Northern Exposure, Wales, Part I: Del Hughes Deals with Prickly Partnerships and Holiday Hiccups

Del Hughes 

Some holidays begin blissfully: brilliant blue skies, waves lapping gently on sunlit shores, a cooling breeze ripe with the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine. Time slows, stretches, each moment suspended in quiet harmony, until all is effortless relaxation and perfect peace. Lush.

Mine, however, began beneath a blanket of grey, a morning choked by thick, oppressive mist, whispering of trouble ahead. And that trouble came swiftly, in the form of quarrels, swollen limbs, and an immediate plunge into travel turmoil. Fitting, really, given the relentless chaos of recent years.

As you may have read in my last article, I’ve spent months marinating in misery, courtesy of the annus horribilis that was 2024. Acute health issues, moving Stepdad into a bungalow, selling Mum’s house—layer upon layer of stress, compounded by a fracturing family fallout, had me unravelling. By mid-July, exhaustion had taken hold. I was buckling under the strain, with daily meltdowns and endless tears. I needed help …

… And that came in the unlikely form of Tim (my other half) who, armed with his trademark straight-talking and Yorkshire good sense, took charge like the hero he—sporadically—can be: ‘Right, stop obsessing about shit you can’t change, stop snivelling, and book us a holiday. Even I can see you need one, and I don’t notice owt.’ Lol! Diplomatic? Hardly. Effective? Abso-bloody-lutely.

(Side note: Tim is notoriously oblivious. When I first started wearing glasses, it took him two weeks to comment—and only then because he accidentally put them on and thought the telly was buggered. Classic Tim. Eye roll!)

And so, with the summer holidays six days away, we had five weeks (Tim’s a teacher) of complete freedom—time to do what the hell we wanted, and go wherever our hearts desired.

And my heart desired the tropics; two weeks of broiling sun, afloat in azure seas, and guzzling Piña Coladas (preferably without getting caught in the rain). Wistful exhale! But that was a pipe dream. While we could take to the open roads in search of adventures, said roads and adventures needed to:

Be within the UK – Forgot to renew our passports.

Be less than four hours away – Any further and I’d be in spasm territory, water retention would kick in, and I’d lose my ankles.

Have a max-security garden – No one with a shred of sense would look after John and Wolfie, and frankly, we don’t blame them. Two young long-dogs with an eight-foot reach and stunning turn of speed would not make for a tranquil dog-sitting experience.

I started surfing, determined to snag a last-minute bargain, and three days later, we were set.

Destination: North Wales.

Okay, it wasn’t the Maldives—but if you squint, ignore the temperature, and pretend the brisk Welsh wind is a tropical zephyr rather than a full-scale meteorological mugging, it has its charms. No overwater bungalows in crystal-clear lagoons, but we had secured a sturdy seaside bungalow, one that could withstand any storm and, crucially, had a well-fenced garden.

And while I probably wouldn’t be feasting on Fihunu Mas (grilled fish with coconut and chili flakes), TripAdvisor assured me there was a five-star chippy in Caernarfon. Score!

Of course, I’m joshing. Many of my childhood holidays were spent on the Llŷn Peninsula—halcyon days of ice creams, castles, and coastal capers; rock pooling in secluded coves, scaling Yr Wyddfa’s slopes (on my poor father’s shoulders), and breathing in the briny air of Ynys Môn. With Eryri to the west, its jagged peaks etched against the sky, it always felt like a world apart—untouched, mythical, and precisely what the doctor, aka Tim, ordered.

And with it would come the rolling cadence of our ancient, lyrical language (and Tolkien’s inspiration for Elvish), its presence far stronger up north than down south. I might not speak the lingo, but simply hearing its rhythm carries me to a realm of story and song—even when the chatter is a prosaic debate about bin collections, parking prices, or placing bets on how much longer the Menai Bridge will take to repair.

Heading north wouldn’t just be a change of scenery—it would be an escape, a journey to Tolkien’s Middle-earth, with the promise of both ‘dangerous’ adventures and some well-earned R&R.

With anticipation surging, I was revved up and ready to hit the highway. But on the eve of our departure, our car had other plans. Hard eye roll!

And so, instead of our spacious, understated vehicle, with ample room for us, pups, mobility scooter, and luggage, our voyage of discovery began in a far less accommodating, and aggressively orange, hire car.

Two deeply disconsolate dogs were stuffed into a boot so restrictive we had to surrender the back seats or risk a welfare call from the RSPCA. My mobility scooter was a literal no-go, and the altered logistics forced a last-minute purchase of a roof bag for their canine baggage, as well as ours. Still, I reassured myself that this wasn’t a bad omen for our holiday. Course not. (Spoiler: it was.)

