Day 12 - Newborough to Moel y Don

Jan was back on board for this next stage, a short and flat one but not necessarily easy for all that. Although it was the end of March, it had been touch and go whether we’d be able to come or not as the weekend before had seen blizzard conditions across much of the country (Werrington included) and we’d had to rely upon texts to and from a customer of mine with a caravan near Beaumaris and an interest in weather reports and forecasts. Although the mountains of Snowdonia remained under a blanket of snow that gale force winds had shaped and sculpted into deep drifts leading to warnings from National Park rangers to give Snowdon and its outliers a miss over the upcoming Easter weekend. Texts indicated that the island itself remained free of lying snow and conditions underfoot were entirely satisfactory but there was a strong easterly wind and it was - and I quote - “bloody cold.”

We had an early opportunity to enjoy the views of the snow-capped mountains as the tiny car-park at Moel y Don faced across the Menai Straits to the port of Y Felinheli on the mainland and the rounded peaks and craggy summits in the hinterland beyond. Moel y Don itself is a little hamlet, a mile off the main A4080 on a tiny peninsula poking out into the Straits as they begin to reach their narrowest point. It is reached by way of a single-track road that then has to be walked up if you’re catching the bus to the start of the day’s route. We were, so we took advantage of a couple of handily situated benches in the lee of Pilot’s Cottage to shelter from the wind and pull on our boots in unfamiliar comfort. Perhaps this lulled us into a false sense of security, for we didn’t quite realise the chill of the wind at this point although we did ensure that we were well-wrapped up with hats, gloves and waterproofs before locking the car and setting off uphill. It’s a quiet lane and yet we were forced to hug the drystone walls and hawthorn hedges as three or four cars passed us by in quick succession - leading us to wonder exactly where they had appeared from given the paucity of accommodation options. Inside a few minutes we arrived at the entrance to Plac Coch Holiday Park, which advertises itself as “the only truly exclusive holiday home park in North Wales” and certainly looks a lovely spot if the website is to be believed. The main building dates from the sixteenth century and can be seen from the lane - at least at this time of the year when branches remain bare of leaves - and it’s a lovely-looking property, although it’s clear from the website that there is a spectacular modern addition hidden away out of sight. Of all the holiday parks that we’ve seen on the island, this one could persuade me that a purchase could be a good idea.

We reached the main road and the bus stop with about twenty minutes to spare before them next bus - pretty much perfect timing considering they pass by only every ninety minutes or so. The bus pulled up at 10:34 on the dot - we’ve rarely had to wait more than four or five minutes beyond the advertised time - and cheerily dropped us off at the bus-stop in Newborough. He did have to ask which of the six stops in the village we wanted - it’s remarkable to think that there could be so many in such a short space - and kindly pointed us in the right direction before pulling away to that all-important fourth stop. As the first mile was re-treading steps I had taken the previous May I was well aware of the route but it was a friendly gesture and appreciated as such by the two of us. We’d probably also have appreciated a cup of coffee or pot of tea but there wasn’t a café on our way out of the village so we went dry on this occasion.

The route took us past the Rhosyr excavations and along the tarmac track that had seemed much longer at the end of the fourteen miles from Aberffraw than it did today. Within minutes we had reached the sandy path that led down to the beach with wide-ranging views over Newborough Warren to the hills and mountains beyond. It was a splendid sight today, with shafts of sunlight poking though the clouds to pick out individual summits and corries for our delectation. The previous year these peaks had been snow-flecked, today they were absolutely coated in the white stuff and it added to their beauty. Jan was keen to know which one was Snowdon - as she had been from Beaumaris Pier on her first day on the walk - and I could only point to what I thought looked a possible contender. We’d had a great day there a few years earlier but this week Mountain Rescue had been advising walkers to stay away after an ill-equipped mother and son had to be rescued from the mountain having been caught in a blizzard. There were numerous other call-outs - including a death on Glyder Fawr - in the days either side of our expedition and Llanberis Pass remained closed days later, testimony to the harshest early spring weather the country had seen in many a long year. We’d all grown tired of the grip that winter held over us but it remained undoubtedly beautiful when seen from this distance.

