Susan writing . . . Caernarfon, Wales (pronounced Car NAH fin). This was a kind of pilgrimage for me: This is where my whole Anglophile thing began. I can remember watching Prince Charles’ investiture at Caernarfon Castle in l969 on our first little black and white 13” television and saying to David, “We need to go to England.” And the next summer, 1970 BC (before children), with a new MA under his belt and two full-time teaching jobs, we took off for 6 weeks--the trip of a lifetime we thought at the time--to England for two weeks and the Continent for four, visiting mainly the big cities. We did not get to Caernarfon.
This time we did. The drive into Wales from Chester was right along Liverpool Bay: long hills, tunnels, slag heaps, tunnels through slag heaps, divided highway almost all the way. It was just that last 100 feet of 20% grade with a 90% turn at the bottom in the campground that slowed us down. “Take the turn wide,” said the lady camp manager. “People keep hittin’ the rocks on the right.” It was a peaceful, green-terraced valley; we ended up driving around back up to the second level, so getting back out wasn’t as bad as getting in.
The campground was only a 15-minute walk from the city center and the impressive castle. This castle was begun in 1283 and it is in wonderful condition.
It has withstood every assault in its history. Virtually every room and corridor is open to the public: Lots of unlit, narrow, circling worn steps and cold stone rooms. And many many warnings.
There are three museums incorporated into various tower rooms. We were blessed with gorgeous weather to investigate all of it.
The town, still surrounded by stone walls, is kind of rundown but still charming. There is a small marina and a large car park that would have easily accommodated Rover, but getting there would have been fun. When we ate at an outdoor restaurant we were warned, “Watch out for the sea gulls when you finish your meal.” Indeed, a couple of seagulls (which closeup you learn are large birds) did seem to keep an eye on us from 20 feet until our empty plates were taken away, when they left.
We were also within easy (but steep uphill) walking distance of the foundation ruins of an old Roman fort from AD 77.
There wasn’t a black water dump in Oxford, Caernarfon, or the stop in between; on Saturday we drove 230 miles north, skipping Manchester and Liverpool, to Haltwhistle, where the promised “motorhome service point” proved to be only a gray water dump. So for the first time ever we emptied the black water tank, one bucket at a time, into their “chemical toilet waste” site. It proved to be not nearly as disgusting as we expected and got the job done. And then at the gray water dump site we were able to empty the gray water without even using the hose. It just took a couple of trips around the campsite to accomplish it all. About Haltwhistle the guide book had warned ”narrow and steep approach road to site.” Pshaw, say we: clearly the editors have never been to Folkestone or Battle, let alone Cornwall. This was a piece of cake.
Saturday was something like “National Let’s All Camp Out Weekend” in Great Britain. We were greeted at Haltwhistle with a bag of goodies that consisted of some fliers, two balloons, two mustard samples (!) and the British version of Gummy Bears. Sunday is the last day of the Bank Holiday week, so we made reservations here for both nights. For the rest of our stay we will have what is considered Low Season, so we are expecting fewer people in the campgrounds. But we are heading to Glasgow and Edinburgh, two very popular destinations, so we are planning our way and trying to make reservations. The planning will give us something to do on this rainy Sunday. And not going anywhere for a day feels just fine. David is replacing broken cabinet hinges--always a favorite pastime.