Circumstances of late have dictated that my girlfriend and I holiday in the UK. Sometimes these enforced restrictions require you to make the best of things and appreciate what's on your doorstep. Indeed, perhaps we're all so keen to jet off into the sun that it prevents our full appreciation of districts Lake or Peak, or the understated charms of Scotland, Yorkshire and Wales. Also, if I keep repeating this, it may reduce my envy of contemporaries jetting off to New Zealand or Bali, as I shiver through a steam museum on an inclement February day in the provinces. Still, there is enjoyment to be gained from such mini-breaks, free from the tyranny of work, broken glass and dog excrement, the latter two being the main local produce of our Manchester estate. Thus, this time we found ourselves taking a trip to lovely Beaumaris, veritable jewel on the coast of Anglesey in North Wales.
On day one, as if to compensate for our rather middle-aged pursuits of exploring the castle, taking a boat trip to Puffin Island and having an audiotour of the Old Courthouse museum, we went for a mini pub crawl on the evening, sampling pints of the local ale in five different hostelries. After our attempts at playing pool in one venue, I remarked to one of the septuagenarian locals as we left that he'd probably never seen as long or as dreary a game on that table. At this, he chuckled and nodded sagely, eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance as he rewound his brain through the decades in a vain search for a more inept display of hand-eye coordination.
As a city dweller, the pastoral appeal of these retreats is appealing, though there can be unexpected results when removed from your urban 'comfort' zone. For example, whilst enjoying a circular walk through Anglesey's coast and farmland, I discovered an irrational fear of livestock and animals in general. Signs on gates proclaiming “Bull, cows and calves grazing – keep shut” led me to quake inwardly for fear of a Withnail-esque encounter or worse. I experienced a hint of this phobia earlier when a bevy of enormous seagulls started a feeding frenzy next to us, prompted by the discarded batter from Sam's fish and chips, with reinforcements circling overhead like vultures sizing up the tenderest parts of my carcass.
Sam, however, loves all animals and during our walk was keen to get close to the nearest cow. As I hovered on the periphery, nervously stuttering that she “was getting it excited”, Sam tried to pet it and though her advances were rejected, it merely moved away benignly as if to confirm my cowardice. Further bovine encounters also did little to justify my fear, though I swear that some have murderous intent in their gimlet eyes, staring unblinking as they angrily realise you're not there to feed them.
If we may move from turf to surf, crabbing is quite a popular activity in Beaumaris, as confirmed by the legions of urchins with buckets of writhing crustaceans. That said, the closest we got to this activity was finding an expired, though structurally-intact, miniature crab on the beach which we christened “Crabbie” and considered taking home as a memento. I suppose this is a little disturbing - a stick of rock or an overpriced “I'd rather be in Beaumaris” mug would be an adequate souvenir for most people, but instead we decided to emotionally bond with a long-dead exoskeleton.
However, mindful of the likely crushed mess in the car and ensuing discovery of crab limbs in the glovebox for the next six months, we decided against taking it home, though the hapless former creature was immortalised digitally for posterity as seen above.
We stayed in a former chapel, converted into dated-but-cosy flats whilst retaining the ecclesiastical features of its previous life. This meant that our bathroom had the original church windows, turning a morning trip to the toilet into a quasi-religious experience, blinding light beaming through the hallway as if one was being summoned by one's maker for a higher purpose, as opposed to summoned by one's bladder for a morning clearout.
Divine water-closets aside, Beaumaris was a lovely, unspoilt little town with none of the tackiness that can blight our more traditional seaside resorts. The local people were friendly, and the shopkeepers possessed of a ready wit – when Sam bought a rolling pin from a hardware store, the middle-aged couple who ran the place launched into a long-running joke about how I'd best be careful what time I returned home from the pub, the implication being that said item was for flattening disobedient boyfriends as opposed to pastry. It was a such a well-oiled routine that I imagined they had a different domestic violence-related gag for each item of kitchenware sold, warning unwary husbands of the bludgeoning capabilities of each tenderiser, spatula and cake decorator.
So, shopping was a less impersonal experience and manners seemed to matter more in this quiet, humanised town. As we arrived back at the harbour following our boat trip to Puffin Island, there were two different lines of customers queuing to disembark. As only one person could exit the boat at any one time, and with the clientele containing many women, children and pensioners, there ensued a baffling system of “after you/no, after you” chivalry. I began to worry that our exit would be delayed as a complex written hierarchy of who could leave and when was established, with due regard to age, gender and frailty. I then saw two old ladies with walking sticks approaching each other in the queues and wondered what would happen in the event of a tie.
All in all, this was a pleasant trawl through the vagaries of Middle Britain and a reminder of the inherent, oft-overlooked, charms of our own little island. Visit Beaumaris and Anglesey with confidence, my friends - just don't upset those cows.
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