Wales car camping in the time of covid, Brecon Beacons (part 1)
Rock pools in Abereiddy, Wales.
Wales was the less fashionable cousin to Cornwall and Devon during the great summer of 2021 staycations.
Mid-way across the Gower Peninsula there’s a bay with 20 stepping stones laid across a winding tidal stream that we had been eyeing since we pitched our tent on the cliff above. The bay is framed by golden sheer cliffs and large hairy sand dunes and floods quickly during high tide and recedes into the distance at low tide. On our final morning, our 5-year-old, Lula, insisted on crossing the stones. “We can’t leave. We haven’t had a chance to do it yet!” she said. Caving in the way you do to a child who’s made a good point, we went.
We arrived at the stream late morning at high tide, about thigh high, with the stones inches below the surface and the cold current speeding along. In the name of adventure, and to keep a promise, we stripped off the children’s clothes. I stepped onto the first submerged stone, balanced myself in the chilly water and stone by stone helped Lula jump across the gaps. The 3-year-old, Olive, was pulled across by her Dad. Looking back at our balled-up clothes on the bank across the stream, us having crossed only 50 feet to the beach side, we broke into the kind of wild celebration dance you do when you’re genuinely surprised it worked. A family on the beach laughing, giddy over what seems like a small victory, on a rambling road trip across Wales. Simple but the kind of freedom that seemed unreachable as we shut ourselves away from everything over the last year.
Wales was the less fashionable cousin to Cornwall and Devon during the great summer of 2021 staycations. South Wales is remarkably similar to their counterparts across the Bristol Channel with hidden aqua coves, a micro-climate, an echo of the Mediterranean in the sun. Geographically, the two regions originated from one piece of land before splintering into two peninsulas. But Wales being less crowed, expensive and closer to London than Cornwall and Devon feels like a secret we shouldn’t let others in on.
We rented a small, grey hybrid, which “barely counted as car”, according to our neighbour (I’ll take the compliment) and set out for the Brecon Beacons, the Gower Peninsula and Pembrokeshire for a couple weeks in a trip mimicking the cadence and style of a cycle tour, but with car seats and an engine. Lots of camping and a line across the map of South Wales we would follow. We bought a new 4-man tent, a concession for my husband Andrew, the reluctant camper: the biggest luxury, lightweight, backpacking tent money could buy, which translated into the footprint of our super-king bed. The night before, we made one clunky trip playlist combining classic rock, nostalgic favourites and some nursery rhymes which lurched from Journey to “There was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly”. Our family of four set out, packed into our hybrid. We weren’t pretending that the pandemic didn’t exist, but we hadn’t stayed away from our house for more than 2 nights in 18 months. We had to get away.
On the way
The trip from London to Brecon is three hours and change, and to break up the journey we stopped at Stonehenge, arriving with time to pitch our tent before dark. From London you should be able to align your visit comfortably with your second coffee of the morning even factoring in leaving the house with kid-lag. Sausages sandwiches were made, with the good grainy mustard and home-made bread. My husband cleaned out the fridge like a religious purge, cleansing his soul for our return. “We can’t leave it like this.” And I say, “Why are you prioritising the garbage food when we need to leave?” A marriage is, among other things, a delicate balance of two people’s tolerance for filth and the amount they’re prepared to clean.
Stonehenge is the Disney World of pre-historic sites. Lots of infrastructure, mini-buses, and one-way systems. With UK Flagship attraction status — could it possibly live up to the hype? If you think you’re going out for a yomp through rolling hills to commune quietly with the past, you’ll be mistaken. Visible from the amber line of traffic on the SatNav from the A303, it’s still miles before you can park in the lot, purchase a £30 ticket, and then file in a line across fields to see the majestic stones – certainly an exercise in seeing how far you can make the journey to something that is right there. As directed by the signage, we circled the stones according to the one-way system, stopping so Lula could follow the recommendation on the marketing signs scattered around the perimeter to take pictures of the illusion she’s lifting the stones above her head. ‘Please Instagram.’