We finally dragged our eyes away from the mountains and followed the path to our left, initially sandy, occasionally muddy as it wended its way between stunted trees that were utterly festooned with lichens of grey, green and bright, bright yellow. The presence of these strange organisms is a pretty good indicator of air quality and to see just how prolific they were here tends to suggest a very clean environment - something that we’d have pretty much guessed anyway but in seeing them in such volume you see a beauty that you’ve perhaps never noticed previously. The wind was whistling through the branches as I paused to take a photo - it didn’t do the lichens justice so you’re unlikely to see it here - and it cut like a knife, so the camera was quickly back in its bag and we pushed on. To our right the dunes system was kept grazed by a combination of ponies and cattle, which helps with the rare flora to be found here. Beyond the grassy dunes lies the sandy spit of Abermenai Point, the south-westerly tip of the island and the entrance to the Straits - a dangerous place to walk because of the tides and marked as such on the OS map, although a public right of way does exist there. No doubt it was these perils - along with difficulty of fitting it in to a coherent route - that kept it off the official path but to see it disappear behind us showed that we had turned another corner - perhaps the final one given the shape of the island.

Soon enough we saw what appeared to be three yellow wigwams in the car park ahead. I’d known about this in
advance - they’re actually three steel sculptures representing the marram grass used to stabilise the dune systems we had just left behind but they still look like wigwams from a distance. The car park is situated here partly because of the tiny lake Llyn Rhos-Ddu that gives its name - also, no doubt, to allow the walk down to the beach that we had just completed in reverse. There’s a small bird hide overlooking the lake itself and we decided to take the opportunity of shelter that it provided to sneak a crafty cup of warming coffee. It wasn’t the most palatial of hides - “There’s probably rats” was Jan’s first impression - and little in the way of birdlife to be seen - mallards, coots, a couple of distant swans - but in this instance we weren’t unduly bothered, it was just a relief to get out of the wind for a moment or two. Jan had brought along a brioche each for just such an occasion and we made some pretence at looking for ornithological interest but the truth is that it was a coffee break and nothing more.

Refreshment taken, we reloaded our rucksacks and strolled down the car park’s access road to the A4080 which we followed for a couple of hundred yards before turning right along a farm access road. There was a sign asking us to go slowly as there could be children playing, a message that was reinforced by a couple of speed-bumps. Clearly word had got around about how quickly we walked when we set our minds to it. After a few yards the buildings to either side were left behind and instead replaced by flat farm-land, still held in the grip of the permafrost that had enveloped the country throughout March. Tiny new-born lambs shivered against the wind, even their fleeces being powerless in the teeth of the wind that now drove snow into our left cheeks. Despite this, we both continued to wear our sunglasses - it remained fairly bright and the snow was of the stinging variety so it gave a little added protection . With bobble hats and fleeces along with waterproofs pulled as high as possible, there was precious little flesh exposed to the elements.

The snow didn’t last for long - by the time we reached the end of the track it had gone without any trace of its presence remaining - and as we passed through a gate into open country it felt like the walk proper was now beginning. Ahead lay the tidal Afon Braint with the stepping stones standing extremely proud of the water. The guide mentions that they may be submerged at high tide - today they were a good two feet away from such a fate and care had to be taken because a slip would have resulted in a potentially nasty fall, as well as a good soaking. Beyond, the path took a sharp left and followed the course of the river for a few minutes. Those were the exceptional minutes that proved the rule about the ground being firm underfoot everywhere except the beaches, for here it was marshy at best and occasionally reminiscent of the peat-bog inland of Carmel Head that had so nearly claimed me as a victim. We picked our way carefully from firm ground to firm ground, dancing as lightly across the surface as we possibly could - something that Jan found a great deal easier than I did, at least until we passed over a stile and into a second field that was still muddier than the first. Our way ahead seemed blocked by impenetrable marsh, the only realistic option it seemed being to clamber over the barbed wire fence that separated field from river and seek out the firmer ground to be found there - untrampled by the feet of cattle. But the fence was freshly erected, the wire clean and taut and frankly it would be a braver, more nimble man than I who tried to cross it from such an unstable footing as the field provided. Instead I kept as close to the fence as possible, started slowly and carefully to put one foot in front of the other and once I was fully committed sped up to leave my feet in contact with ground for as little time as possible. I can’t say that I was confident that I’d make it but the alternative was to retrace our steps ignominiously and instead walk along the (admittedly quiet) main road and I really couldn’t face that. Once I’d regained solid (well, fairly solid) ground I turned to watch Jan make her more careful way, stepping into my footprints wherever possible on the theory that if it held my weight it would certainly hold hers, a good plan as it turned out and she was soon alongside me wondering where we should head next.

The answer, happily, was away from the river which took a sharp turn to the left as the path turns away to the right. It’s still a little muddy underfoot but nothing that you wouldn’t expect for Wales in March. After a few minutes the path diverts into a front garden, where we surprised the owner with our cheery “Good morning” as he unpacked the shopping from his Landrover. Minutes later we were admiring the conversion of a number of outbuildings into holiday accommodation as we strolled down their drive - although at least this time we were a little more distant from the house itself.

