June 21 Land of my great-grandfathers.
I am two miles south-west of Aberdaron, at Tỷ Newydd on the very tip of the beautiful Lleyn peninsula. If it wasn’t for the driving rain and thick fog, I would be able to see Bardsey Island out of Carmen’s back window. The famously nationalistic and unremittingly gloomy Welsh poet, R.S Thomas, was parish priest here for 20 years. Almost everyone speaks Welsh. I am, in fact, so deep into Wales that I’ve almost come out the other side.
I am two miles south-west of Aberdaron, at Tỷ Newydd on the very tip of the beautiful Lleyn peninsula. If it wasn’t for the driving rain and thick fog, I would be able to see Bardsey Island out of Carmen’s back window. The famously nationalistic and unremittingly gloomy Welsh poet, R.S Thomas, was parish priest here for 20 years. Almost everyone speaks Welsh. I am, in fact, so deep into Wales that I’ve almost come out the other side.
Typical Welsh weather
My son George likes to refer to this expedition, a touch sarcastically, as my “voyage of self-discovery”, and in one respect at least, that is exactly what it has proved to be. I wrote not long ago that “there isn’t a single drop of farming blood coursing through my veins”. It appears that I was wrong. Yesterday, after catching the early ferry from Dublin to Holyhead, I stopped off at Llandudno, to visit the only relations on my mother’s side of the family – the Welsh side – with whom we have any contact: my second cousin Mary Machin, and her husband Stephen. Mary’s mother Lyn was the daughter of my grandfather Daniel’s eldest brother, William, and before she died she made a start on piecing together a family tree.
From this, I discovered that the great-grandfather that Mary and I have in common – William Thomas – came from Ty’n y Clwt Farm, in Anglesey. Yes, farm! I don’t know any more than that about him, but on the face of it, he would appear either to have been a farmer, or at the very least to have been a farmer’s son. So far from there being not a single drop of farming blood in my veins, there could be as much as a whole pint! I shall view myself in a completely different light in future. Gibbo – descended from a long line of fiercely Welsh farmers. It probably explains a lot!
On Wednesday afternoon, I caught the bus from the campsite at Camac Valley into Dublin. I’m not a great fan of cities, but it has to be admitted that this is a handsome one. I followed the established tourist trail, through Temple Bar, and up O’Connell Street past the Spike to the Post Office, which featured so prominently in the Easter Rising of 1916. I even tracked down the bronze sculpture of Molly Malone in Grafton Street – “The Tart with the Cart”, as it is known,
and with good reason. She’s showing more bosom than you could shake a stick at!
My son George likes to refer to this expedition, a touch sarcastically, as my “voyage of self-discovery”, and in one respect at least, that is exactly what it has proved to be. I wrote not long ago that “there isn’t a single drop of farming blood coursing through my veins”. It appears that I was wrong. Yesterday, after catching the early ferry from Dublin to Holyhead, I stopped off at Llandudno, to visit the only relations on my mother’s side of the family – the Welsh side – with whom we have any contact: my second cousin Mary Machin, and her husband Stephen. Mary’s mother Lyn was the daughter of my grandfather Daniel’s eldest brother, William, and before she died she made a start on piecing together a family tree.
From this, I discovered that the great-grandfather that Mary and I have in common – William Thomas – came from Ty’n y Clwt Farm, in Anglesey. Yes, farm! I don’t know any more than that about him, but on the face of it, he would appear either to have been a farmer, or at the very least to have been a farmer’s son. So far from there being not a single drop of farming blood in my veins, there could be as much as a whole pint! I shall view myself in a completely different light in future. Gibbo – descended from a long line of fiercely Welsh farmers. It probably explains a lot!
On Wednesday afternoon, I caught the bus from the campsite at Camac Valley into Dublin. I’m not a great fan of cities, but it has to be admitted that this is a handsome one. I followed the established tourist trail, through Temple Bar, and up O’Connell Street past the Spike to the Post Office, which featured so prominently in the Easter Rising of 1916. I even tracked down the bronze sculpture of Molly Malone in Grafton Street – “The Tart with the Cart”, as it is known,
and with good reason. She’s showing more bosom than you could shake a stick at! The tart with the cart!
