Waterway

It was early, too early, and I'd slipped out of the Travelodge with my backpack of clothes and walked across a silent Llandudno to the station.  Llandudno is not an early morning town; there was no hustle of commuters or throng of coffee shops open for shift workers.  It was still sleepy.  A little like me.

I was so early, in fact, that the booking hall wasn't even open.  Luckily I'd ordered all my tickets in advance so I didn't need to buy a new one.  I entered the station via a side entrance by the car park.  

Like a lot of seaside termini, Llandudno was built for throughput.  Long platforms butt onto a wide open concourse with a recently added glass front.  Send the hordes straight through and out the other side with as little fuss as possible.  I walked down to the exposed platform and waited for my train south.  I only had one stop to travel right now.

Deganwy is the only intermediate stop on the branch from the North Wales Coast Line to Llandudno.  It felt like a town that had once tried to be seasidey too, maybe getting some of the people who couldn't afford Llandudno proper, but had since given up and become simply a quiet coastal spot.  

The station was wedged into the sea wall, overlooked by a row of shops and a car park.  I was the only person to get off here, of course, and I trudged across the tarmac.

The A546 burned alongside the railway, but I took a side path.  Jutting out into the Conwy estuary was an enclave of new, modern homes and apartment blocks, grouped around a marina.  They were, in truth, astonishingly ordinary, but their single entrance point and the yachts they surrounded gave it a low-rent glamour, like a Welsh Howard's Way.  The developers had clearly been persuaded to put in a coastal path as part of their planning permission and it was meanly provided, slicing between a high wall and the railway line and fizzing with resentment.  There was the occasional jogger, but I mostly had it to myself.

Past the apartments the view opened up and I could see across the river to Conwy castle, a fairytale construction, barely seeming real.  Above it squatted a grim looking grey cloud.  The further south I'd gone from Llandudno, the chillier it had got, as though the bad weather was waiting for me.  As I reached the head of the Conwy Tunnel it broke.  Suddenly I was pelted by heavy raindrops, the cloud seemingly dropping all its water on me at once.  I wrestled with my bag and pulled on a coat by I was already wet through.

It did mean that the excitement of crossing the Conwy Tunnel itself was slightly muted.  The A55, a motorway in all but name stretching from Chester to Holyhead, used to slow to a crawl when it hit Conwy.  The ancient town was far too historic to be bulldozed for a dual carriageway, but the only crossing point for the river was via its bridges, so they had no choice.  

Finally in 1986 construction began on two immersed tube tunnels; basically two long boxes dropped onto the river bed and then connected to the road at each end.  It was a marvellous engineering achievement and opened in 1991.  I was walking on an artificial headland constructed to form the tunnel entrances, passing over the road traffic itself, and that will always give me a little frisson of excitement.

With over two hours until my next train, and the weather doing its best to drown me before I got there, I gambled that Conwy would be a little more lively at this time of morning than Llandudno Junction and turned right onto the the causeway instead of left.  I'd not eaten yet; I'd forgone the overpriced Travelodge croissant and orange juice breakfast, and nowhere in Llandudno had been open for me.  I wanted a warming cup of tea and maybe a bacon roll.

The rain battered me across the headland.  It blurred my glasses so much I took them off; it's easier to squint through storms than to have your vision completely impaired.  I dodged the roadworks that were making the Conwy Bridge distinctly utilitarian looking and plunged into Conwy town through the gate in the town walls.  Sadly, it looked like Conwy was as quiet at that time in the morning as Llandudno, but luckily the Costa had just opened.  The barista was unloading boxes of coffee and syrup and looked bemused at my dripping wet hair and coat, but I still managed to get a large tea and a sausage bap and I sat near a radiator and dried.  

Filled with pork and PG Tips I retraced my steps back over the bridge.  I'd walked this way before, in 2011 when I did the North Wales line, and little had changed in the intervening years.  Perhaps Llandudno Junction was a little shabbier, or perhaps I'd walked a different way.  I'd ducked down below the main road and walked silent side streets with boarded up buildings.  