Now if all of this sounds a little land-locked for what it is a coastal path, that is exactly what we were thinking but at least now we could see that we were heading in the right direction as we could see the Straits beckoning us onwards. It was field walking again but at least the ground was form underfoot and the views were wider ranging than they had been down by the river, again taking in the mountains on the mainland. It was frustrating to turn left and again walk parallel to the coast, especially when it started to snow again, heavier this time with big, fluffy flakes that the wind insisted on once more driving into our faces.

We passed by a magnificent house, speculating that this may be the home of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge who reputedly live in the Brynsiencyn area. The views it would give from the large sun lounge to the rear would be utterly spectacular but because of the slope it is unlikely that you could be seen by any of us mere ramblers passing by some fifty or sixty yards away. The high wall surrounding the property would also be useful when it came to providing security. It’s unlikely that this actually is a Royal household but it’s a lovely house in a stunning spot - another one for the elusive lottery win. The path now follows a farm track parallel to the coast and we were beginning to wonder if we would ever actually get to smell the salt water. The snow continued to fall, never settling but getting heavier all the time. I pulled out the guide book to make sure that we were still on track and pushed it quickly back into my pocket once I’d done so - it still had some work to do and I didn’t want it to get soggy. It did its job, though, for we could see that our route now lay downhill across two fields and we would hit the beach. A stile in the corner of the first field was fairly obvious and once we crossed that, so was the one in the second field. A steep final slope - the ground obviously subject to frequent landslips - and shingle was beneath our feet rather than grass.

Opposite us lay the town of Caernarfon, another UNESCO site, like Beaumaris fortified by Edward I, its magnificent castle drawing the eye even through the slightly murky light. Seen from here it is obvious that this was a castle to control the sea rather than the land, that it would command the western entrance to the Straits as Beaumaris did the eastern end. Again we speculated on that marvellous house we had so recently passed - could it be that William looks out from his bedroom window and sees the castle where his father’s investiture as Prince of Wales took place?

The shingle wasn’t easy walking and it was past one o’clock by now so Jan decided it would be a good time to pause for lunch. I hadn’t realised the time and was happy to agree - the sky above was now a glorious blue overhead, although clouds were banked up beyond to indicate that this state of affairs might not last. We sat in the shelter of a tiny outcrop, away from that bitter wind, took the weight off our feet and enjoyed the view. In front of us were a number of vertical wooden posts, as though they were the ribs of the hull of a ship long-since run aground on the beach, or the posts to a jetty or breakwater. I took a photo or two, then noticed that the

weathering process had given some of the posts the impression of containing faces, not dissimilar to Munch’s “Scream”. Once I’d seen it an pointed it out to Jan, it was impossible to look at a post and not see a face. And so it was with much laughter that we headed off once more, keen to be off the shingle and on to the tarmac.

Immediately we left the shingle behind, hitting tarmac for a half mile or so as it ran tight to the shoreline. To our left was the building that previously housed The Mermaid Inn, a pub no doubt utilised by people waiting for and arriving on the ferry that used to ply its trade between here at Tal Y Foel and Caernarfon. The Boathouse just below is a holiday cottage part-owned by one of Dave’s customers at work and when we visited on one occasion he told us a possibly apocryphal story that in the days of “dry” Sunday’s in Wales such hell-raisers as Richard Burton, Richard Harris and Oliver Reed would catch the ferry across and take a few drinks, secure in the knowledge that the pub was too far from any centre of population to be raided and hence their reputation as fine upstanding, law-abiding pillars of establishment would remain unsullied. I have my doubts about the story and have been unable to find any other reference to it but it’s a decent tale and deserves re-telling for that fact alone. The ferry operated for around five hundred years until its final crossing in 1952. In the days before tarmac it would have been much easier for locals to visit the market town across the Straits than it would to have travelled the difficult country roads to Llangefni - the market town at the island’s heart. The ferry would also have come in handy for those islanders who worked in the slate mines of Dinorwic during the week, coming home on a Saturday afternoon for a day of chapel and family before returning on Monday morning for another week’s hard slog.

The Boathouse is one of two properties alongside the Mermaid, the other being Pilot’s Cottage, the former home of the ferryman and also a holiday cottage these days. Funnily enough this quiet and remote corner of the island, only accessible by narrow single track roads, has two or three tourist attractions within a few hundred yards - Foel Farm, Anglesey Sea Zoo and a farm shop are all situated to the landward side of the shore road. Oystercatchers and sandpipers pottered about the shoreline, possibly poaching from the commercial mussel farming operation that is sited just offshore. Although the views across the Straits remained good, the tarmac following hard on the shingle was hard on the feet and we yearned for something a little more forgiving beneath our boots.

