Meandering through May

Now don't get me wrong, I love Wales......once I'm there. It's just that it isn't my first preference when looking for a weekend away. So, when Matt suggested Wales for our May thing to do to remember Mark, my enthusiasm was a little diluted and I only looked half-heartedly at hotels and other possible accommodation. It was Wales after all, and it could hardly be full....could it?
So, on Bank Holiday Saturday, after waving goodbye to one amazing little family, who only came into our lives because Mark died and, not quite knowing when we might see them again, as they were moving to South America, we packed an overnight bag and headed West.
Cares, worries and stress seemed to disappear directly in proportion to the hills coming into view, and, as we dropped into Llangollen, memories breathed and stirred. Memories of college and student trips to sample beer and cider in the Chain Bridge Hotel, leaping rocks in the River Dee, being quietened at Valle Crucis Abbey and hitch-hiking back to Alsager loaded with Welsh cakes and Barra Brith.

We broke the journey in Betwys Coed, stopping for a much needed coffee and what turned out to be a lovely walk along the river. This time it was Matt, who filled the sunny afternoon with his memories of a climbing weekend with Mark and a couple of friends. It was sighingly reassuring to hear him talking about Mark, the climb up Tryffn, the gasp making scrambling, the  scary leaps and the fun and laughter retold and given immortality in the hearing. My boy, his brother, his friends and his adventures; I never tire of hearing the stories. We walked, talked, and listened, whilst throughout, the rushing river sparkled and giggled as she raced us to our next destination.

Some of you are aware that the relationship with my brother is difficult at the best of times, and non-existent in more recent times, well, since Mum died really. He is a complex man with a dark side to his character that makes him selfish and a bully. For a fleeting moment when his tiny baby girl died at 37 weeks, we were close, and he was softer, gentler and more vulnerable. This closeness wasn't reciprocated, of course, when Mark died. He was Mark's Godfather, whatever that meant to him, but there were no words of comfort, no hand to hold, no support at all, and so the feint embers of our relationship have all but been extinguished, maybe for ever, which is sad.
It wasn't always like this. when Mark's dad and I were about twenty and my brother was around nine, we camped just outside Betwys Coed. It rained and rained. The campsite was basic to say the least, but we had such fun. I had washed our waterproofs before we left, but obviously hadn't rinsed them thoroughly, and, as we trudged back from Swallow Falls, using our arms to somehow force a forward movement, friction came into play and white, soapy suds emanated from our armpits, bubbling up into a frothy, foam frenzy, causing us to double up with giggles. Whatever happened to that giggling boy, where did he disappear to? That thought makes me sad.
We left the busy village to its tourists, traffic jams and tumbling river and carried on. Matt became progressively quieter as the towering crags of Tryffn appeared in the distance; no doubt locked into his memories and the realisation that all future memories will be ones without his crazy brother. That thought makes me sad too.
A sharp left turn at Capel Curig, with the majestic slopes of Snowdon on our right and we wound our way past glassy lakes, remote cottages, determined walkers and optimistic picnickers towards Beddgelert. Our arrival took us by surprise in the end; one minute wild, empty spaces, the next narrow streets besieged by the world and his wife. By chance we found the only parking space for miles and joined the heaving masses. At first it was hard to see the charm and beauty of the village, but it was there, held up with grey slate and Welsh stone; with the rivers Glaslyn and Conway, and with the ancient legend of one courageous dog and his master providing its heartbeat.

This was not our first visit and it was not by any random chance that we were here again. Twenty three years ago our second worst nightmare had occurred. Paul had disappeared..... literally. Gone in the space between leaving for a day at school and coming home again the same night. A note saying nothing really, nothing missing, except him; police searches, house to house enquiries made, no leads, two heart broken and lost children, one huge question mark and a sense of foreboding. Our lives imploded and everything that was safe splintered into tiny shards of fearful hurt. At our lowest point two of the kindest people ever stepped into our lives and invited us to their tiny rented holiday cottage in Beddgelert to stay with them for a few days.
Dazed and desperate we went. Sleeping in a hobbit sized front room, we let this little family love and comfort us with endless cups of tea, cheese sandwiches, a quiet drink in the Saracen's Head and the obligatory Cadwalladers ice cream. Before these few days, they were parents of a child I taught in my school. During and since then, they are the dearest friends and I love them with all my grateful heart.
So, on Sunday, in the warm afternoon sunshine, we walked one of the walks we did all those years ago. The colours were vivid; greens shouted their newness, blues blazed their glory, yellows sang their bright ditties, and the pinks, oranges and purples of well placed Azaleas stated their pretty presence like precious jewels. We reread the story of the Wolfhound, after whom the village is named  and imagined the scene that met his owner on return from hunting. Whether it is true or not, it is a wonderful story of bravery, loyalty, protection and injustice. We moved on and it seemed the natural thing to do to make our way to the grey stone church, where we lit a candle for Mark and several others for the children of friends I have met only because we have this terrible defining thing in common. Our children died and we are all trying to find a way of living without them.