Yes, it was still raining, though it had slowed to a trickle, a relentless wash of water speckling your face and body.   I ducked across the car park to reach Llandudno Junction station and went inside.

Llandudno Junction is not a destination.  It's a crossover point.  It's designed to be experienced at platform level only, as a place for people to change trains.  Even then it falls down.  It's a cold, bare station.  The wind whistles into its open spaces and the rain comes at you from all angles - sometimes through the roof itself.  It wasn't a place to spend any time.  

Unfortunately, I had ages to wait until my train south.  Instead, I leapt on the train north to Llandudno, the train that would actually turn into the one I wanted, simply so I could have a bit of warmth and a comfortable seat.  Across the aisle from me a man in shorts, fresh from the gym, was eating a tin of tuna with a fork.  When he'd finished protein loading, he reached into his bag and pulled out another tin and started on that.  In the meantime, the rest of us got to enjoy the distinct scent of fish wafting down the carriage.

At Llandudno I walked out of the station with everyone else, because I didn't want the train people to see that I was loitering.  This is absolutely what happens; station staff love to stare at middle-aged men and judge them on their travelling choices.  Instead I walked round the block then back in the station in time to board the same train I'd just come in on and head to Glan Conwy.

No, I'm not going to make a cheap glans joke.  

Now I felt like I was in proper Wales.  Above the A55 it can be a bit like England with an accent.  Now it seemed like I had slipped into the proper, rural Wales that you imagine.

Admittedly, Glan Conwy wasn't the most charming place on earth.  It was a little bit grim and utilitarian, wedged against the wide river.  Homes cascaded down the hillside.  The pub was in the process of being redeveloped into homes.  There was a tiny village shop, and a playground, and that was about it.  I'd seen pretty much all of its charms in five minutes.

Which was handy, because I soon had to be out of there.  I had a bus to catch.

  

Day Three (Concluded): Underworld

Edward I must be spinning in his tomb. Welsh flags over Conwy Castle? All those years of oppression for nothing.

I headed out of town. It's a sign of how difficult it is to cross the Conwy estuary that there are three bridges here, each one within a few feet of another: a Telford suspension bridge, a Stephenson railway bridge, and the main road bridge. The Telford and Stephenson bridges were both trial runs for their larger efforts over the Menai Strait - it was a nice bookend to the day. I was on the newest bridge, which is much quieter than when it was originally built.

For a long time, traffic was forced through the tiny medieval streets of Conwy; anyone heading from the North to Holyhead would have had to compete with narrow, 13th century roads. It seems like a nightmare. Fortunately, in the late 80s, they finally decided to do something about it.

Running underneath those boats is the Conwy tunnel, a dual carriageway that bypasses the town completely. It was the first immersed tube tunnel in the UK - sections were floated out into the bay and then lowered into the riverbed.

I know right now there are a whole load of railway people reading this who are rolling their eyes and skipping ahead, and fair enough. I'm not a trains vs roads person. The country needs good railways and good roads. There's far more romance in the railway - it's difficult to get misty eyed over a Vauxhall Astra - but the roads are a necessary, valuable part of the network. The tunnel under the bay is a brilliant feat of engineering, and I find it fascinating. If it were up to me there'd be road tunnels all over the place, sending motorways under city centres and everything. But that's going back to my deep seated Freudian tunnel issues, so let's not dwell, shall we?

One last glimpse of Conwy Castle and then I was into the town of Llandudno Junction. After the scenery across the river it was a bit of a shock. Ugly industrial units. Messy road layouts. Fences everywhere. It was as though Conwy had deliberately farmed all its unattractive parts over here - the picture in its attic.

Also, for a town actually named after a railway station, they go out of their way to hide it. I expected it to be signposted as soon as I hit the bank, but no; I had to follow my instincts, trying to keep the railway line in sight and hoping I ended up outside it.