Within a quarter of a mile we could drop off the road onto the beach once more, although this time the shingle didn’t last long and we skipped up a bank and through a kissing gate into yet another field. Like all of the others today, the grass here was close-cropped by the numerous sheep and lambs dotted around; the lambs as cute as ever, their mothers nowhere near being cute but keeping a watchful eye on their offspring as the two of passed by. Also plentiful were the ubiquitous mussel shells, empty obviously, and we wondered just how so many of them came to be found so high above the beach itself. We could only surmise that they had been dropped by birds or animals that had considered them the very definition of takeaway food - after eating they had abandoned the shell in much the same way that so many teenagers abandon their McDonalds wrappers once they’ve eaten the burger within. Yet the sheer numbers of the shells made us wonder - could they possibly be being used as a fertiliser, or similar? Searching on the internet it appears that the idea is not as foolish as we initially thought - there are a number of sites that indicate that they can increase a soil’s alkalinity in the same way as lime does - although most mention that they are best crushed first. I mentioned this to Mike, another walking/work friend, and he mentioned a third (and very persuasive) alternative - that the field had been fertilised through an application of seaweed and the mussels had been caught up with that. Obviously, the seaweed being organic would have broken down over time, leaving the shells high and dry.

We pottered on, through fields of grass and along the margins of ploughed red earth, newly fenced in shiny new barbed wire and stout wooden posts. Navigation was easy, the signposts as excellent as we had become accustomed to and the route as clear on the ground as it was in the guidebook. Eventually we came to a lane and turned right, the aroma of wild garlic immediately assaulting my nose. Jan professed herself unable to smell anything, which I found remarkable, but I think by now her whole face had been numbed by the cold and her nasal passages were shutting down in sympathy. The plants - ramsons as they are alternatively known - are a pretty good indication of ancient woodland, although this is not infallible. There were no flowers yet, they would be a month or so away, but the pungent smell was present in spades - Sarah would have hated it as she finds the smell offensive but to me it says that spring is close, if not already here, and that bluebells will not be far away.

Two or three hundred yards later we came across the wall behind which hid the house of Plas Llanidan and the church of Saint Nidan. Sadly, neither was visible from the lane and it rather felt as though they were hiding away from the modern world behind ivy-covered walls like a princess in a mid-European fairy tale. I can’t say that I took to the place really and wasn’t too sad to move away. We had the choice here to return to the beach and a route along the shore or to continue along the lane for a while. I knew which my preference would be - the guidebook mentioned more shingle and I had had enough of that for the day, as I had the relentless battle with the ferocious headwind - but was gentleman enough to give Jan the choice, knowing that she would make the same decision. She did so and we carried on along the lane, beneath an avenue of trees separating us from still more ploughed fields. It all felt a little similar to the Dulas estate in the north-east of the island - diametrically opposite geographically but alike in spirit, like the twentieth century has passed it by (and maybe the nineteenth and eighteenth centuries too).

Eventually this lane becomes a track becomes a path and the afternoon drifted away. There was little of note to see, little of note to talk about but it was pleasant enough. Eventually we came to the buildings at Plas Porthamel - some of them clearly still a working farm, some with the appearance of holiday cottages - where the route wriggles right, then left and becomes a lane once more. The snow now returned with a vengeance but not before we had been treated to a view down to the right of the Moel Y Don peninsula sticking out into the Straits. Like Tal Y Foel, there was once a ferry running from here to the mainland and the way it protrudes from the land around it gave this spot a bit of a head start. Boats ran from here to Port Dinorwic/Y Felinheli opposite, again taking miners to and from their week’s work in the slate mines around Llanberis. Before the snow took it from view we were able to clearly see the cottages where the pilots would once have lived and the car sheltered in behind. Having seen how close we were, and with large flakes now falling, we abandoned any thought of turning back uphill to explore Llanedwen Church and instead turned downhill, bemoaning the fact that it was further than it looked to the car. Finally, a little wearily, we reached the shelter of my trusty Skoda just as the snow came to a halt. It had been a pleasant day, nothing more; there was little in the way of magic - maybe due to the time of year, maybe because there was so little “coast” - but a pleasant day’s walking is a damn sight better than a day at work and we were both glad to have come. We would save the better weather for some of the more spectacular sections of the path that remained.