Sorry. Terrible Fiddler's Dram reference there.
My heart lifts when I get catch the train to Bangor. Well, after Crewe, anyway. The landscape turns from pancake flat to coastal and mountainous, one horizon expands while the other towers dramatically. In the foreground, tatty caravan parks in places like Rhyl and Towyn have a seedy charm of their own, while mighty Eryri appears from behind the clouds (if you're lucky). The sun shone for me on Saturday - crossing Conwy harbour, it warmed the walls of the medieval castle and sparkled off the sea. I saw a massive heron lazily perched on a small boat, waiting for dinner to fin past.
Bangor itself is not dramatic or overly picturesque, though it nestles in a narrow strip between the Menai Straits and the foothills. A faux-Norman castle, a lovely old pier, the Cathedral and the university provide some drama and relief from the pebbledash, but it has a small-town charm of its own.
The sunny day wasn't exactly wasted, but Ms. Owen, Ms. Lloyd and I spent it in a sophisticated bar, largely gossiping until Vicky drove us up to the Premier Inn, a soul-destroying place if ever there was one. From the carpark onwards, you could have been anywhere in the world - even the trees weren't local. To emphasise the alienation, Vicky and Aimee forced me to watch something called Animals Do The Funniest Things while we got ready. Sorry to spoil the suspense, but they don't.
In contrast, we headed to the Greek Taverna for a drink. Quite literally, it is a shaggy, maze-like stone-built Greek Taverna hidden in a row of old houses in Upper Bangor - a unique place. The beer is just about bearable, the food is lovely and the atmosphere stunning.
Super Furries review up next - with some photos
2 comments:
Premier Inn? Does that mean you stayed at Parc Menai - that bland business park? Ahh, memories. I used to get the bus to there most days when I was wasting 6 months of my life on a New Deal scheme - it was a shortish walk from there to the Faenol estate where I spent many hours sweeping up leaves, and watching the old Hungarian gardener use a chainsaw with ill-advised abandon. The 'training' aspect was a joke - we hardly got any. Still, memories.
Yes, that's right - it felt so very Alan Partridge. Has it given you a Proustian moment?
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