Northern Exposure, Wales, part II: A day of heat, havoc, and horny hijinks

Del Hughes

If you missed the first instalment of Del’s new series of travel features, click here to catch up.

DAY 2, and it was already apparent that our hire car — a Jaffa jalopy with spine-crushing seats and a personal vendetta — was trying to kill me. I might have been up with the lark, but that’s because I’d spent the night on the sofa, doom-scrolling, swilling painkillers, and slathering myself in that excellent British standard: Deep Heat. (Not that it helped my aching joints any, though my sinuses were clearer than they’d been in years.)

Given how I felt that morning, I doubted I could enjoy the scenic joys of North Wales from inside our Tangerine Tormentor, aka Christine. And it was raining. Sigh.

But no, it wasn’t. That steady hiss I’d chalked up to classic Welsh weather was, in fact, the sea, rising and falling against the shore, shifting the pebbles with each gentle pull and setting them into a soft, irregular clatter.

Okay, things were looking up. Maybe our pursuit of that sacred holiday trinity — serenity, spontaneity, and scenery so good it slaps your soul awake — was achievable?

Sea air

Tim, fresh from a ten-minute Co-op dash and triumphantly wielding a bag of locally roasted beans, was in battle with the baffling espresso machine. I left him to it and stepped out onto the hydrangea-drenched patio, letting the sea air work its briny magic.

Cloud cover was flimsy, with the sun promising to burn through within the hour. To the west, our cottage’s spectacular setting — smothered yesterday in heavy mist — now popped into view with a visual ‘boo!’ while the tide below kept up its low, contented murmur.

For the first time since arriving, everything felt in sync. I took a long, deep breath — salt, damp wood, the faintest trace of coffee — and felt, finally, that holiday mode had been activated. And chillax…

But that couldn’t last because the pooches were up and raring to explore their new surroundings. They’d already breached the fence and paid our neighbours an early morning visit, resulting in a tale of stolen bacon baps and a missing pair of swim shorts.

Clearly, ‘dog-proofed garden’ is a label that might withstand pug, poodle, or contemplative collie — but not two leggy lurchers with a thirst for mischief and an Olympic-standard leap.

As Tim pulled on his wellies to take them for a blast on the vast, empty beach, I headed for a cool shower. Then I poured another coffee, cracked open a pain au chocolat, and lounged comfortably in my forgiving muumuu and unforgiving compression socks. After my sleepless night, I sorely needed both carbs and caffeine.

Decomposing seagull

I was thus happily reclined when the boys returned — salty, smelly, and wildly excited after discovering a decomposing seagull. Having rolled liberally in its innards, John opted to sample this local delicacy, with projectile results. Moments later, Wolfie — a creature of joy, not physics — pranced into the living room, misjudged both his speed and the nature of wet paws on polished wood, and skidded, full tilt, into the side table.

Said table bore beverage and pastry and… well, you can imagine. Scenes. And all at 7.44 am. Hard eye roll.

(Thankfully, there was no need for Tim to barrel to B&Q for an emergency test pot — his spill-management technique was quick, effective, and did the trick. And, once we’d run the cushion covers through the wash, and blasted the wall with my Dyson Supersonic, I’d defy anyone to notice a thing. Phew.)

Rather than linger amid soggy upholstery and the pungent scent of Eau de Gull, Tim escaped to the sanctuary of his ablutions, and I called Europcar to request a comfier, roomier replacement. Because our holiday escape wasn’t only one week in Wales — had that been the case, I might have stuck with the marmalade menace.

But with a three-week odyssey planned — snaking from Aberdesach, through the dales of Yorkshire and rugged stretches of Cumbria, before winding into the untamed reaches of the Scottish Highlands — comfort wasn’t just preferable, it was essential.

Sally, the soothing operative, assured me she would arrange a replacement, and by 10 am that same morning, a pleasant young man was pulling up outside in the model of car we drive at home. Huzzah! The only slight difference? Ours is black, and this one was… yep, sodding orange. Lol.