Day 1: The Grand Departure Debacle

I told Tim we had to leave by ten at the latest because the owner was meeting us with the key. A big fat lie. Tim’s tardiness is legendary, and I’ve learned to adapt. I always give him a departure time of at least thirty minutes—often an hour—earlier than necessary. That way, he happily indulges his chronic lateness, and I arrive stress-free and with time to spare. It might be a sneaky stratagem, but it certainly saves my sanity.

But that morning, I found myself eating a hefty portion of humble pie because, in a world first, Tim had somehow transformed into a dynamo of premature coordination. While I slept, he’d got up, done his ablutions, walked the dogs, fed the dogs, bought a dozen ‘fresh this morning’ eggs from the farm shop, packed his case, organised the device bag, fitted the roof bag, removed the roof bag, read the ‘How to Fit the Roof Bag’ instructions, re-fitted the roof bag, packed the roof bag, unpacked the roof bag, and finally, re-packed the roof bag.

Wowzers! Tim, ahead of schedule? Either the matrix was glitching or he’d mysteriously absorbed my passion for punctuality overnight.

But all good things, and at exactly 9:59 am, he realised that he hadn’t made up a flask. (Bollocks! I’d hoped he’d forget.) He always takes one, and we never drink it. That took him twelve minutes because he’ll only use hot milk, and he doesn’t trust the microwave after the overspill disaster of ‘08. Then, after another nineteen minutes, while he wrestled with the alien satnav, and had one last ‘wee for the road,’ we were away.

Our four-hour journey was overcast, thoroughly unsettled, with occasional bright spots—and I don’t just mean the weather. It was a rolling raft of rows, kicking off in Penllagaer when my phone hijacked the infotainment system and booted Tim’s off. And from there on, it got worse.

Cross Hands: A car ahead was driving erratically. Tim ranted. I told him to let it go—his commentary, not the car. He didn’t.

Llandeilo: Tim discovered there was no Greggs on the route I’d planned.

Lampeter: Driving an unfamiliar car aggravated Tim’s meniscus. I began biting my nails.

Trefilan: His despair over the scarcity of Steak Bakes reached existential proportions.

Unscheduled pit stop, Aberystwyth: Sodding Greggs. We had a quick round of ‘Guess Who’s Died’ (Aw, lovely Ray Reardon) as I enjoyed a coffee and pizza slice. Tim’s pastry was cold. Ha! The sun put in an appearance, and things began looking up. As if.

Outskirts of Aberystwyth: Tim bemoaned his Steak Bake, saying, ‘There’s nothing worse in life!’ I casually mentioned that I’d enjoyed my Greggs coffee. Tim insisted I’d had tea. He had literally bought me coffee! The heavens opened.

Harlech: Brief vista ahead—the sea. Tim thought it was the sky. (Fair enough, conditions made it nigh on impossible to tell for sure.) But I knew the view from Harlech, and satnav backed me up. Tim remained steadfast in his delusion. I chewed the inside of my cheek.

Penrhyndeudraeth: After spending the bulk of the journey incessantly adjusting my seat to attain a smidge of comfort, Tim helpfully suggested I should ‘try moving the seat a bit.’

Aberdesach: We’d arrived. We’d forgotten the ‘fresh this morning’ farm eggs. Tim’s flask was untouched. Heavy sigh.

Aberdesach is a small seaside hamlet, eight miles west of Caernarfon. I’d chosen this location for its tranquillity, proximity to the sea, the dramatic backdrop of Eryri, and the promise of spotting the wild mountain goats that roam the slopes of the nearby Eifl mountains.

But right then, a pewter mist smothered what was surely a breathtaking landscape, shrouding Yr Wyddfa and the surrounding peaks. Classic Wales—the weather conspiring to keep its finest scenery strictly off-limits. (Yet it certainly added a fitting touch of pathetic fallacy to our fractious drive. Hmph.)

But even with visibility hovering between six and ten feet, there was something oddly enchanting about the dense, low-hanging cloud, lending a quiet sense of mystery to what lay beyond. Somehow, the mountains, not seen but sensed, loomed with an amplified presence—their weight bearing down through the fog. And the coastline, its contours blurred and ghostly, hinted at a remote wildness, leaving imagination to trace its veiled silhouettes.

Mind, a quick glimpse of sun wouldn’t have gone amiss—enough to cut through the murk and confirm that we’d actually arrived at our coastal refuge and hadn’t, say, mistaken some nondescript layby for our final destination.

