I'll save excuses and reasoning; there aren't any, really, and it's been so long now that there's been a second trip, involving Scotland, and rental cars, and further adventures. Also we brought children, which means the chronicling had no time to be literary, and the pictures are not as nice but no doubt far more authentic. But the spirit moves me, and I should finish this travelogue before moving on to another.
...ahem. So, Cardigan - or Cardigan Bay, to be precise. We hopped a bus in downtown Dolgellau, and I wound up chatting for a couple of hours with some lovely elderly folks in transit, who were delighted by our tales of adventure so far and complimented my pronunciation of the town names we'd seen, so apparently all the corrections of our hosts thus far had been effective. Another bucket list item checked.
Arriving in Cardigan Bay, we met our hostess, Penny, at the head of the street upon which our lodging resided...
 |
| She claimed you could drive down this street. I remain skeptical. |
Penny's AirBnB turned out to be yet another brilliant find, which has, since our stay, made it onto the front pages of tourist magazines and websites. She had several independent apartments; ours happened to be the suite nestled in the top floor of the building, which meant the ubiquitous exposed beams figured prominently and you can all just come back for me later, thanks...
Our skylight looked out upon rooftops and seagulls. That tiny window opened upon Penny's back garden, and though when the British say "garden", they mean "yard", in this case it really was a garden: a brick and stone-walled tangle of floral wilderness in the best traditions of cottage gardens, complete with benches and hidden crevices and scattered with hundreds of years' worth of the evidence of humanity - in some cases, literally. Penny explained how during her excavations she had uncovered a human femur at one point, called authorities, and submitted the area to an archeological excavation which determined it to be several hundred years old, probably a relic of the last siege of the town.
Penny herself was a kindred spirit. A creative and artistic hostess who organized art and film gatherings for her acquaintances, she decided within minutes that we were part of her tribe and worth an extra mile. Or ten.
To our astonishment, after our initial icebreaker in her garden, she determined that our interests could not be served by mere public transportation, and promised that the next day she would drive us to several area attractions we would enjoy.
Accordingly, after a quiet morning expanding our palettes with scotch eggs and turkish delight in the market streets below us, we met our hostess and crammed ourselves into her tiny stick-shift for another vicarious lesson in navigating single-lane roads. Within a few minutes we were in the town of Cilgerran, home to the castle of that name.
Smaller, and set among less dramatic scenery than the other castles we had explored thus far, Cilgerran had its own charm - not least its relatively low crowds. I pulled out my costume pieces, much to Penny's amused delight, and we got a few more good shots.
Cilgerran conquered. Where next? During our previous chats, I had expressed a little disappointment that our route did not take us near Puzzlewood Forest, a tourist attraction I had seen advertised during my planning for the trip. Penny scoffed. Puzzlewood, shmuzzlewood. She could do better. Back in the car we piled, and into a labyrinth of hedgerows.
Our hostess parked in what looked like the middle of nowhere, a hilltop surrounded by sheep pastures, got out of the car, and took her bearings. "It's been a while since I've been here," she explained casually. "I'm trying to remember the best route." In her sandals and denim skirt, she set forth across the uneven muddy ground, in reckless disregard of sheep dung, thistles, and nettles. We followed her, tromping along, and she blithely answered my anxious questions about whether the field owner would mind with bemused answers that finally clued me into the realization that private property notions are utterly different in Britain than they are in America (in short, in a "walking holiday" culture, you are legally allowed to walk almost anywhere as long as you don't molest people's animals or stroll into their houses and barns. Silly me and my ridiculous modern notions of land ownership!)
After a few minutes' indecision Penny resolved that we need to cross a barbed wire fence, which she proceeded to do, in sprightly fashion, despite her skirt and unprotective shoes. The Artist and I had somewhat more difficulty, but we finally wound up on its far side, crossing a small hill and then...entering fairyland.
The magical, mysterious, dark fantasy of Ty Canol woods awaited.
Hidden away from roads and villages, a tangled mass of gnarled, twisted trees, boulders strewn like marbles under smothering quilts of moss, under a dark and silent canopy, this place was the stuff of legend. An obscure and nearly-hidden plaque near its entrance explained that there were species of lichen and moss that were found only here. I'm pretty sure there are fae creatures also only found here, and that they would have liked to eat us for dinner.
Penny watched us with delight as we exclaimed over every new view, and we spent an hour exploring. I made many mental notes of the mood, the angles, the smells, knowing it would inform both my writing and art in future projects. But the day was waning, and we had more to see.
Next stop, a true tourist attraction: the remnants of Pentre Ifan, a neolithic burial chamber. I had seen photos of this one and wanted to see it up close, my bizarre attraction to standing stones already being well-established. At this point, we were on a time crunch and moving rapidly toward sunset, so after a short photoshoot we wrapped up this spot, denying my desire to sit and soak in the mysticism. I made up for that later with liberal application of photoshop to my images.