After the early morning excitements, we took things slow. I kept a wary eye on my feet, already flirting with their usual holiday bloat. Thankfully, compression socks — hideous, yes, but heroic — were keeping the puffage at bay, for now.

(Left unchecked, my legs would briskly mutate into moon boots: creased, clumpy, and lacking the zero-gravity advantage that might’ve lent my lurching gait a whisper of lunar finesse. Groan.)

With only a slap-up lunch, a pit stop at Caernarfon’s impressive castle, and a hop to Ynys Môn on the cards, we slotted in some impromptu sightseeing to kick things off. So, by midday, the dogs were happily stashed in the cool utility room (pre-arranged with the cottage owners), and we boarded the newly upgraded mango motor, destination: Llandudno.

I vaguely recall visiting Llandudno on a family holiday many years ago, though I can’t say it left a lasting impression. Still, when I started organising this trip, it ended up on our must-see list. And that inclusion had its roots — or should that be hooves? — firmly planted in Covid times.

Back when the UK paused, and most of us dutifully heeded the Stay Home and Help the NHS message, YouTube and TikTok filled the social vacuum. Funny, light-hearted videos took the place of face-to-face connections, and one news story — along with countless clips — captured my interest: Goats.

Until then, I’d had no idea that the Llandudno goats were a thing. But apparently, they are. This town, perched between the Pen y Gogarth (Great Orme) and Rhiwledyn (Little Orme) headlands, seems to have politely declined the 21st century’s more garish advances, and with its timeless, slightly offbeat charm, the goats simply seem to… fit.

Pastel hotels and guest houses line the sweeping promenade, and the pier (Wales’s longest) still offers the full roster of seaside essentials: slot machines, candy floss, and the delicious tang of salt-and-vinegar-drenched chips. Drool.

The shops still sport their canopies and quiet dignity, as though expecting Queen Victoria to swing by for a souvenir thimble or a nostalgic stick of rock. It’s the kind of place where even the wildlife minds its manners — well, apart from the goats and gulls. But we’ll get to them.

If it’s a day at the beach you’re after, Llandudno offers two: North and West. North Shore, fringed by the promenade, is the livelier option — think ice cream, boat trips, and traditional donkey rides for the kiddies. There are even Punch and Judy shows, gently revised for modern sensibilities: the eyebrow-raising domestic dramas of yesteryear have been quietly retired in favour of slapstick silliness, and now sausage theft (rather than wife-bashing) is the primary source of jeopardy.

Kite-flying

West Shore is the quieter sibling, if you discount the seagulls. It’s the ideal sandy escape for R&R, kite-flying or frisbee-flinging, minus the risk of ploughing through someone’s picnic or singeing your shins on disposable BBQs. And there’s a café for coffee and snacks too — but resist the urge to feed those beaky bandits, unless you’re happy to star in your own remake of The Birds.

Fancy summiting Pen y Gogarth? A vintage tramway will take the strain, ascending the headland with all the urgency of a genteel pensioner. Meanwhile, cable cars drift overhead, serene and slightly surreal — as if the Pyrenees and Penmaenmawr somehow got their wires crossed. (Actually, there’s a dry ski centre at the top, so it sorta fits the vibe.)

It’s a place where time has paused — or at least slowed to a comfortable amble. Where, until Covid, the most unexpected things you might encounter would be a life-sized maniacal Alice, a White Rabbit, replete with oversized timepiece, and Tweedledum and his bro, twiddling their thumbs while loitering in Haulfre Gardens.

(Side note: In 1861, young Alice Liddell — yes, muse for that  Alice — began holidaying in Llandudno, where her well-heeled family built ‘Penmorfa’ on the West Shore. Their pal Charles Dodgson, aka Lewis Carroll, may or may not have popped by — but why let facts spoil a good story? By 1933, even PM Lloyd George was in on the whimsy, unveiling a White Rabbit statue. Today, the town’s gone full Mad Hatter with its Alice Trail — a bonkers romp of sculptures, seaside charm, and Victorian eccentricity. Wonderland, meet Wales.)

