of them weighing over 120 tons. That surface was initially a wooden construction but the traffic over the years - originally from livestock but certainly in later years from motor vehicles for which the bridge was never designed - ensured that the decision was made in the late 1890s to replace the wood with a steel construction. The weight loading of the steel was clearly more than the original wood and led to the iron chains being replaced during the 1930s. If it all seems a little like Trigger’s brush from Only Fools And Horses - “The same brush I’ve had for twenty years - I’ve replaced the handle four times and the head six but it’s still the same faithful brush” - it is surely a tribute to the design principles that at no time has the actual concept been found wanting. As I indicated previously, it now probably sees less traffic than in its heyday but we must remember that it was designed many years before the advent of the combustion engine and no-one could have foreseen the level of traffic it was expected to carry. At the time of its opening in 1826 it was the longest suspension bridge in the world at 577 feet and cut the journey time from London to Holyhead by a quarter. Its influence can be seen on such other iconic bridges as the Golden Gate, Brooklyn Bridge in New York, the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol and even such a modern design as the 1980s Humber Bridge. It was rightly nominated for UNESCO World Heritage status in 2005, a reflection of its impact worldwide and not only on this tiny corner of northern Wales. Telford died in 1834, so got to see his masterpiece (one of his many masterpieces) complete and however modest his birthplace he could die a proud man.

Whilst the view from the large lay-by just this side of the “new” Britannia Bridge is the classic image, there is something to be said for the view from below the bridge as being more awe-inspiring. From here you get a real appreciation of the scale of the undertaking - and of the wonderful architecture. Indeed there is more to be admired here, as there is a lovely walkway running alongside the Straits between Church Island and the small settlement of Menai Bridge itself . This is the Belgian Promenade, built by exiles fleeing the first world war and given shelter in the village. The promenade, which took two years to build, was the Belgians’ way of saying “Thank you” to the villagers - and a fair trade it seems to me, for the promenade is a wonderful amenity for all, being accessible by young and old, strong and infirm alike and is no doubt a favourite stroll for many unable to cope with uneven paths or gradients. As I made my way beneath the bridge I wondered whether those people who lived literally in its shadow actually “saw” the bridge any more, or merely took its overwhelming presence completely for granted. The thoughts were prompted by the appearance of a couple of young women walking with their two young children to a little picnic table on a grassy area to the east of the bridge but never once raising their eyes to take in the magnificent aspect the spot provided, being more concerned with texting on the ever-present mobile phones than enjoying the mid-afternoon sunshine.

This part of the village, unseen by the majority of visitors I would wager, is comprised of charming cottages and terraces and probably reflective of the old fishing village that it would once have been, before the opening of the bridge changed the raison d’etre of the whole community. There is ample evidence of a continued focus on the sea, but it now appears in the many signs offering pleasure boat storage, refitting or building than in trawlers or fishing nets. I got the distinct impression that a good percentage of the boating nowadays is from summer visitors or second-home owners and whilst it no doubt brings in much needed income to the island it is hard to see signs of prosperity in the immediate vicinity of the shore. Many of the buildings show signs of recent repainting or renovation and there is still much building work underway but again you feel that it is in the interests of second home-owners rather than local children getting onto the housing ladder. It would not, of course, be the first time that “incomers” had had an impact upon the value of property on the island - the Bulkeley family came from Cheshire to have a strong influence on the Beaumaris area in particular and the Marquis of Anglesey himself had his main residence in rural Staffordshire just three or four miles from my hometown of Rugeley. Nonetheless, I am sure that the locals have reservations about the influx of mainlanders and their impact upon property values. There are many complaints amongst English tourists of locals who switch from English to Welsh as soon as they walk into the pub and the rudeness and ignorance of those who do so. Leaving aside the provenance of such stories, Welsh is the first language of many islanders and I cannot for one moment conceive that we would expect the French or Spanish to converse in anything other than their own tongue in order that their discussions be more easily eavesdropped upon. No, I have a great deal of sympathy for those locals who disapprove of “foreigners” buying up the houses that would otherwise have gone to their children (and I realise that Pat and Gwen did precisely that but thirty-five years later I think of them as locals anyway).

