On The Costa Cymru . . . (3 September 1976)

One thing about this summer – it has been ideal for camping holidays.  In fact, you have scarcely needed a tent, except for the occasional bit of privacy.

Very recently I spent nine glorious days and nights camping on the Costa Cwmry or Cymru, whichever is Welsh for Wales.  Incidentally, you don’t have to bother much about the Welsh language.  All you do is double most of the els and a few of the efs, salt with double-yous, pepper with hyphens and Ys, then top off with a fair quantity of ogs and even the most ardent Welsh nat might well be suitably impressed.

I went to the Leyn Peninsula with Bash and his dog, Jenny.  Brut didn’t come this time.  He needed some money and was doing a vacation job – he always seems to be able to get a job whenever he wants one.  Anyhow, while on our way I noticed that the name of Portmadoc had been changed to Porthmadog and later realised that this was in accordance with the above principles.  I also noticed what appeared to be a two-word slogan splashed across bridges and the like.  Bash told me it meant “Free Wales.”  I though this a pretty useless exercise.  After all, they could even swear at the English in their lingo and we wouldn’t know it, would we?  But good luck to the Welsh, for all that.  I like plenty of variety, provided it isn’t criminal.

We found a splendid camp site on a hillside just short of Criccieth – which is still spelt like that – and Bash had our 11-year-old small frame tent up in a jiffy.

Next morning I was awakened by the sun shining straight at me through two layers of canvas.  I popped my head out and beheld a breathtaking sight, with Snowdonia at half-left and the Cardigan coast down to Barmouth at half-right.  The scene was so entrancing that I spent two of the days doing little more than sitting under a nearby tree looking at it.

This year it had a beauty not likely to be seen again in August – nothing less than woodlands in their autumn glory during what was still practically high summer.

But the mountain streams were missing.  To exaggerate somewhat, there was hardly enough water to swallow at Swallow Falls compared with other years.  The grass, too, was generally as brown as in North Bucks, except in patches alongside the high passes, where it was still beautifully green – a reminder of how grass used to look before the drought.  But the high lakes were still pretty full.

There were sheep grazing on the camp site – which to my surprise was only sparsely populated for its size – and I wondered what Jenny would do about them.  I needn’t have worried.  She is so timid that for the first time in my life I saw a dog backing away from a sheep as fast as the sheep turned tail on the dog.

But what noisy eaters those animals are.  You are asleep in your airbed when you are awakened by a sound like an old man crunching celery with false teeth.  They you realise it is only a sheep calmly grazing only about a yard from your ear, but on the other side of the canvas.

There are still signs of much non-conformity around there.  Churches are few and far between, but each tiny hamlet seems to have its chapel.  Porthmadog also boasts one of those British Schools of which I wrote recently in connection with Fenny.

During the holiday we had only two meals in a cafe and one snack at a pub.  All the rest was self-cooked, the provisions being obtained from the small, but good campsite shop which opened twice a day for an hour or two each time.

We used my battered old C-registration Morris Traveller, because she takes that amount of equipment easily without resort to a roof-rack.  She did us proud – never a falter from start to finish.

Before we set off Bash said he thought the engine was running rather fast and might use more petrol accordingly.  I told him that John Sylvester knew what he was about and that we should leave well alone.

Coming back, we set off with a full tank of two-star and I checked the mileage.  We left at 9.15am, and arrived home at 3pm precisely, with a 35-minute break on the way.

It was a Friday.  Bash did most of the driving.  The distance travelled was 209 miles and when he arrived home the petrol gauge needle was only its own width below the halfway mark.

How’s that for a car with over 91,000 miles already on the clock?