So, back to the shaggy saboteurs. The Kashmiri herd — descendants of Queen Victoria’s royal goats — are usually found grazing, with all the stately poise their bloodline implies, on Pen y Gogarth, cropping the clifftops like horny, hirsute groundskeepers. But when the world stilled, the blessed silence coaxed them down from their craggy kingdom. Though cautious at first, their skittish exploration soon morphed into full-on foliage felony.

These horticultural hooligans sauntered through the high street, past shuttered shops and empty promenades, into quiet residential lanes, sampling a previously untried diet of privets, flowers, fruit trees, and lovingly nurtured veg patches. Every garden became a buffet, and those bleating blighters were loving it — as was I, and thousands of others, who followed their daily frolics with delight. Right then, I knew that my next northern adventure would come with a side quest — to seek out those marauding munchers. Woohoo!

Reader, we saw not a single bloody goat. We hunted for over an hour, but not a solitary horn or hoof did we spy. Just a wisp of white fur snagged on brambles, and some droppings Tim insisted looked vaguely goatish. Those sure-footed beasties were clearly in hiding, and I was beyond gutted. No caprine carnival for Del. Sob.

Had we not booked lunch, I’d have kept searching — but like the White Rabbit, lateness wasn’t an option. We scurried back into town (ravenous as any Kashmiri goat, I’d wager) and parked outside The Cottage Loaf — a quaint gastropub with cosy interiors, brisk service, and, most importantly, a five-star rated Sunday roast.

Now, I’m not big on meat and two veg, but for Tim, it’s practically a religious experience. His devotion runs so deep that a Sunday roast appears twice on his death row list — you know, that macabre menu game where you pick your final feast before the big sleep? For me, it’s mussels, Hawaiian pizza, with Banoffee Pie chaser. But Tim’s going out swinging: Full English, roast to follow, then another for pud. (At this point, the afterlife’s going to need its own carvery station, just for him.)

So there’s pressure — one Sunday, one shot. At home, we’ve cracked it. Best roast in Swansea? The Plough & Harrow, Murton. Miracles happen here: immaculate beef, venerable veg, and gravy, straight from the holy grail. It’s not lunch; it’s divine dining, no sermon required. Hallelujah, and pass the parsnips.

But when you’re away? It’s online reviews, conflicting opinions, blurry shots of beige dinners, and the creeping fear that ‘home-cooked and hearty’ means overcooked and unloved. Still, this place was famed for its Sunday fayre, so we ordered, then prayed for a roast revelation.

We didn’t quite get one — but it was good. Tim pronounced the beef ‘quality,’ which, coming from an ex-butcher, is basically a Michelin star. The Yorkshires were fluffy, with a solid lineup of veg, and the gravy was tasty. The potatoes, though, leaned a tad towards Aunt Bessie, and dessert was competent, though shy of captivating.

Rammed

That said, it was absolutely rammed, so we may have caught it on a stretched-out service day. And as we tucked in — surrounded by chatter and the scents of culinary comfort and edible nostalgia — any simmering doubts gave way to warm approval. Worth another go? Deffo.

The journey home was uneventful… until we hit the A-road. Skirting Caernarfon at a steady 50 mph, traffic ahead began tapping the brakes. Oddly, no one touched the outside lane, so Tim, seeing no warning signs or hazards, indicated, pulled out, and we breezed past — briefly smug. Then came the flash: sudden, stark, unmistakable, lighting up our car, along with the police van, snug in its wooded stakeout. Turns out that every local knew the score, though we, of course, did not. Sigh.

