Repeated experience of life in North Wales in its most isolated, tiny hamlets, where the tourist had never been before and where it was impossible to secure lodging; experience in the small towns like Conway and Carnarvon, full of association, quiet and yet prosperous; and experience in the larger centres of Welsh life, have given me a perspective which is, perhaps, uncommon. The great advantage of Bettws is that you can not only get everywhere from that delightful place, but that you can also be most comfortable at a reasonable rate.
If you are touring in an automobile you will find each one of the tours which I suggest food merely for a day of comfortable delight. If you are walking, or driving, these tours can be broken up and shortened or extended indefinitely.
For the First Day go up the Vale of Conway, stopping at Trefriw. On your way to Trefriw, you will pass through Llanrwst, which, dear old market-town that it is, will for liveliness on a market-day suggest Piccadilly rather than a little Welsh town. There from miles around—and if you wish to see a Welsh market you cannot do better than to go to Llanrwst, for during centuries it has had a great reputation as a place of barter—there from miles around, the Welsh peasants gather, and there you will see Welsh household articles which you could not find in any shop. There is much in Llanrwst worth taking a glimpse at, the old bridge built by Inigo Jones which would be enough to send a well-regulated motor car to the madhouse, but from the artist point of view is still useful; the little cottage by the bridge, Gwydir Castle just beyond the cottage, not a tumble-down castle either, but resplendent with gorgeously carved furniture and Spanish-leather-covered walls and relics too many and too old to enumerate.
But on to Trefriw and from Trefriw climb the hill on foot,—it is only a short hill,—to see Llanrhychwyn Church, a double-aisled church of the most primitive simplicity, where Prince Llewelyn used in tumultuous days to worship. One aisle is considerably older than the other, dating, as its architecture, the details of its rafters, the windows and doors show, perhaps back as far as the eighth century, surely the ninth. And now to Conway, stopping by the way at Caerhûn for just a glimpse of the old church there and a long enough time to realize that you are standing on the foundations of what was once the ancient Roman city of Canovium. Do not stay there so long that you will not have time to turn on a road just about a mile and a half outside of Conway that leads up the hill to Llangelynin Church, also one of the oldest foundations in all Great Britain, a poor, stricken, old place tended by a woman scarcely strong enough to creep around, apart from any village or any cottages, remote, pathetic in its semi-decay, and containing still the old pulpit, some of the old glass, and a leper’s window through which lepers used in the Middle Ages to receive the sacrament and to listen to the services.
And now you are almost within the harp-shaped castle walls of Conway itself—old Conway with its cobbled streets, its beautiful Plas Mawr, its ancient hostelries, its massive castle with the oratory of Queen Eleanor still looking out upon the sea, and—treasure not to be despised—near the castle the tiniest cottage in all Great Britain. There are good hotels in Conway where an excellent luncheon or dinner may be found, and if there is time for sight-seeing, perhaps the best thing to do would be to buy one of Abel Heywood’s penny guides, for in these penny guides is found a wealth of reliable information. Enough, this, for one day’s joy, and I have discovered for you what no guide-book would do—two, and perhaps three, of the sweetest old churches of primitive Wales.
Leaving Bettws-y-Coed on the Second Day, you will go through Capel Curig, stopping on the way for a glimpse of the Swallow Falls. Now, down through the valley past Llyn Ogwen, from which you can visit, if you wish, the Devil’s Kitchen or Twll Ddu, the “black hole,” as the Welsh call it, where, every year, foolish young collegians lose their lives in scaling the walls. In its lack of verdure, in its stupendous rocky mountain summits, in its gigantic boulders of stone thrown hither and yon, this valley is a veritable valley of the shadow of death, gray, desolate, rock-strewn. You will pass through Bethesda on your way to Bangor, seeing, as you go along, hillsides covered with rubbish from slate quarries. And now to Bangor, where Dr. Samuel Johnson over one hundred years ago found the inn, together with a great deal else in Wales, “very mean.” Although the good Doctor was tremendously interested in his food, despite the very meanness of the inns, he found Bangor, its Beaumaris Castle, and its cathedral, interesting. But they have changed the “meanness” of their inns now, for this Welsh town has become a university town and you will find good food and good inns.
Only a few miles beyond is Carnarvon,—that old town which North Walians claim as the most interesting of all their towns,—and Carnarvon Castle, in the words of Pennant, “the most magnificent badge of our subjection to the English.” There in Carnarvon the investitures of the Princes of Wales have taken place. Carnarvon Castle is, with the exception of Alnwick, the finest of all Great Britain and possessed of the romantic grace—its casements looking out upon the sea and the dim romantic shores of Anglesey and its towers back upon the rocky sides of Snowdon—of any European castle. Within the walls of this castle, begun by Edward I and completed by his son, the first English Prince of Wales, and within the walls of the town,—for Carnarvon is a city of the early Middle Ages founded upon the ancient city of the Romans called Segontium,—many hours, even days, might be spent.
Homewards now to Bettws through Llanberis, up the long, beautifully graded road to Pen-y-Pass (which means simply the head of the pass), where you will find an inn for mountaineers in whose attractive dining-room you can have delicious tea and a view unrivalled in all North Wales. From Pen-y-Pass one of the easiest ascents of Snowdon can be made, and, with Bettws as a centre, it would be a very simple thing to run down to Pen-y-Pass for an ascent. You are within a few miles of Bettws now and will reach there in time for supper or dinner at seven o’clock.