That’s ‘slow’ in Welsh. Slow, slow, slow.
Slow, like the old train that trundled up Snowdon. Slow like the smoke that wafted out of the chimney of our bed-&-breakfast. Slow like a sheep’s chew.
Because you want the time to last. Even as your car speeds through mountain roads, and curves around coastlines, you slow down. You melt a little bit, your shoulders lose their angles, and you breathe in-in-in. It’s atrocious, the sheer beauty of Wales. Fierce, sharp and gentle, all at the same time.
D, Chotto-ma and I spent a week winding through North Wales. The first half in the mountains, and the second along the coast.
I’ve been waiting to share the week with you, so hop on, strap yourself in, and slow down.
From Betws-y-coed, to Llanberis, up to the summit of Mount Snowdon. And down past mountain streams that giggled like a child and waterfalls that fell downdowndown. Faeries floated past I think.
We started with Portmerion – Wales’ unashamed ‘riviera’ – which makes you walk around with a silly smile on your face.
Then on to the tiny fishing village of Aberdaron. From Aberdaron to Porthdinllaen, where a pub called the Ty Coch Inn stood like an old weathered boat on a small smuggler’s cove. Tucked away from all the world. Offering warm, baked pots of food to only those who ventured far enough to find it.
Our Welsh week ended at Llandudno – the lively Victorian seaside town that leaned against the mountains and stretched its feet into the sand.
Araf. Araf. Araf.