I was just wandering back toward the bus stop, reflecting sadly on the deep irony that a city so famous for its pubs should be so lacking in decent beer, when I spotted “The Porterhouse Brewery”, in Parliament Street. I ventured in, and you’ll never guess what I spied on the bar? Yes, a handpump, dispensing 100% genuine real Irish bitter, called Sticklebracht, and brewed on the premises. It was excellent, and it is a lovely pub as well. If you’re ever in Dublin, don’t miss it.
The 200 mile drive from Caheersiveen to Dublin had been surprisingly uneventful, given the inherent dangers associated with Irish major roads, and their crazy run-off areas or whatever it is they’re called. You never know what you’re going to encounter in them – a brace of female power walkers perhaps (power-walking is big in Ireland), or maybe a pony and trap, a gaggle of cyclists, or even a family having a picnic. Yet none of this stops the heavy lorries from pulling onto these hard shoulders at high speed to allow following traffic to overtake. Whenever you cross a county boundary on a main road in Ireland, you’re confronted with a large sign warning of how many motorists have been killed on the roads there in the last year. I’m not in the least bit surprised. At one point, the lorry in front had to veer out of the hard shoulder to avoid a tractor and muck-spreader parked on it just over the brow of a hill. It could have been very nasty.
I’m also intrigued by the way the Irish write their warning signs on the road itself. If you read from the top down (which I guess most of us in England do), the wording appears as:
TAKING
OVER
NO
When I first saw it, I thought it was something to do with the Referendum campaign.
I also liked the one on the jetty at Doolin, where the ferries leave for Arran:
OF
PIER
END
Mind you, one of the most striking examples of Irishness I have encountered was here in Wales last evening. There isn’t even the ghost of a mobile signal here on the campsite (which is why this won’t be posted until Sunday). The only spot for miles around where there i
s some reception is about a mile down the road – right alongside the BT telephone box!
I was just wandering back toward the bus stop, reflecting sadly on the deep irony that a city so famous for its pubs should be so lacking in decent beer, when I spotted “The Porterhouse Brewery”, in Parliament Street. I ventured in, and you’ll never guess what I spied on the bar? Yes, a handpump, dispensing 100% genuine real Irish bitter, called Sticklebracht, and brewed on the premises. It was excellent, and it is a lovely pub as well. If you’re ever in Dublin, don’t miss it.
The 200 mile drive from Caheersiveen to Dublin had been surprisingly uneventful, given the inherent dangers associated with Irish major roads, and their crazy run-off areas or whatever it is they’re called. You never know what you’re going to encounter in them – a brace of female power walkers perhaps (power-walking is big in Ireland), or maybe a pony and trap, a gaggle of cyclists, or even a family having a picnic. Yet none of this stops the heavy lorries from pulling onto these hard shoulders at high speed to allow following traffic to overtake. Whenever you cross a county boundary on a main road in Ireland, you’re confronted with a large sign warning of how many motorists have been killed on the roads there in the last year. I’m not in the least bit surprised. At one point, the lorry in front had to veer out of the hard shoulder to avoid a tractor and muck-spreader parked on it just over the brow of a hill. It could have been very nasty.
I’m also intrigued by the way the Irish write their warning signs on the road itself. If you read from the top down (which I guess most of us in England do), the wording appears as:
TAKING
OVER
NO
When I first saw it, I thought it was something to do with the Referendum campaign.
I also liked the one on the jetty at Doolin, where the ferries leave for Arran:
OF
PIER
END
Mind you, one of the most striking examples of Irishness I have encountered was here in Wales last evening. There isn’t even the ghost of a mobile signal here on the campsite (which is why this won’t be posted until Sunday). The only spot for miles around where there i
s some reception is about a mile down the road – right alongside the BT telephone box!Bardsey Island, through the storm
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