I thought upon this as I made my way along narrow streets and further public promenades and admired chapels and tiny little gardens. Eventually I came to the main road through the village, albeit alongside almost the final building. A sign outside indicated this to be an art gallery but I was hot and sweaty and didn’t think my presence would necessarily be appreciated had I popped in to examine the works on display. Instead I contented myself with enjoying some ravishing views across to my right and a couple of little islands connected to land by bridges over which it would be possible to get a small car but little else. These are private properties and I found myself dreaming about living in such a spot, where privacy is almost guaranteed, and longed to be able to visit and see the houses for myself but my innate good manners and fear of prosecution for trespass meant that it would remain but a dream.

The walking at this point is on the footpath adjoining the main A545 to the east of the island and is far from ideal, even on a quiet and sunny early autumn afternoon. There are bungalows raised high up on the bank opposite and many of them have spectacular gardens to enjoy, rockeries in many of them making the best use of the steep slope to the roadside, but they cannot completely compensate for the noise of the traffic as it speeds past on a headlong rush to or from Beaumaris. Shortly beyond a bridge across the River Cadnant - there are two, the modern one taking the heavy traffic and a centuries old one normally used by cyclists and pedestrians but currently undergoing repair work - a road leads steeply uphill to the village of Llandegfan. It’s still road-walking but infinitely quieter than the coast road and much more relaxing as a consequence. The village has nothing particularly to recommend it - the houses are largely modern and boxy, although many have first floor balconies and large picture windows to get maximum benefit of the tremendous views over the straits to the mountains of Snowdonia that are probably the real reason for the village’s existence here. It’s like walking through suburbia but a suburbia from which you get sublime views of glorious mountains - and there’s even a village store still trading. Apparently Aled Jones of Walking in the Air fame was born and grew up here but I can’t see him retiring here to tend his roses and enjoy the scenery from his picture windows.

As I left the houses behind me a wide grass verge on the right hand side of the road gave relief from the incessant tarmac, although it was also to prove attractive to a couple of local riders galloping their horses after what must have been a couple of miles of sedate walking pace. I had nodded a hello to the two women as I started the climb up to Llandegfan and they acknowledged me, however briefly, with cheery waves as they hurtled past. They disappeared from view only moments later, crossing the road to a farm track which was either the way home or provided a more sympathetic surface for their horses’ hooves. My hooves had a further mile or so of road walking to do, now between low stone walls and high hedgerows little more than a tractor’s width apart. I can be accurate about the width as I was soon forced to press myself into one of the aforementioned hedgerows as a tractor inched slowly by me - careful not to spray me with the muck and mud stuck to his particularly large tyres.

It wasn’t that long, though, before the road turned sharp left and the path ducked through a gap in the hedge and once more gave the feel of grass beneath feet. The path here wasn’t especially well-made and views were limited to a few yards in any direction - and soon less than that as it plunged into bracken and woody scrubland that limited the path’s width substantially and in doing so created a muddy morass over which progress was only made with careful boot placement. I was concentrating hard on the path immediately in front of each stride and was therefore taken completely by surprise when I looked a couple of yards ahead to see a reptilian head emerge from a deep muddy footprint. I had a momentary panic - I have an absolute phobia of snakes - but was quickly reassured to realise it was a bright green frog struggling to make its way in and out of the deep footmarks rather than anything more sinister. I breathed a sigh of relief and moved on, carefully avoiding placing my feet too close to the little chap. Although I have nothing like the same level of fear as I do of snakes, I have little love of anything reptilian or amphibian. As young teenagers every spare moment was spent playing football on “The Field” at the end of our road - the school’s playing fields upon which we were (strictly speaking) forbidden to play but in practice a blind eye was turned and little objection made. Anyway, our muddy trainers were kept in the garage and one day a frog must have made his way up from the canal at the foot of the garden and fancied a rest in the wet and muddy shoes. It is arguable whether he or I was more surprised when I came to pull them on again one evening to set off for the weekly Sea Scout meeting. Froggy leaped out just before my foot crushed him and hopped into the kitchen and then the hall as I screamed and ran upstairs in a panic. Dad caught the frog pretty quickly but I always made sure any shoes were raised off the garage floor in future. Hoppy days [sic].