Back at the cottage, we braced for chaos. But in a shocking twist, our notorious pups had behaved impeccably: no chewed cupboards, no bin-surfing, and thankfully, no seagull-induced gastrointestinal deposits (from either end). Just two snoozy lurchers, curled like furry canine commas — motionless, and channelling a slothful lifestyle they rarely subscribed to. Maybe it was the sea air?

(Frankly, such atypical behaviour almost dulled the sting of the brown envelope we knew would be waiting on the doormat post-holiday — stuffed with three penalty points and £100 worth of regret. Almost.)

To reward their saintly streak — and avoid a repeat performance of the morning’s avian drama — we booked a 60-minute session at the Zoomies Zone on Ynys Môn. And that was a stellar decision. For £12.50, they ran themselves ragged in a secure and well-appointed field, legs flying, ears flapping, lurchers at full tilt. And while Tim attempted, unsuccessfully, to wrangle them into a handy photo frame for an official snap, I sat on the seesaw, grinning like a proud parent. Worth every penny? Too right. I’d have paid double!

Before driving back for a brief recce of Caernarfon, we had to stop off at one of the most famous villages in Wales — Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, or Llanfair PG, as it’s known to locals, those on a tight schedule and, presumably, any White Rabbit racing a pocket watch. It’s the longest place name in the UK and, quite possibly, the least subtle tourist trap in linguistic history.

Back in the 1860s, a local tailor realised the town’s name wasn’t pulling its weight — or pulling in punters — so he stitched up a syllabic spectacle to lure the curious. It worked. Today, that same spectacle — now immortalised on the train station sign — attracts tourists, Insta influencers, and lovers of linguistic chaos. It’s a must-snap spot, a photo op we were primed to nail — if only the sign hadn’t been swathed in scaffolding and safety fencing. Eye roll.

But luckily, there was another, far less photogenic, sign at the station. So, while Tim hot-footed it across the bridge to capture pixellated proof of our pilgrimage, I stayed put — it was, quite literally, a bridge too far for me. (Still, credit where it’s due: I reckon J L Scaffolding NW Ltd is now inevitably infiltrating the Insta-verse. Genius product placement. Lol.)

 Updated Holiday Stats

 Accommodation: 9.5/10

Still lush, though our hound Houdinis remain hell-bent on testing that garden fence.

Food & Drink: 8.5/10

7/10 The Cottage Loaf, Llandudno. Good grub, great value for money.

10/10 Wickedly Welsh Choc (from our welcome pack). Makes Greene & Blacks taste distinctly average.

 Weather: 8/10

Some cloud, plenty of sun, and a welcome breeze; deffo an apology for Day 1’s pea-souper.

 Scenery: 8/10

Epic backdrops from all angles, but saving full marks ’til we summit Eryri.

 Wildlife Encounters:

Red kites — 8. Magnificent.

Sheep — Countless.

Seagulls — Countless.

Kashmiri Goats — 0. Rude.

Dolphins — 2? This, according to the barefoot chap who was camping on the beach. We await personal visual confirmation.

 Arguments vs Ardour: 6/10

No. of Arguments — 4: dogs (obvs), speed camera (inevitable), sat-nav (it lied), scandalous lack of goats (absolutely not okay).
Episodes of Ardour — 3. Brief hand-holding at train station. Tender leg-pats during goat pursuit. But it was at Caernarfon Castle, that hulking medieval muscle-flex, where Tim truly earned his gallantry badge — rescuing a beleaguered pigeon from a pack of stick-wielding mean kids. Swoon. And thus, our fragile détente still holds.

 Ankle-watch: 8/10

Definite puffage, but daps still fit. Winning.

 Overall Holiday Experience Score (to date): 5/10

Spirits lifting, laughter increasing, and Yahtzee made it through an entire evening without sparking a domestic. Day 2, done! And tomorrow? Well, let’s say it promises fewer syllables, genuine peril, and enough bondage gear to make a dominatrix blush. What could possibly go wrong?

For everything from local tips to attractions in North Wales and Llandudno, Visit Wales and GoNorthWales are packed with helpful info.