The path stopped suddenly, and forced me down some steps and into an underpass. They'd done that classic municipal trick of allowing graffiti artists to paint a mural on the inside, as a deterrent to further painting; personally I can't stand it. I know it gives young people something to do, deters crime, blah blah, but I'd prefer a nice brightly tiled tunnel when I'm skulking under a dual carriageway. The heavy purple of the paint, combined with the poor lighting, made it oppressive. It was all well done, and there was a nice cameo from the railway junction, but I still rushed through.

I finally found the station, entirely by luck, and I staked out a spot in the car park for the photo. Unfortunately my camera's lens wasn't wide enough - you'll have to imagine the final 'n' for yourselves:

It was a strange little station. I was there for twenty minutes, and there was almost no activity whatsoever. No trains came through. Then, in a five minute period, we seemed to get about four hundred of the things.

When I'd planned this trip, Llandudno had very much been on the agenda. I was going to take a train from here to Deganwy, next on the branch from Llandudno to Blaenau Ffestiniog, then walk to Llandudno itself so I could take a ride on the tramway. Then a regular train back to Colwyn Bay. My love in with the various towns of North Wales had put paid to that idea, though. It was pushing four o'clock; the tramway would almost certainly be closed by the time I got there. I decided to leave it for another trip, sometime. Maybe.

Instead I took a seat on the platform to wait for the Colwyn Bay train. There were a couple of teenagers further down, teasing a seagull with some Pringles. A group of pensioners arrived, and were dismayed to find that the coffee shop was closed; the man disappeared and returned with some Capri Suns from the Netto over the road. I put in my iPod to blot out their bleating. I was listening to Ian's superb album Come to Metro-land; the evocative lyrics and very British music were the perfect soundtrack for a peaceful train station platform.

And so to Colwyn Bay.

I had a minor frisson of excitement as I arrived on the platform. An ALF! Well, a semi-ALF. Tucked away at the far end of the platform was a Welcome to Colwyn Bay sign with a dragon on it. It's not really an Attractive Local Feature - not unless there really is a dragon with a magic wand somewhere in the town - but I'll take what I can get.

The station meshed Victoriana with Eighties red brick, not entirely successfully; while the lift shafts were necessary and unobtrusive, the octagonal customer services building with its mirrored glasses was too much. Too brassy and low class; Miami Vice in amongst Upstairs Downstairs. On the plus side, we had a working, staffed ticket office, and even ticket gates. Wow. I'd assumed that Arriva Trains Wales had given up on revenue protection as throwing good money after bad. What next, a pleasant, friendly member of staff? A clean train?

Ignoring the stares from the drivers in the taxi rank, I took the station pic:

The town was pretty and busy. The shopping day was winding down, but the pedestrianised precinct was still thronged, and the shops looked well patronised. The WH Smiths, in particular, had a nice metal canopy with WHS formed in the ironwork.

The Travelodge came with a surprise: The BF! He'd driven down to Colwyn Bay to meet me, and to take me out for a dinner. This was a wonderful treat, not least because the town's culinary options seemed limited - if you didn't want KFC or a kebab, you would be out of luck. With the Bf's arrival I could justify going to a proper restaurant. Eating out on your own seems like a ridiculous extravagance.

We ended up in what seemed to be Colwyn Bay's sole non-takeaway eatery; Virgilio's or, as it's also known, the Restaurant Time Forgot. If you bundled up every Italian restaurant cliche, scrunched them into a ball, and threw them into 1976, you'd get Virgilios. Plastic vines crawling over a terracotta indoor roof; plastic tablecloths and laminated menus; red, white and green fairy lights thronging the ceiling. We were the only people in there and ate our pollo cacciatore and seafood pizza inbetween whispers. The owner lurked behind a wall, chatting to her friends, but keeping a firm eye on us; we'd barely put our knives down before she whisked our plates away. It was cheap, it was cheerful, and it was a lovely end to the day. It beat a Morrison's sandwich in my hotel room, anyway.