Reminiscences over, the path opened up once more and revealed a spectacular house ahead, the gardens of which were bisected by the public footpath. Down the long drive it went and turned right onto another quiet road. Beaumaris Golf Course to the left was pretty well-hidden by another high hedge but I did get to hear the curses as each member of a fourball appeared to hit their drives into deep rough. I sympathised silently and pushed on, for this was now the final stretch and I was keen to get back to the coast and sea-views once more. I didn’t have long to wait, just a few hundred yards before the Menai Straits and the coast towards Llandudno came into sight. It was only fleeting - the road plunges into a little valley and beneath an old railway line before descending very steeply alongside St Mary’s church to the harbour.

The little lane meets the main A525 about a quarter of a mile from the main settlement and from here you get a clear view of the lovely pastel-painted harbour cottages. If you have seen pictures of Tobermory on the isle of Mull (or of children’s favourite, Balamory, filmed on the island) you will have a good idea of just how pleasing to the eye such a row of cottages can be. But it is not for this scenic entrance that the town has acquired UNESCO World Heritage Site status. As one of the castles and town walls of King Edward in Gwynnedd, it was amongst the first UK sites to achieve such an honour, alongside such august company as Stonehenge, Durham Castle and Cathedral and the Giants Causeway.

World Heritage Sites are listed by UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation) on the basis of their cultural or natural importance to the common heritage of humanity and were initially the brainchild of the US government, partially as a reaction to the flooding of the Nile behind the Aswan Dam and the massive impact it would have had on such renowned treasures as the temples of Abu Simbel. Happily, international outcry ensured that the temple - and other buildings - were saved for posterity, albeit by the expedient of taking them down piece by piece and rebuilding them slightly higher up and safe from the flooding. To prevent similar occurrences in the future a decision was made that such sites should be internationally recognised and with that recognition would come increased protection. There are ten criteria for inclusion - initially on a country’s tentative list and then for full nomination to the committee’s annual deliberations. I won’t bore you with the full criteria but there are now approaching some 1000 approved sites of which around thirty are within the UK.

Beaumaris and its associated castles and walled towns of Caernarfon, Conwy and Harlech are possibly among the least heralded of the UK’s representatives on the list - probably along with Blaenavon Industrial Landscape, Saltaire and New Lanark, to take one from each of Wales, England and Scotland - but they are there for a reason. Edward I was responsible for the building of a number of such castles and garrisons to subdue the Welsh and ensure English rule prevailed - not personally laying the thick stone walls, you understand, but as the guiding hand who commanded that they be built. Of these Beaumaris is considered the absolute pinnacle of castle design at that time - 1295 onwards - consisting as it does of two concentric defensive walls, with the entrance gates offset to prevent easy access from one wall to the other. The outer moat was filled with sea water - unsurprisingly given its proximity to the sea - and a tidal dock ensured it could be supplied directly by boat which would no doubt have been handy in a siege situation. Happily it never really suffered such attack as the Welsh were largely subjugated by the time of its construction and indeed the actual build was never fully completed as Edward set his sights to the north and a reputation as “Hammer of the Scots.” Nonetheless the design - by the renowned James of St George - is recognised as near perfect and even today it can be seen what a fine defensive structure he intended. As youngsters we loved little more than a good castle to run around and explore, pretending to fire arrows from the slits upon the unsuspecting tourists below. In our time we must have defended from attack Beaumaris, Caernarfon, Conway, Harlech, Criccieth, Caerphilly, Cardiff and (my favourite, memory tells me) Pembroke to mention only the Welsh ones and I can still recall the little folded cards that gave the basic plan of each of them and were taken home to stick in our scrapbooks.

