My journey began on a grey morning in Chester. I boarded the train with a coffee that was already cooling and a book I barely touched. Outside the window, the River Dee widened and the countryside fell away into estuary. Once we crossed into Wales, the signs changed and so did the light. Everything grew deeper in colour. Hills rose slowly, dark with bracken, and stone houses tucked themselves into folds of land as if trying not to be seen.
Friday, Conwy and the first slow breath
I got off at Llandudno Junction and walked the short way across the river into Conwy. The first thing that hit me was the castle, vast, solid, and somehow both a ruin and completely intact. It looks like it was grown from the rock beneath it, not built. I checked into a guesthouse on Llanwrst Road, a whitewashed Victorian place that seemed to have stepped straight out of a Dylan Thomas story.
In the evening, I wandered through town, down to the quay. I sat on a bench and watched a young boy trying to catch crabs with a bucket on a string while his grandfather offered quiet encouragement. A pleasant stroll along the Marine Walk and Bodlondeb Woods was followed by dinner at the Erskine Arms, tucked just behind the walls. I had pan-roasted cod and local ale, and the open fire crackled all night. I slept like I’d walked further than I had.
Saturday, Betws-y-Coed and the rain that helped
It rained the next morning, but in Wales it’s not something that stops you. I took the number 19 bus to Betws-y-Coed, which sounds like it should be difficult to pronounce but settles on your tongue eventually. The village sits at the meeting of rivers, and everything feels damp in a good way, like the land is always drinking.
I followed the path along the Afon Llugwy to Swallow Falls. It’s a short walk, but I dawdled. Moss covered the rocks like velvet. The waterfall was thunderous and white with spray, but it was the silence between the rushes that stayed with me. Back in the village, I found a seat inside the old railway station, now a café and gallery. I dried off with a pot of tea and a slice of bara brith that stuck to the roof of my mouth in the best possible way. I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t need to.
Sunday, Snowdon by the Ranger Path
On Sunday an old walking friend collected me from the hotel. WeI’d decided not to take the usual Llanberis path up Snowdon. Instead, we started at the western side, near Llyn Cwellyn, and followed the old Ranger Path. It was early, the kind of early where your boots crunch frost and the only sound is your breath. The climb is steady and gives you time to notice things. Sheep watching from ledges. The way water glints in rock cracks. Once, I stopped to let a cloud pass through me. It felt like being gently erased and redrawn.
At the summit, the café was closed but I’d brought a sandwich wrapped in paper that had started to go see-through. I sat on the cold stone and ate slowly, watching patches of view open and close like shutters. There was a man in a bright red coat who said nothing but nodded as we passed each other twice. That was enough.
Monday, the long road to Aberdaron
I’d hired a car for the second half of the trip. The drive along the Llŷn Peninsula was one of those rare ones where you don’t mind getting lost. Roads narrowed into hedge tunnels. I stopped at a layby to buy eggs from a tin box with an honesty jar and a note that read “Six for £1.50, please shut the lid after.”
Aberdaron appeared at the bottom of a hill like something drawn in chalk. A sweep of sand. A small church. Boats pulled far up the beach. I checked into Gwesty Ty Newydd, a small hotel right by the sea. The tide came up almost to the door.
That evening, I walked along the beach barefoot. The water was sharp with cold but it cleared my head. I had dinner at The Ship, a low-ceilinged pub where I ordered fish pie and sat near a group of hikers talking about midges and maps. The sky outside turned the colour of tin.
Tuesday Bardsey Island and the Sound of Nothing
The boat to Bardsey leaves only if the sea says yes. I was lucky. Ten of us clambered aboard the small vessel, including a retired couple from Essex and a woman who was there alone, like me. The island has no shops, no cars, no noise. Just a lighthouse, ruined abbey, and the distant sound of seals. I walked from one end to the other and barely saw anyone. At the highest point, I lay on my back and watched clouds tumble. The island has a hush I’ve never found anywhere else. I left reluctantly, salt crusted on my sleeves.
Wednesday, Portmeirion’s Painted Quiet
Portmeirion is strange and beautiful in equal measure. Designed like an Italian village but planted in a Welsh woodland. The colours are almost too bright. Blues and pinks and mustard yellows. It should feel artificial, but it doesn’t. It’s like walking inside someone’s mind.
I stayed for hours, sitting in different corners. The café in the piazza served espresso and a perfect lemon tart. I overheard someone say they’d been coming here every year since 1989. They said it like a confession. I began to understand why.
Thursday, Harlech and the Going Home Feeling
Harlech was my last stop. The castle dominates everything, even when you try not to let it. I parked near the top and walked down to the beach through tall grass and shifting sand. A boy and his dad were flying a kite near the dunes. It kept falling. They kept trying.
That afternoon, I had tea and cake at Caffi Castell, a stone’s throw from the castle gate. I watched people come and go, jackets zipped high, cheeks pink from the wind. I lingered longer than I meant to. There’s something about Harlech, an awareness that the past and present are holding hands without fuss.
On the train back, I took the long route via the Cambrian Coast . I watched waves slide over flat sand and knew I’d come back. Not to see more, necessarily. Just to feel that stillness again. That space North Wales offers without asking anything in return.