We were in the right place. And despite the silent tension that thrummed between us, stepping into that cottage brought a rare moment of accord—it was lovely. Seconds from the beach, the location was unbeatable, and the place itself was immaculate, giving strong, airy-art-gallery-meets-cosy-coastal-retreat vibes. The welcome pack sealed the deal, with a bottle of local pink fizz, bara brith, and a large slab of chunky Welsh chocolate. Fab.

While Tim commandeered the provided wheelbarrow to ferry our gear from the car park, I took a far more sensible approach. By now, my spine was registering its grievances, and my compression socks—essential for a woman whose body hoards water like an overzealous sponge—were fast cutting off circulation to my ballooning feet. If I wanted to salvage my ankles, immediate intervention was required: a long soak, followed by leg elevations so extreme, they’d surely have raised eyebrows had anyone chanced upon the scene. Luckily, the fog protected my dignity.

That evening, David—our landlord for the week—called to check we’d arrived. Not only was he a real character, but he was also an artist, and most of the wonderful paintings adorning the walls were his own. He had the unmistakable energy of someone who had lived several lives—part storyteller, part philosopher, part eccentric—and we hit it off instantly.

Conversation bounced between local legends, artistic reflections, and the best fish shops in Caernarfon. We even arranged to meet up on Monday for a creative exchange—his painting of the view from our cottage in return for a copy of my book. He was a total star!

(Though, given his unquestionable talent, I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d later regret swapping his fine art for my questionable musings on muffs, menopause, and misguided misadventures. In retrospect, I feel I probably owe him an apology, so… sorry, David. You deffo got the worst side of that deal.)

Later, as I reclined on the sofa, dressed to kill in fresh squeezy socks and a breezy, floral muumuu, Tim returned with a piping-hot parcel from what David had said was the best chippy in town. Then, we popped the Prosecco, and, with that, our icy impasse cracked—not shattered, but the first fragile signs of thawing—and we settled into a quiet truce sealed by battered cod and the celebratory clink of glasses. Because really, what’s more effective at
dissolving discord than deep-fried, fizz-soaked diplomacy? And… relax.

In bed, feet perched atop a teetering tower of pillows, Tim caught up with his online golf, while I jotted down notes on the irony of a getaway that promised peace but had delivered mainly permafrost—so far. At least the dogs were living their best lives. Yay them. Sob.

Holiday Stats:

Accommodation: 9.5/10

Cosy and charming. Minus half a mark for the garden. Yes, it was escape-proof for any normal, medium-sized or smaller, pups, but not for our two. Hopefully, the boys wouldn’t sniff out that one low fence panel.

Food & Drink: 7.5/10

9/10 Ainsworth’s, Caernarfon—Chunky cod and cracking chips, but minus one for minuscule portions of curry sauce.
4/10 Greggs, Aberystwyth—Tim’s assessment, obvs.

Weather: 1/10 (Need I say more?)

Scenery: 3/10 (No doubt stunning, mostly invisible.)

Wildlife Encounters:

Red kites—3. Magnificent.
Sheep—Gave up at 473. Repetitive.
Wild goats—0. Frustrating.
Dolphins—0. Disappointing, though more likely to spot when the sea is visible.

Arguments vs Ardour: 2/10

No. of Arguments—9. A strong performance.

Episodes of Ardour—1. Over chips, we reminisced about our second date near Betws-y-Coed, our midway meeting point back then. I asked if he remembered me dragging him to the Slate Museum. He nodded. ‘That’s when I knew you were a keeper.’ Aw, bless him—I think? (I chose to take it as heartfelt sentiment rather than well-placed sarcasm—I thought it best not to risk fracturing our fragile détente before it had time to take root.)

And despite all evidence to the contrary—objectively, neither of us had covered ourselves in glory thus far, being evenly matched in the art of petty squabbles and sulking—I was tentatively optimistic for Day 2. Derek, the weather guy, predicted sunshine, Tim vowed to secure extra curry sauce in future, and, after much resistance, I succeeded in persuading my pathologically pill-averse partner to take two Ibuprofen and to slather his knee with Voltarol.

And though there was definite puffage, my ankles were both still present and, mainly, correct. Huzzah!

So there was a chance our trip might morph into something bordering on functional—maybe even fun. It’d been years since our last proper break, and I couldn’t recall how that panned out.

Was this our routine: a storm of spats before a blessed convivial calm? Hopefully, though I suspected that, for us, holidays are so-called because I bristle at the slightest provocation, Tim retreats into spiky silence, and basically, we’re both too sodding prickly for our own good. (Holly-days, get it? I’ll see myself out.)