2004-07-13

I decided on Friday morning to do Wales. And �do Wales� I did. I socked it to Wales. Wales is, one might say, my bitch.

Being a paragon of organization and effective planning, I selected my destination by standing at the Rapid Ticket kiosk in Piccadilly Station with my Lonely Planet guide to Britain propped open in one hand, and with the other hand punching any station name that seemed to have an excess of consonants. Thusly I arrived at Llandudno, which was twenty pounds return, and according to the trusty Lonely Planet, very scenic and lovely.

Scenic and lovely it was. I spent the evening wandering the Georgian promenade along the waterfront and striding up (conveniently landscaped) craggy hillsides. The next day I had the idea of going to Aberystwyth, which bore the distinction of my having heard of it. I inquired at the train station in the morning and was told that a one-way trip would cost thirty-two pounds. Thought I, �Fuck that noise,� and settled on a ticket to Conwy for a neat two pounds.

Conwy is set beneath a medieval castle and surrounded by thick stone walls, which offer a deplorably poor defense against the legions of invading tourists. I did the requisite gawping and photo-taking, and hopped on a bus to Bangor (one pound seventy), whence I found I could take a public bus to Aberystwyth for five quid, bringing the grand total of my journey to Aberystwyth to six pounds seventy, rather than thirty-two pounds quoted for a train ticket. I feel quite clever, actually, though perhaps �lucky� or �stingy� would be more fitting adjectives.

I spent a day in Aberystwyth and Borth, mucking about on the seashore. The next day I accepted a ride from a lady who told me there were vacancies in the YHA hostel in Betws-y-Coed: accepting rides from strangers is a dodgy business, I know, but since this lady was sixty-five and had multiple sclerosis, I think her axe-murdering days were long behind her, had she ever been so inclined. She was very sweet, actually. She kept trying to push food on me, and seemed quite concerned for my welfare. She was like a sort of Portable Travel Gran (now with detachable packet of toffee sweets, all for only 19.95!). We made the circuit of Snowdonia Park, hitting Machynlleth, Dolgeddlau, and Blanau Festiniog, using her status as a disabled senior citizen to get discounts on various roadside attractions. Score. I wish I was decrepit and crippled.

And now I�m back in Manchester. And tomorrow I�m back at work. What�s up with that, anyway? I�ve been in the workforce for a solid ten years: isn�t it high time I got to sit back and live off the fat of the land? Bastard market economy. In other words, more vacation now, fuck!