Onward! I wanted more coastline scenes, and Penny delivered. Off we drove to the coast of Pembrokeshire, and...
Oh.
Oh...
glruh
abughbuh
meep
WHY DID NOBODY TELL ME ABOUT PEMBROKESHIRE.
I kid, of course. This type of thing was also on my bucket list. I just wasn't prepared for the levels of gutpunching, heartbreaking, breathtaking gorgeousness it would be, and how much I would want to weep at what a short time we were able to spend there. The sun was sinking so fast we were racing against the clock, so I dutifully donned my costume one last time. Because as much as I wanted to just be...listen, my 30s were ticking away, people, and so was this trip.
Exhausted but happy after a thoroughly delightful day, we headed back to town and treated Penny to dinner, trading email addresses and planning to stay in touch. I realized at this point that if we ever returned, we would definitely need our own vehicle if we really wanted to experience more of what these places had to offer - we'd have never been able to see all this without Penny's generosity and set of wheels.
We slept, we rose...the next day we bussed to Fishguard and caught the ferry back to Ireland.
There's not a lot to say about the rest, from this date, although I do remember some craziness about getting from the ferry port to the train, a night at a Dublin hotel, an uneventful transatlantic, and more idiocy at the Toronto-Pearson airport where we almost missed our connecting flight again thanks to the massive amount of inefficiency.
But we did, eventually, make it home to our nuggets, with heads and hearts full.
In the end, I still can't say if this trip was more for me or for the Artist. He swears it was the most magical trip of his life, and although he does properly flatter me like any wise husband, I suspect he is sincere. We've been a lot of places since then, including the family trip I mentioned in the intro to this, but never on any trip where the elements conspired, after near disaster, to fall together with such a perfect combination of places, people, and experiences.
It's 2020 now, and I'm writing this on the 40-something-eth day of the Covid19 lockdown, wondering fatalistically if we will ever be able to travel past our city limits again without fearing for our lives. It's an interesting, bittersweet experience to look back on this, to have seen news reports of wild goats wandering through the streets of welsh villages in the absence of human activity, to know that the skies over Britain, as everywhere, are clearer and fresher from the absence of travel and manufacturing pollution.
I don't know what the future holds for us. But somehow, I am comforted, when I think of these places, the history there that has survived for so long and will continue, Lord willing, long after we are gone, the moss on the mountains, the trees quietly growing under the mist, before us, without us. One day even this blog post will disappear into the ether, for even the almighty internet is but a blip on the timeline of the universe. But for now, for me, it matters. And so I record it. For myself, and for others who may stumble upon it, seeking magic.
May those who wander, find what they seek.
~Dawn
 |
| I'll be right here. |
Our skylight looked out upon rooftops and seagulls. That tiny window opened upon Penny's back garden, and though when the British say "garden", they mean "yard", in this case it really was a garden: a brick and stone-walled tangle of floral wilderness in the best traditions of cottage gardens, complete with benches and hidden crevices and scattered with hundreds of years' worth of the evidence of humanity - in some cases, literally. Penny explained how during her excavations she had uncovered a human femur at one point, called authorities, and submitted the area to an archeological excavation which determined it to be several hundred years old, probably a relic of the last siege of the town.
There's something rather thrilling about standing in a place where oppressed people were tossing body parts hundreds of years before the American rebels were tossing tea into Boston Harbor.
 |
| Slightly less exciting than human femurs, but also less prone to forensic experts showing up. |
 |
| Probably because of moments like this. |
Accordingly, after a quiet morning expanding our palettes with scotch eggs and turkish delight in the market streets below us, we met our hostess and crammed ourselves into her tiny stick-shift for another vicarious lesson in navigating single-lane roads. Within a few minutes we were in the town of Cilgerran, home to the castle of that name.
 |
| Psh. A summer home. |
 |
| Clearly where Escher got his inspiration. |
 |
| Penny. Note her shoes and skirt, important features to consider later. |
 |
| Among Eilonwy's talents: carrying a candle on her head. Mental note: Pay a real photographer next time. |
Smaller, and set among less dramatic scenery than the other castles we had explored thus far, Cilgerran had its own charm - not least its relatively low crowds. I pulled out my costume pieces, much to Penny's amused delight, and we got a few more good shots.
 |
| She does not, however, iron her gowns. That s*** is for people who sit around embroidering cushions. |
 |
| He was keeping me from going over the edge again. You know, as one does. Sums up the whole trip, really. |
Our hostess parked in what looked like the middle of nowhere, a hilltop surrounded by sheep pastures, got out of the car, and took her bearings. "It's been a while since I've been here," she explained casually. "I'm trying to remember the best route." In her sandals and denim skirt, she set forth across the uneven muddy ground, in reckless disregard of sheep dung, thistles, and nettles. We followed her, tromping along, and she blithely answered my anxious questions about whether the field owner would mind with bemused answers that finally clued me into the realization that private property notions are utterly different in Britain than they are in America (in short, in a "walking holiday" culture, you are legally allowed to walk almost anywhere as long as you don't molest people's animals or stroll into their houses and barns. Silly me and my ridiculous modern notions of land ownership!)
