A rambling holiday on the Welsh Coast
It’s a seven-hour journey from Bristol to Barmouth, Wales on public transport. In that time we could get to Mallorca, Paris, Rome or Barcelona. Let’s face it – in seven hours we could have flown to just about anywhere in Europe and be sat on a beach with a cold, crisp glass of the local tipple. (This is what I’m grumbling to myself as we switch trains in Newport and lug our backpacks across the platform.) But the wilds of the Welsh coast are calling and we have no car, so it’s the little local train to Ruabon, then a long busride to the coast.
There used to be a train that went all the way from Ruabon to Barmouth. The journey, as described by the Great Western Railway was ‘a paradise for artists and fishermen and a country rich in mountain streams, wild woods and wide far views, unbeaten in any part of Wales’. Unfortunately the train line closed in 1965, but the landscape is just as remarkable. Rolling layers of green fields beneath toasted siena mountaintops and soft blue sky. We stop in Dolgellau to switch buses and grab some lunch at TH Roberts. It’s the eccentric window display that calls us in, but their selection of cakes, generous helping of buttery quiche and friendly service keeps us captive till our next bus arrives. This one follows the Mawddach River all the way to where its wide, tidal estuary meets the sea in Barmouth.
Like many of the seaside resorts strung along the Welsh coastline, Barmouth began with just a few houses tucked into the hillside. Barely a village and far from a destination. In the 17th century it grew into a busy port town – not a particularly important one – but helpful in building ships and exporting wool, wood and slate from the Mawddach Valley. It was the introduction of the railway in 1867 that gave way to the industry that still sustains it today – holidaymaking.
Barmouth has been a popular seaside resort since the Victorian era, when the well-to-do flocked to the beach for restorative sea-bathing and promenading. This followed the rise in doctor-prescribed trips to the beach for what was then called the “sea-cure”, a natural remedy believed to treat ailments of all kinds. As the upper class flocked to seaside towns to restore their health, the hospitality industry followed suit. Before long, the practice went from a therapeutic excursion to a leisurely game of social peacocking.
The town is much changed from its Victorian resort days, with a large car park opposite the beach and new buildings spread further up the coast. But remnants of its past are scattered amongst the more modern additions. A little stone roundhouse, Ty Crwn, was once used as a lockup for drunks and troublemakers. The Bath House, which now serves as a cafe and gift shop, once offered seaweed baths and ‘bathing machines’. The historic Sailors’ Institute and Reading Rooms are still in action today. And St. John's Church, primarily funded by the Perrins family of Lea & Perrins Worcester sauce, towers above it all from high atop the hillside.
We walk the length of the promenade and stop at The Last Inn for a cider. Then, desperate to stretch our legs after hours of being squashed under our backpacks, we find our way up onto the Barmouth Panorama Walk.
The trail winds up and around the cliffs overlooking the harbour then rolls back down the hills on the other side into dense woodland. It passes between some stone cottages and back up again through the trees, finally opening up onto a sheltered cliffside with a breathtaking view over the estuary. We find a bench at the highest point and gaze out, panting from the climb. Was this worth the long journey on all types of transport? Is it equal to the Mediterranean? There’s no sufficient answer. For others, maybe it wouldn’t be. But there, up in those velvety clouds of heath glazed with golden light, it’s otherworldly. It’s a testament to the natural beauty the UK has to offer – if you’re willing to stay and risk the rain that usually comes along with it.
Morfa Dyffryn Beach
This wide stretch of soft white sand sheltered by mountainous dunes is more picturesque and far less crowded than Barmouth Beach. Though, it should be said – walk far enough down and you’ll come to an officially recognised naturist section. It’s impossible to miss. Against a dazzling backdrop of sand and sea, scattered nudists (mostly old men) stand with hands on their hips, staring out over the water and waggling triumphantly in the breeze. It’s a hoot. And, I’d imagine, not a bad way to spend retirement. We walk a bit further and spend all day tucked into one of the dunes, enjoying the Indian summer sun. While Victorian medicine had its flaws, I do give great credence to the sea-cure. Is there anything more revitalising than a long walk against a salty wind and a bracing dip in the sea?
Cregennan Lakes
Because the bridge is closed, we have to get the ferry across, adding forty-five minutes to our walking time on each end. But it’s a beautiful little chug across the estuary. This walk is long, winding and varied. Through farmland, up into cool, shadowy woodland where waterfalls gush alongside steep paths. Then out onto rolling hills scattered with woolly sheep. While the sheep in the paddocks at sea level had been still and watchful as we passed, these mountain dwellers, with curled horns on either side of their tense little faces, trot over to us, bleating insistently until we’re well out of view. After another hour or so up and down rugged hills we come to the lakes – shimmering blue pools set into the valleys, encircled by clusters of scraggy trees. Each one a painting. We stop at the second one and spread a blanket over the scratchy heath, eavesdropping on a group of babbling school kids while we devour our meagre picnic lunch. Then we’re off again. Back along the undulating hilltops, clambering up and down ladders over stone walls, avoiding a close encounter with a massive black bull, and finally back into the shade of the wooded path back down. We decide to take a steeper hill down to shave off some time and, though we ruin our knees, we make it back to the shore in time for one of the last ferries across to Barmouth. A long day, scorched by the sun, and gasping for a pint at the end of it.
Dinas Oleu
Our last full day in Wales, we embark on the circular walk. Through the old town, up past St. Johns Church and onto the gorse-covered hill called Dinas Oleu meaning Citadel of Light. The land is protected by the National Trust and was donated by Mrs. Fanny Talbot, a local landowner and philanthropist. Of donating the 4.5 acres she said, 'I have long wanted to secure for the public for ever the enjoyment of Dinas Oleu, but wish to put it to the custody of some society that will never vulgarise it, or prevent wild nature from having its way…and it appears to me that your association has been born in the nick of time.' The path snakes along the hillside, veering off to visit the Frenchman’s Grave (an underwhelming memorial to a fascinating story) and then back down into town.
Mawddach Estuary
We spent our last evening in a little shepherd’s hut tucked away in the Mawddach Estuary, but there are numerous trails and cycle paths that take you along it. The Mawddach Trail is a popular route from Barmouth and Dolgellau that follows along the estuary through a shaded and relatively gentle path.
