My cheerful younger daughter, Lisa, whisked me off to a wonderful Welsh coastal college town, Aberwrystwith, for a two-day holiday. (She'd visited it once, while on spring break from college in London.)
The three-hour trip was a jaw-dropper. Our little car clawed its way up mountains into clouds delivering misty rain. My eyes were on stalks; my hands strangled the wheel as I drove on the wrong (British) side of the narrow road chanting, "Keep left; don't look left ..."
But, oh! When I occasionally dared a glance, holes in the fog revealed sheer cliffs, rich greenery, bored sheep -- and nobody. We were on top of the Welsh world, alone. Occasionally, giant boulders, teetering high above us, contemplated whether to be merciful, or murderous ... Wire netting, surrounding them, looked pathetic. I was not confident.
Finally, Aberwrystwith (population 18,000) emerged, curling like a collar around Cardigan Bay. Our delightful room boasted floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the heaving ocean bashing away at the promenade below. (One is never more than 75 miles from the sea anywhere in Britain.)
Craving exercise, we decided to climb a monstrous (450-foot high) black lump of rock at the edge of the sea. Dominating the town, it's known as Constitution Hill. The wind was tolerant, teasing my hat at every turn on the steep, rocky path, without actually snatching it. Pausing to catch my breath before entering the round, cliff-top cafe, I beheld a stunning aspect. The sea's infinitely long, frothy tongue lapped the dark, pebbled beach far below; a mile-long connected arch of little hotels, shops and university buildings lined the beachfront, finished by a ruined castle. Two rubber-clad surfers, who'd dared the waves on this blustery mid-day, waded hastily out of the pounding surf; an immense, roiling black cloud, pregnant with rain, was rushing toward the little town.
Snug inside the warm, glass-lined restaurant, enjoying excellent coffee and a tasty bowl of tomato basil soup, my daughter and I nervously watched the storm roar toward us. The room trembled. I felt suddenly insignificant, and far too vulnerable, perched precariously on top of this rock.
The enormous black cloud enveloped the sturdy structure, which shook, but refused to yield. Outside, a heavy wooden picnic table blew over; a fat green, grinning metal alligator, with a child-sized hole in its head for doting parental pictures, shrieked, then split in half. We gasped, and stared out, helpless and fearful. Five minutes later, bouncing hailstones, lashing, icy rain and 50 mph winds had passed us, heading straight for the tender new lambs feeding on the steep, green hills, inland.
Suddenly the sun emerged, illuminating Cardigan Bay so intensely it was impossible to look at it.
We'd survived. Everything for miles had been scoured clean. Long rows of stone cottages, built close together, stood out; their tiled roofs, looking for all the world like crisp stitches on a vast green patchwork quilt, shone wetly on the hills above the town.
The girls manning the lunch counter tittered nervously; speaking Welsh, they pointed at the upturned outdoor furniture. This had been an unusually violent squall.
After lunch we wisely rode the Victorian mountain tram down, to avoid being blown away. The wind, which always follows frontal systems, roared; holding tight to each other we staggered thankfully into the little open car. Gorse bushes, brandishing long needle-spikes and bright yellow flowers, squatted menacingly along the rocky path, waiting to stab foolish hikers. Our jerky descent was nearly straight down, noisy and fun.
We sought our lovely room, shivering, awed and bone-tired. What an introduction to Aberwrystwith's wilder side!
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information.
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