It is unusual to see such an obviously French name as Beaumaris on such a defiantly Welsh island as Anglesey and it is possible that the name was but another put-down of the local inhabitants - although I should also point out that the Staffordshire residence of the Marquis of Anglesey was the similarly Gallic “Beau Desert.” It takes its name from the “Beautiful Marsh” which it obviously once was and owes its presence to its location at the entrance to the Menai Straits and the consequent strategic location in combination with Conwy almost opposite and - at the other end - Caernarfon. The town walls - now long since demolished - once stretched out into the straits and with the mainland almost walkable with care at low tide across the treacherous Laggan Sands the town flourished and was once the main commercial centre on the island but all of that was changed by the opening of the new bridge and its location on the extreme eastern end of the island means it is now more sought out by the tourist than the businessman. Its pretty main street contains numerous cafes and coffee shops, along with the courthouse museum and (probable) oldest house and leads to the castle - which being built on low ground does not dominate the scene in the way you would expect that a castle did.

Facing the harbour and wonderful views across the straits is the imposing Bulkeley Hotel and many other similarly impressive townhouses. A small stone circle commemorates the holding of the Eisteddfod here in 1996 but is seen as merely an adjunct to the main car park which remains unaltered since our first visit over thirty years ago, still consisting of a mixture of firm turf and dirt and buffeted by the worst of the wind and rain that the prevailing winds can throw at you.

Beyond the car park can be found the RNLI station, a station that has seen continuous service since 1914, having previously operated for four years between 1891 and 1895. It is ideally situated to attend to rescues of vessels run aground on the rocks around Puffin Island or the sandbanks at the entrance to the Menai Straits and the list of recent launches outside the station indicates the regular requirement for the service. Obviously, the RNLI is a charitable organisation funded largely by donation and Beaumaris is luckier than many stations in having seen Blue Peter appeals fund four boats since the first in 1967. At some point in time, no doubt, I have collected stamps or silver milk bottle tops (remember them?) towards providing the service and am delighted to have done so.

I was to see the current lifeboat “in action” as I took advantage of the clement weather to take one of the numerous boat trips from the end of the pier around Puffin Island - a splendid way of spending an hour and a half of anyone’s time. I took the Cemaes II, but there are a number of other companies running similar expeditions and no doubt all are as well-run. If I had a recommendation to make it would be to try and get a seat on the port side - if you are circling the island anti-clockwise, as we did, you get much clearer views than those to starboard. The views on what was a glorious late summer/early autumn afternoon were wonderful from the moment the boat pulled away from its mooring - from the starboard side on which I sat they took in the mountains of Snowdonia and the Great Orme away to the east - and the captain provided an occasional commentary on the sights and sounds as he set a course out to the main channel. I occasionally spotted what I thought was a seal bobbing in the water but could never quite be sure and kept the information to myself rather than raise expectations in my fellow travellers. After a few minutes the boat changed course and headed into what the captain described as Oystercatcher Bay - primarily, I think, because there was a large flock of the eponymous birds combing the beach for shellfish. Beyond were Penmon Quarries, whose stone provided the building blocks for both the Britannia Bridge and for a large part of the Liverpool seafront. Beyond the quarries can be seen the church and priory ruins at Penmon - a highlight of the next stage of the walk.