The Beacons
We stayed in the Pencelli Castle Caravan and Camping Park in the Usk Valley south of Brecon. The campsite has been decorated with many awards including “Best Loo 2008”. Lula confirmed that the toilets are very clean. While brushing our teeth one night, she said: “Mommy, we have the same tap in our upstairs bathroom, but not as clean.” She’s right, so I tack towards “London has hard water and therefore limescale, which is beyond the control of normal cleaning”.
I like camping, even in a campsite because it simplifies everything to basics. We walked back to our tent with a large orange moon hanging above. Instead of our usual bedtime book routine, Andrew pointed out stars, planets, and satellites to the girls who worship him like a god that put these things into space. And he did, some of them at least. He’s an astrophysicist who sends up those satellites. And our girls think this is what dads do – make the sky light up.
It was pouring the next morning. This is why people don’t holiday in Wales. We slide on our wellies with a plan to head to Abergavenny for the best pastries we could buy at the Angel Hotel bakery. I had googled them and was hoping for the local pastries I saw in images – give me your best version of a Welsh cake, but the selection was the usual French pastries, delicious versions of themselves but this has to be where globalisation is not helping us. We went to The Chapel for lunch, in the basement of a church. All pandemic we’ve been avoiding indoor restaurants, but camping in Wales in rain does seem the right time to flex the risk. Strange to wear masks while walking from the door to your table, but pop them off when seated as though you’ve reached the safe zone.
Castles are exotic to Americans like tigers are – you know they exist, but you’ve never encountered them in the wild. In Ohio, where I grew up, any structure built before 1800 was treated with extreme reverence. By that point, Britain was covered with layers of history: William had come and conquered, Queen Elizabeth and Shakespeare had worked out the brand that the empire and colonialism went on to deliver. Caerphilly Castle has a moat that glimmers in the sun reflecting the stone walls, bridges and turrets – it satisfies all medieval castle fantasies, that is until we went to Carreg Cennen and realised it’s also very impressive to have a cave and be perched on the top of a mountain.
The South Wales landscape is covered in steep, scenic hills like Appalachia. At one time, it was also coal country, but the Beacons have been dusted up like a New England ski resort. We were in search of waterfalls and tried Sgwd-yr-eira which is part of the Four Falls Trail and was challenging but feasible for the 3- and 5-year-old. A 5.5-mile circular walk with steep grades: the outer bounds of possible for us. There were large, steep, muddy stone steps. “We need to be careful.” Lula bolts down, with her sister striding after, not falling to prove me wrong. The waterfall didn’t disappoint. Power and mist poured off the fall once we made it to balance on the rocks below. Victory, I thought. I shot Andrew the kind of glance that parents give to signal acknowledgement that we’ve achieved the mission and agreement that time is limited before it all comes unravelled. We were naive about the distance and didn’t bring enough snacks or water and there is nowhere to buy anything after leaving the car park, so we were bracing ourselves for our kids hitting the wall and writhing into full breakdown.
By the time we hit our car, after a solid hour of high-stakes negotiation and promises, we found some easy-peeler oranges, the reserve crunchy peanut butter and bagels, which I made into sandwiches with a fork on my lap. Leaving around 7, all the glory of the Beacons was on display with the sun colouring the hills golden, sheep peacefully eating grass unfazed by the cars speeding past.
The golden hour sun makes me think that if we keep driving west, we might escape the pandemic. Not the whole thing, but maybe lighten it, so it doesn’t loom as large. So the kids won’t think “because of the coronavirus” as the context for why they can’t x, go to gymnastics, play dates, restaurants, see grandma. Andrew driving, Bob Dylan playing and we’re all looking out the window, hungry for going or the salve of the escape. In a year when we weren’t allowed to cope or celebrate by planning or inviting, the act of going, driving away, is intoxicating.