Trails and tribulations

Waking up is always a bonus. It helps start the day with an I’m-still-here spirit that should persist at least until the mail arrives. After that, of course, it’s every man for himself. But, as the season gently winds down, life and the populace seem to become less harried, less demanding, somehow. Shop assistants return to smiling benignly, possibly because they’re not watching little Harry practice his SAS HALO jump from the boot-practice ramp in the outdoor shoes area, or perhaps because the temperatures upstairs in a shop built more than a hundred years ago, when ice ages were still in fashion, are now subsiding to a point where flies and rattlesnakes can survive them.

Hoteliers greet Autumn with mixed feelings; families of five, crammed into a single family room to save money, no longer drain the will to live from the proprietor, but rooms now remain empty - never a good situation. Weather-dependent attractions - the cable cars and boat trips - often enjoy something of a renaissance in the calmer weather September is well known for. Silly questions, such as ‘Why isn’t the cable car running?’ shouted above the noise from a force 9 gale which would have any cable car flying in a horizontal position show a marked decrease and families with barely controlled young children, apparently hell-bent on wreaking death and destruction on all around now remain home and plan their starring roles in Halloween at the next half term.

But, perhaps best of all, the roads return to a semblance of normality. One of the many advantages of living in a tourist destination - especially one as world-famous as Snowdonia - is the magnificence of the scenery, a feature which has retained its stark beauty since time began, which is certainly when the roads were laid down. Roads in North Wales were - for the most part - either laid down on cart trails or built originally by the Romans. The A5, for instance, has many arrow-straight sections (Romans didn’t like going round corners much) but most non-Roman roads still follow the route taken by the hay carts. In short, they’re convoluted and narrow. Every year at least one coach will get jammed on the A470, attempting to negotiate the tortuous bends of a road never designed for anything longer than a cart and two horses and it can be almost guaranteed that anyone trying to reach Betwys during August should take sandwiches and an overnight bag.

But September brings relief. Gone are the tourists who enjoy meandering down the main road from Black Cat to Betwys at a sedate 30 mph, drinking in the scenery and oblivious to the fact that the area actually has people who work there and need to get some place in under a day; gone are the cars apparently built without reverse gears who seek to navigate the single track roads up to Crafnant. Gone, too, are the legions of hikers who - armed with map and trusty compass - can be seen ploughing their way resolutely through never used footpaths, proclaiming their right to roam to half a dozen bemused sheep and a puzzled cow.

But we love the visitors really; after all, if it wasn’t for them we wouldn’t have the place looking as good as it does and there’s also that indefinable feeling of warmth when someone says to you “You’re really lucky living here!”. We may not always feel that way, but we always remember that there are far, far worse places in which to live. Roll on Christmas!

For chuckles!