It is surprising just how quickly the boat arrives alongside Puffin Island - or Ynys Seiriol in Welsh, the island of Saint Seiriol. It also previously went by the name of Priestholme, a Norse sounding name that may reflect the presence of Vikings in the dim and distant past and certainly reflects the religious significance it has enjoyed over the years. Islands in general and Welsh islands in particular are often associated with saints and hermits - Bardsey Island off the Lleyn Peninsula and Caldey Island off Pembrokeshire with their thousand buried saints and Benedictine monastery being other Welsh examples; Lindisfarne and the Farne Islands off Northumberland are linked to the Venerable Bede and Saint Cuthbert respectively; and Iona was the birthplace of Christianity in Scotland. It is said that Priestholme was home to a monastery founded by Saint Seiriol back in the sixth century and you can see the rationale behind such a location - monks here would be undisturbed as they went about their business and there would be little to tempt them away from a life of prayer. It would be a hard life - the island is a limestone outcrop similar to the Great Orme opposite and is steep-sided enough to deter the idle visitor - and food would be pretty hard to come by. You would have needed to be pretty devout to contemplate a life in such a location and no doubt that is rather the point of building here. A subsequent monastery was built here once the threat of Viking raids had diminished, along with a twelfth century church the remains of which are still to be found.

The island is uninhabited these days, although there was a telegraph station built here during the nineteenth century that helped to transmit news from Holyhead to Liverpool by means of semaphore signals in a matter of minutes. I would have thought that this was one of the least popular postings and again it was abandoned and allowed to fall to ruin.

The puffins after which it takes its modern name are nowhere near as numerous as they once were - the captain told us that at one time there were upwards of 2000 pairs here but predation by rats saw the population plummet before conservation efforts during the 1990s attempted the eradication of rodents on the island. It is strange that the wiping out of a species - albeit one that is flourishing on the mainland - can be described as “conservation” but it is clearly in the interests of the puffin that the action is taken. It is undoubtedly our most endearing seabird and numbers nationally are showing a worrying decline, no doubt linked to a reduction in the numbers of sand eels, their main foodstuff, so anything that aids their cause can only be a good thing. It was too late in the year to see any today but I have been fortunate to visit the Farne Islands during the nesting season and was completely captivated by them from the moment I saw the first one clumsily flying low above the waves alongside our boat. Its alternative name of the sea parrot is well-chosen, for their colourful beaks contrast completely with the black and white of their plumage. They are a ridiculously endearing creature and the comical expressions and stance they take up makes them wonderful value. I had known before setting foot on the Cemaes II that we would not be seeing them today but shall be back to take my chances at seeing such wonderful wildlife at some time in the future.

What we were able to see was one of the largest colonies of cormorants in the country, with the steep cliffs providing ample opportunities for them to nest on convenient ledges and raise their young. In between could also be seen the odd guillemot and shag and it was obvious that this provided a great deal of pleasure to all those on board. As we nosed around the north of the island, though, that pleasure was to be greatly increased by the opportunity to see seals at close range. Again, I had been fortunate to see these lovely animals before - both common and grey varieties at the Farnes, on Loch Linnhe near Fort William and off the north Norfolk coast when the seals’ behaviour is so consistent that the local boatmen were able to advertise sightings as “guaranteed” in complete confidence and be proven absolutely correct. Today we didn’t get to see that many of them and were perhaps a little early on the tide to see them basking on the rocky shelf of the island - the tide was still a little high and covered the most sought after of those rocks - but five or six of them were happy to circle our little vessel and provide the opportunity for all passengers to get a good view. They were less easy to photograph, what with the boat bobbing around and their propensity to dive underwater at the very moment your finger hovered on the camera’s shutter release, but it was a very happy group of people who were finally dragged away to complete the circuit of the island.

The lovely black and white lighthouse at Penmon Point came into view with its instruction “No passage landward” and although we passed close by there was never any danger of us cutting the corner - rocks lie beneath the waves and have caused many a wreck over the years. As though to reinforce the fact that this remains a tricky passage a message came across the on-board radio seeking the captain’s permission to launch the Beaumaris lifeboat to a pleasure boat that had got into difficulties. Although it was a “better safe than sorry” call the captain was able to confirm his agreement and the boat sped past us as we made a leisurely return to the town, admiring the views along the Anglesey coast this time from my seat on the starboard bow. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable trip that could be enjoyed over and over on different days and at different times, tides and seasons with no two journeys ever being quite the same and one I have relived in my mind on more than one occasion since.