After a few minutes' indecision Penny resolved that we need to cross a barbed wire fence, which she proceeded to do, in sprightly fashion, despite her skirt and unprotective shoes. The Artist and I had somewhat more difficulty, but we finally wound up on its far side, crossing a small hill and then...entering fairyland.
The magical, mysterious, dark fantasy of Ty Canol woods awaited.
Hidden away from roads and villages, a tangled mass of gnarled, twisted trees, boulders strewn like marbles under smothering quilts of moss, under a dark and silent canopy, this place was the stuff of legend. An obscure and nearly-hidden plaque near its entrance explained that there were species of lichen and moss that were found only here. I'm pretty sure there are fae creatures also only found here, and that they would have liked to eat us for dinner.
 |
| This was after he'd spent a hundred years feasting inside that mound behind him. We're just purely lucky he emerged only five minutes later, human time. |
 |
| I did feel like I needed to ask the tree's permission for this. It said okay, because I was polite. |
 |
| This tree wants to hug you. And squeeze you and pet you and love you and name you George. |
 |
| So... |
 |
| ....many.... |
 |
| ...textures. |
Next stop, a true tourist attraction: the remnants of Pentre Ifan, a neolithic burial chamber. I had seen photos of this one and wanted to see it up close, my bizarre attraction to standing stones already being well-established. At this point, we were on a time crunch and moving rapidly toward sunset, so after a short photoshoot we wrapped up this spot, denying my desire to sit and soak in the mysticism. I made up for that later with liberal application of photoshop to my images.
 |
| Not bad, but... |
 |
| Oh, see. That's more like it. |
 |
| Everyone's a comedian. He's pretty cute, though, so I'll keep him. |
Onward! I wanted more coastline scenes, and Penny delivered. Off we drove to the coast of Pembrokeshire, and...
Oh.
 |
| Hi, I'm Pembrokeshire. |
 |
| ...are you okay? |
abughbuh
meep
 |
| Everybody stand back and give her some air. |
I kid, of course. This type of thing was also on my bucket list. I just wasn't prepared for the levels of gutpunching, heartbreaking, breathtaking gorgeousness it would be, and how much I would want to weep at what a short time we were able to spend there. The sun was sinking so fast we were racing against the clock, so I dutifully donned my costume one last time. Because as much as I wanted to just be...listen, my 30s were ticking away, people, and so was this trip.
 |
| I am ignoring the swarms of flying ants I was sitting amidst, and that, my friends, is called good acting. |
 |
| That expression is because somebody suggested it was time to leave. |
 |
| A sunset farewell, fitting for our last day. |
 |
| I am not an amazon. Penny is just tiny. |
 |
| This one was Penny's idea. Moon goddess, which if you know the mythology here, was brilliant. Shame the light didn't allow for a really good pic at this point. |
 |
| I am the blue speck back there. This was on the beach below. We build sandcastles in America, but welsh kids, I guess, are like "castles, pssshhh, we have plenty of those, you know what we need more of? STONEHENGE." |
We slept, we rose...the next day we bussed to Fishguard and caught the ferry back to Ireland.
 |
| Fishguard. Quaint and...fish-guardy. |
There's not a lot to say about the rest, from this date, although I do remember some craziness about getting from the ferry port to the train, a night at a Dublin hotel, an uneventful transatlantic, and more idiocy at the Toronto-Pearson airport where we almost missed our connecting flight again thanks to the massive amount of inefficiency.
But we did, eventually, make it home to our nuggets, with heads and hearts full.
In the end, I still can't say if this trip was more for me or for the Artist. He swears it was the most magical trip of his life, and although he does properly flatter me like any wise husband, I suspect he is sincere. We've been a lot of places since then, including the family trip I mentioned in the intro to this, but never on any trip where the elements conspired, after near disaster, to fall together with such a perfect combination of places, people, and experiences.
It's 2020 now, and I'm writing this on the 40-something-eth day of the Covid19 lockdown, wondering fatalistically if we will ever be able to travel past our city limits again without fearing for our lives. It's an interesting, bittersweet experience to look back on this, to have seen news reports of wild goats wandering through the streets of welsh villages in the absence of human activity, to know that the skies over Britain, as everywhere, are clearer and fresher from the absence of travel and manufacturing pollution.
I don't know what the future holds for us. But somehow, I am comforted, when I think of these places, the history there that has survived for so long and will continue, Lord willing, long after we are gone, the moss on the mountains, the trees quietly growing under the mist, before us, without us. One day even this blog post will disappear into the ether, for even the almighty internet is but a blip on the timeline of the universe. But for now, for me, it matters. And so I record it. For myself, and for others who may stumble upon it, seeking magic.
May those who wander, find what they seek.
~Dawn
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