Our final morning in Ireland. What better way to finish than with breakfast, of course, at our Windsor Lodge B&B. Chuck and I beat the girls down to the nice, bright dining room.
Since our ferry didn’t leave until after noon, we took advantage of the nice morning weather to stroll up the harbor from our B&B (Mary let us stay in her parking pad until we left) to the National Maritime Museum of Ireland, a decidedly low-key (but very neat) enterprise tucked away in a former church, complete with stained glass, that originally had been built (1837) to serve sailors in the then-bustling seaport known as Kingstown, today Dun Laoghaire. Model ships, brass fittings, accounts of heroic rescues, and the obligatory Fresnel lens (in front of the triple windows) from a light house. Loni was intrigued by the pantometer, used to copy maps to any size from 1/2 to 2x the original. This was a great, relaxed way to end our visit.
We finished with the museum, Chuck fortified himself with ice cream for the drive to the ferry, and we were off. Thank goodness for the GPS; this time it brought us through a tangle of port roads and dumped us right in line for the ship. I think we’d have been quite lost without it. Again, the signage is all dual-language. I suspect this is what California will look like in twenty years: primary signage in Spanish, secondary in English.
The crossing (2 hours)was unremarkable save for the lousy viewing weather. Grey, low skies with lots of mist blocking any vistas. We landed in Wales and drove to Llandudno and the Alvastrada Guest House, our home for two nights. We landed in the wrong courtyard due to confusing signage, and Chuck had to squeeze out and resqueeze into the right one. Alvastrada was quite pleasant, although the stairs were a bear with the luggage. Host Steve was very helpful, and quite proud of his three-story umbrella plant growing up the stairwell. It was late afternoon when we got there, so we just unpacked and decided to follow Steve’s suggestion of eating at the nearby (walking distance) Albert Pub. Great tip! Perhaps the best “pub” food we’d had. I had slow-roasted pork belly (carnitas, anyone?) with mash and red cabbage. Succulent! Loni had a steak/ale/mushroom pie served with cabbage, veggies, and six rather substantial new potatoes. God, they love their spuds here. We both had excellent pints of Will’s Burning Gold Lager. Black Forest trifle for dessert was the only negative. Just didn’t have much flavor. Sorry about the blurry selfie.
One of the few B&B glitches we experienced cropped up here, with the shower temperature virtually impossible to control. Either freezing or boiling and n’er the twain shall meet. A nice breakfast with plenty of coffee and we were ready to tackle our corner of Wales (northwest). Steve was full of info, including that the “Ll” at the beginning of Llandudno is pronounced as if “cl.” OK, I don’t think we’ll bother. Our first goal today was the nearby Conwy Castle, today a ruin standing guard over one of the best-preserved medieval walled cities in Britain. It was all built by Edward I in the 1200’s at enormous expense (and with forced labor) in only 4 years. Alice and Loni outside the walls.
Interior, with model.
Loni with ??? Looks like Dubya-isms have made it to Wales, more’s the pity.
The town of Conwy, through a break in the ramparts. Note wall in background.
From the castle, the harbor was beautiful; reminded me of our East Coast.
Scene looking over the walls to the countryside.
Looking over the river.
The town was quite small and easy to walk around. Like a medieval city, the streets were narrow. This was the “main drag.” Ice cream shops were everywhere.
To enter the town, you have to go through one of the original gates. Not so bad for us, but . . . pull in those mirrors, bud. As an RVer, I have sympathy (and admiration).
Not only are the roads and gates narrow, Conwy sports the alleged “smallest house in Britain.” We did not pay the costumed lady to go inside. We are RVers, after all. Close quarters are nothing to us.
We found a nice bakery-sandwich shop and bought some bread, cheese, and a lemon cake for dessert. We carried it back to the car and took off for Llandudno’s Great Orme’s Head, a country park and nature preserve situated atop a mountain that overlooks Llandudno (whose beach is hidden below the hill where the aerial tram towers disappear). If you look down the slope, there’s a big barn-like structure. That’s the station house for the Great Orme Tramway, one of only three cable-hauled street tramways in the world (San Francisco and Lisbon). The tracks leading out of it head . . .
up here! That overexposed patch at upper right is the ocean.
Llandudno is a seaside resort that, unlike many other British holiday towns, has retained a strong sense of its Victorian roots. No flashing lights or funfairs. It has a sweeping beach (mixed stones and sand) that curves between two headlands, Great Orme’s Head and Little Orme’s Head (you can see Little in the hillside view above of the cable car barn). The Grand Hotel sits at the Great end of the crescent, and it is grand, indeed.
Looking the other way from those blue pavilions by the shore, you can see the almost unbroken wall of the “lesser” establishments renting rooms.
I think some of those pensioners on the benches actually date from Victorian times. So, not much excitement in Llandudno, but it was very pleasant to walk around.
Back to the Alvastrada to eat once more at the Albert Pub (sea bream for me; slow roasted lamb shoulder for Loni), then packing for our schlep into England tomorrow. Note the devil TV on the wall. It had the irritating habit of losing its channel memory every time it was turned off. Repopulating the channels took 10-15 minutes each time we wanted to use it. Nothing on anyway.
Next morning, the breakfast bunch hard at it, chowing down like there’s no tomorrow. Hey, there isn’t. We go home tomorrow! Booooo.
The first of three levels of stairs, with host Steve’s prized umbrella plant off to the right. It really did go up all three stories.
Our last full day was devoted to the lengthy slog to Heathrow, or rather to the Reading Hilton, our final overnight spot. On the way we stopped off in Oxford to see the sights, but the traffic was horrendous and parking nonexistent. We finally found a spot in an industrial area, walked a half-dozen blocks and found a student hangout that appeared to be transplanted from San Francisco: organic, free range, etc. But the food was quite good. This was just a snack, so I had what passed for a British milkshake (thin) and an orange poppyseed cake. Loni had tea and an apricot-lemon flapjack. Well, that’s what they called it. Bellies full, we headed on out of Oxford, and passed by what we all thought was the bridge, river, and pub where Inspector Morse and his deputy, Lewis, used to sit and drink pints. You’ll just have to believe me. No time for a photo.
The Hilton was pleasant enough, but it was jumping with activity as there was a big wedding going on and the place was packed. No seats in the dining room until late night, so we opted for a table in the bar area, which was just fine. They also were having an Octoberfest celebration, featuring (as in sponsored by) the beer of one of my former clients for twenty years: Erdinger!
We indulged in the suds, had fairly decent dinners, and crashed early for the flight home. At 0-dark-thirty, we loaded the car for the last time and Chuck and Alice dropped us off at Heathrow, precisely where they picked us up five weeks ago. We can’t thank them enough for their generosity in providing the fine ride and excellent chaufferage, to say nothing of the best company for long days in close quarters. They’ve certainly paid us back for our introducing them four+ decades ago. This trip was literally twenty years in the “why don’t we go . . .” stage for all of us, and it couldn’t have been realized any better.
Check-in at Heathrow was surprisingly painless, and we had time before the flight to blow our final meager pounds on porridge, danish, and yoghurt. Cheers, mate!
fini
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