On our return to the village, which seemed to be sighing in relief, as the day trippers were leaving in droves, we drank a welcome beer and then set about finding somewhere to stay the night. Call us stupid, naïve, over confident, if you want, but it will come as no surprise to you, I'm sure, to know that there was nothing to be had. Hotels, pubs with rooms, B&Bs, country house hotels, expensive, cheap, awful or otherwise, there was nothing. Metaphorically kicking ourselves, we left for the coast.
We had visited Criccieth too that Summer long ago and to our eyes; nothing had changed: the picturesque town guarded by its once imposing castle; the virtually empty beach; and the view. The view. Lilac mountains tumbling into the distance, Harlech Castle misty in the late afternoon sunshine, tiny boats bobbing in the perfect bay and the sea spreading secretly into every cove and crevice.

What this pretty place didn't have, of course, was anywhere to stay. All enquiries were met with either looks of sympathy or disdain and no help whatsoever. So, without any sort of Plan B, we headed North to the only place I recognised, or indeed could read, on the signposts; Caernarfon. This time we travelled around the Western side of Snowdon until, without mishap, we arrived in the town as the sun was beginning to think about setting. Hurrah, a Travelodge and a Premier Inn! David set off to enquire and I closed my eyes to dream of a long, hot bath and a bowl of comforting pasta. It had been a long day!
David's return with a shaking head brought unexpected tears and the thought of a three hour journey home via narrow twisty roads sank my heart, like a stone. Deep breath and we set the satnav to HOME.
By chance we spotted a hotel sign at the side of the road. We turned left and followed an overgrown track, through wrought iron gates until we scraped to a gravelly stop in front of a stone building, offering us good food, accommodation, a wedding, if we wanted it, and a spa! A spa! We held out no hope of success and we were not wrong. But the lovely man apologised and offered to phone an hotel further on. They had two rooms and would hold them until we arrived. Yes please!
Fifteen minutes later we were having a cup of tea, watching calming sheep cropping the lawns surrounding the Victoria Hotel, Llanberis, which nestled grandly at the foot of Snowdon.
A good night's sleep restored energy and emotions and, following a delicious Welsh breakfast, we made the decision to ascend Snowdon, despite low grey cloud, a miserable forecast and fairly inadequate clothes, better suited to a tea shop crawl in Beddgelert. For those of you, who assumed from the Facebook post and the few accompanying photographs that we actually put one foot in front of the other and climbed the mountain, I apologise. We didn't. We went up in the single carriage mountain train, along with a noisy party of Germans, a few excited children and a bored and silent young man, who spent the whole journey on his phone. He must have had a phone mast in his pocket because none of our phones had any reception! It turned out that he worked in the café at the top and was on his daily commute. What a commute!

The little train chugged its determined way to the summit and into the dense rain clouds, making the whole experience somewhat strangely spiritual. Eventually, reality crashed in, however, as the doors opened, and the cold, and the drizzle penetrated our thin jackets and the eerie sense of there being nothing else, but us standing, suspended in mid-air. By contrast, the café was crowded, noisy and smelled, and felt, like a drab, functional motorway services. Few folk ventured through the rear doors to climb the forty or so slate steps to the actual summit. Why would you come all that way not to actually want to stand on the top? We did though, and were soaked in the going. Again the sense of floating somewhere above the Earth, with nothing above, below or around us. Just us. I thought about Mark as I stood there staring into nothing, but I struggled to grasp hold of him, his essence, his energy, his enthusiasm for adventures, until I remembered that about 18 years ago, I had stood there in that very same place. That time the sun was shining; we had climbed the Pyg Track and there was a view; miles of spectacular view. I quietly sensed his arms around me, as they had been before, and there was a welcome warmth in the hug and the memory. Then I shivered, grabbed Matt's hand and descended the stone steps shaking. I really don't do heights at the best of times.

We had made a decision before our ascent that we would build a cairn for Mark at the top, and so we began to gather our pieces of cold, slippery slate. It was easier said than done. It was cold and wet. It was intensely sad and very important. When it was done we stood back and quietly said whatever we needed to and then, with a imperceptible nod, we turned and left.

We returned to the patiently waiting train and made the hour long descent from the grey moisture soaked clouds to the grey and green of Llanberis. It felt as though we had done something special; it felt as though Mark, as always, had had a hand in our weekend and it felt reassuringly right.