I rounded the battlements and crossed the Conwy Cob. There was a postbox wrapped in tape and from afar, the castle with its bulging turrets and curving grey walls, looked like a sculptor’s impression of the hills that loomed behind it.
The dual carriageway was loud with traffic and the verge was uneven. I cut my thumb on a thorn, a bad omen perhaps. The top of the slip road was not a good place to stand and after half an hour I walked to the next, winding through a dim green path into an industrial estate. Rows of brand-new cars lined diagonally, dog-toothed against the road. One of the buildings had no cars just shiny windows and a sign that read “We are moving to Chester.” I hoped I could do the same.
I found a bit of luck. One of those vans that’s barely more than a white car with no back windows stopped for me. The driver was called Aidan and he managed a decking company. He said they mostly made decking for caravans, the bits that go around the vehicles when they’re parked for good, but they did balustrades and other things too. He was in his 30s with dark brown hair and kids and a wife in Conwy.
I discovered he used to be a lifeguard at the Surf Snowdonia Adventure Centre in Dolgellau. They had a wave machine there and could guarantee waves with a backdrop of mountains and forests. They had waves for all levels.
He did a lot of paddle boarding too. He said he did it on the Conwy where it was wide and meandering and you could see the castle up above. Or he’d go further towards the sea when the weather was fair. You had to be careful on the Conwy he said though, his face changing as he said so. His best friend passed paddle boarding in the marina last year. She got the cord caught and the tide dragged her under. That was the reason he trained to be a lifeguard. It’s good to know these things he said, in case it happened again.
The mention of his friend reminded him that he’d picked up a hitchhiker before. He’d been with her when they saw a couple on the side of the road. It wasn’t far from where we were now. The couple were doing a Red Bull challenge and Aidan and his friend drove them all the way to Cardiff. The event ended on the pitch in the Millennium Stadium and they all played rugby and got crates of free Red Bull. It was a nice memory of his friend.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any Red Bull to offer,” I said.
“Don’t be daft!” he replied.
He dropped me at a service station near a town called Rhyl. The town was too far to walk but Aidan said it was an interesting place, full of old arcades and an old funfair, though he didn’t say interesting, he said grim. It sounded like one of those countless towns that fell victim to cheap Ryanair flights. Maybe as Europe bakes they’ll see a resurgence. Either way, I didn’t go and caught a ride back onto the North Wales Expressway instead.
Sam was an MP. He shook my hand firmly with a direct look in the eye. Technically he was an MS since he was a member of the Welsh parliament, the Senedd. He was a serious man and it was interesting talking to him. Interesting not so much because of what he said, we didn’t have long at all, but because of what I observed in myself as we talked, how I changed, how a certain set of preconceptions slid into place and ordered my perception of him.
He was reserved with his words. Understandably perhaps. Questions were answered briefly, giving not much away. There were no scoops here, not that I was after one. Besides, he was more interested in what I was up to - always a bit of a pain.
“Which party are you?” I asked. He cleared his throat, “Conservative.” He almost sounded embarrassed. North Wales is majority conservative but nevertheless, he said it was a bit odd knocking on doors because people assume Wales is run by Rishi and the Tories when in actual fact it’s run by Mark Drakeford’s Labour. The power is devolved so Drakeford has quite a bit of it. I wondered if he had enough to overcome Boris’ lies, Lizz Truss’ mini-budget, a decade of austerity or Brexit. I decided not to ask. I didn’t fancy getting into the politics. Anyway, Sam didn’t have that power either.
What I found most interesting though was the way I immediately judged his character. I found myself trying to spot clues for some sinister egotism or the vanity that one associates with modern politicians. Was the firm handshake and look in the eye affected? Was there some agenda behind his picking me up..?
I told myself to stop being foolish. He was a normal perfectly nice bloke. Or at least, in 15 minutes I couldn’t and shouldn’t draw any conclusions beyond that. But the fact I thought these things at all said something about our politics that you can’t read in a paper.
Sam couldn’t take me further than St Asaph. He had to pick up his kids. I got out by the cathedral and he told me his name, Sam Rowlands. I told him about the blog and he said he’d subscribe. For a brief moment, I imagined all the politicians discussing it in the Senedd. I told myself to stop being foolish again. It’s funny what power can do…
A teenager carried a Cancer Trust bucket to the front doors of a terraced street. It clinked and jingled as she walked. Behind, the hill fell away to a wide view, dappled in the clouded light. The sound of the Expressway waited on the breeze. I made a mistake and decided to hitchhike from the south side of town. I wasted an hour doing so, then cut back across town, up and down the valley, to the main road. The junction was even worse and I began to wonder if I’d be spending the night there.
A man in a yellow beanie with a tall narrow frame dragged his foot along the pavement. “Just round that corner there,” he drawled, his slender finger indicated which, “There’s a tree with cherries on it… If ya feelin’ peckish.”
I was and I wasn’t going to catch a lift from there so I followed his directions. The cherry tree was where he said it was, its arms, wiry as the man who sent me, hung over the pavement and its fallen fruit was squashed into the tarmac.
I didn’t eat any cherries, but I did find a ride. Two boys in an Astra drove around the roundabout and came back for me. They both wore tracksuits and there were boxing gloves on the backseat.
Kobe drove and did most of the talking. JJ had his head on the headrest, his chin, bristling with a tangle of adolescent hair, protruded upwards. They were driving to Chester to get something to eat.
“You know what yeah,” Kobe said cooly, “I’ll be honest with you, there’s not much good food in Rhyl.” Except, that was, for Kobe’s restaurant. Fulla Flavourz made street food and Kobe was the head chef. He set it up during the pandemic doing deliveries from Instagram. He said it had been mad busy since the launch in February. The jerk fries were his favourite dish, but then that was just because he loved jerk fries. It was that or the curried goat but he did more than just Caribbean food. He said he was the new wave of Welsh cooking. Whatever it was, it had been popular. The kitchen was too small for the operation, which was a good problem to have, he said, but not for too long.
Kobe was a cool guy with a silver tooth and a black durag that shone under his black hood. He told me about Afro Nation, the festival he’d just returned from in Portugal. He’d gone on his own. Travelling on your own’s great he thought. I agreed, saying how you meet people you wouldn’t otherwise, see things you’d miss. Kobe said he liked it because it was easier to pick up girls. JJ had Kobe’s current flame on FaceTime for him. “Yeah I’ll shout ya when I’m back,” he said easily and hung up.
We swung into a petrol station and Kobe got out to fill up. I asked JJ what he did. Not much was the reply, “I don’t have a very interesting life.” He ran his hands through his hair. Ever been travelling, I asked, following the previous conversation, “Been up Snowdon twice,” he said dispassionately, “My uncle dragged me up for sunrise. We got near the top and I was like fuck this and didn’t go any higher. Saw the sunrise and that which was all right. But I’m done with all that now. Not doing any shit like that again…” Fair enough, I thought, although I did think 22 was quite young to retire.
The boys took me towards Chester. Then we turned north and crossed the River Dee. The evening had turned soft. The sky was a pinkish shade of blue. For once it wasn’t raining. Then we crossed the border and left Wales behind.
Red bull and curried goat. Breakfast of champions?