Wales is a lovely country, with lovely green countrysides, lovely sheep, and lovely mud (lots and lots of mud).
This weekend we took a trip into Wales, saw ancient castles, a coal mine, sheep and mud (Am I getting stuck on the mud? Oh, well, that must be because so much of it stuck on me). This is the story of my foray into the land of 3,000 people and 10,000 sheep.
Caerphilly Castle, the first sight we ventured into, is a beautiful old ruin of a castle (you're bound to run into one if you stay anywhere in the UK long enough), complete with its own bloody history (disembowelment and hot pokers involved; it's fun for the whole family!). Despite this, it does offer lovely picturesque views, and stands in the center of a tiny town, which is charming in its own right.
As the bus drove through along the road, winding through the many hills and valleys of Wales, we admired the beauty of the Brecon Beacons, little knowing what suffering lay in wait for us. As we waved a cheerful good-bye to those members of our group who had chosen to shell out the extra pounds for horse-back riding, we eagerly anticipated our nature walk, looking forward to taking in the beautiful greenery and charming waterfalls.
"It's only 3.2 miles," our tour guide said.
"It's supposed to be lovely, and I'm sure it won't take us that long," she said.
"It rained this morning, but I'm sure it won't be too muddy," she said.
"I've never done this walk before, but we should be fine as long as we follow the path," she said. (That should've tipped me off)
What she didn't say, or apparently didn't anticipate, was the clinging, slippery, sole-sucking red mud. While the path was lined with lovely greenery (which I did get a few good shots of, by the way), most of us were merely concentrating on trying not to land ass-first on the sloping, muddy path. The local villagers probably thought there were tourists getting slaughtered in the woods, or at least that's what I would have thought, had I heard the anguished cries of the many ballet-flat-wearing girls who were my companions. Our mournful yelps echoed through the woods, cursing mother nature in all of her muddy fury (as well as anyone else that came to mind), calling out disdainful words and complaining of ruined shoes and pants (as well as wishing I had thought to bring another pair).
"It's going to be colder in Wales," they said. "You should dress accordingly."
So there I was, in the middle of a forest fulling full of vengeful red mud, in a full-length wool coat, holding it daintily (the way a lady would've held her skirts), and trying not to do an ass-plant into the mud while walking uphill.
Finally, we reached a solid path, climbing up onto it with the air of soldiers having survived a hard-fought battle, grinning at each other as though to say "We have survived!"
Really, in the end, I'm quite glad I went on the nature walk (at least I didn't end up smelling like a horse). And eventually, I was able to wash the mud off of my boots (and pants), although the soles do still maintain a lovely reddish tinge. I did also have to go to dinner with still-wet pants, but it was better than going with muddy pants.
After surviving our nature walk (and waiting for our sore-tushied companions to return from horse-back riding), we trooped back onto the bus, further journeying onto to Swansea (pronounced Swan-see). Swansea is a beautiful city, with a lovely coastline and quite a nice view (although we didn't get to see it, as we arrived in the evening and were occupied with, ummm, various other things). We had a nice, CEA-provided dinner, which was followed by an en-masse invasion of the city with the goal of experiencing Swansea nightlife. Quite frankly, no one parties like the Welsh (except maybe the Australians, or so I've heard).
Cheap liquor (two pounds for a mixed drink, which is a quarter of what you'll pay in London) combined with the unusually colourful locals (you'll see people wearing everything from superhero costumes to tutus, and no, I'm not joking) make for an unusually interesting evening. While I didn't stay to relish the drunken 3 a.m. stumble home (I left a bit after midnight), I can definitely say from the haggard appearances the next morning that everyone enjoyed a good time. If you're looking for a party, then Swansea is definitely for you.
The next stop on our itinerary (after about an hour's nap on the bus) was Cardiff Castle. While this castle, like Caerphilly, is lovely and well worth looking at, Cardiff Castle is still habitable and doesn't come with a bloody history. Most of the Castle (the interior anyway), is quite lovely, but quite modern. The interiors were redone for the third (I think) Marquess of Bute (who was Scottish, not Welsh, and is a man, by the way, if the title is throwing you) in the 19th century (1800's). Quite the historian and traveler, the Marquess (whose actual name was John) had the castle lavishly redone, including a lovely tiled mural of children's stories and folklore for his children's (he had 4) nursery, and incredible murals in his smoking room. The cieling of the smoking room (where the gentlemen retired after dinner) is covered in murals of the zodiac (in chronological order, of course), with carvings showing a different phase of the day in each corner of the room and stained glass windows depicting the Norse Gods for whom our days of the week are named. The Arabic room (because the ladies had to have someplace to go after dinner too) has a cieling carved with more-or-less Muslim themed motifs and decked out with loads of carved parrots (it's also covered with 20-carat gold, you know, just to be fancy).
It comes as a huge surprise, however, that being Scottish, the Marquess and his family spent much of their time in ..... you'll never guess ......
Scotland! (ok, so you probably did guess)
And therefore Cardiff Castle was only occupied by the people living in it for 5 or 6 weeks out of the year (and increasingly less as the Marquess got older and more ill). It did, however, remain in the family until 1947, when coal production was nationalized. Being in the coal industry, the then-Marquess of Bute, had nothing to keep him in Wales (and could've used the money), so the Castle was duly sold to the county (and all of the stuff was taken out of it, so none of the furnishings you'll see are original and the books you'll see in the library are all records of the County Cardiff council meetings).
So basically, when you see Cardiff Castle, you're seeing a very fancy home, one that wasn't really lived in. The oldest part of the castle is the keep, which dates from the 1500's and was built by the Normans. It's actually quite cool (although it involves quite a bit of climbing), and is worth exploring in its own right.
More on Wales in a bit, but I feel that this entry is quite long enough without stuffing in more things.
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