Day 10 – Bedgellert

Beautiful Beddgelert

Yesterday it rained.  All day.  Like, it put actual effort into raining, teasing us with almost stopping then as soon as we ventured more than 50 metres from the motorhome, absolutely chucking it down.  A motorhome is not the best thing to live in when it rains solidly; the world becomes exceedingly small and you realise that a 7 x 21 foot box is actually miniscule for 3 – one of whom has fur that acts like a sponge.  The malicious weather had set in the night before, spitefully waiting until we were about to go to bed to throw gale force winds at us.  It howled around the motorhome like a wolf, slamming into our home with sudden fearful shudders that sent the whole unit rocking.  If you had thought you can’t get seasick in a motorhome, you are wrong.  It was exactly like being on a boat in stormy weather – although thankfully drier.

We decided to make the most of the terrible weather by going to a nearby Morrisons and doing laundry at one of those laundrette units you sometimes see at petrol stations.  At £27, it was the most expensive washing I’d ever done and we’ll be using campsite facilities in future.

We spent the night at an Aire in Llanberis which was next to a huge lake.  The Aire set-up is something you see a lot of in Europe and which are beginning to take off over here.  They are overnight parking spaces with facilities to service your motorhome.  They cost less than half of what a campsite costs but the drawback is that you can’t exhibit “camping behaviour” on most of them – meaning no chairs, barbecue, awning etc.  As we didn’t fancy sitting in the torrential downpour, that was fine with us.

The entrance to the lake at the Aire in Llanberis

Our plan for Tuesday was to visit the town of Beddgelert in Snowdonia.  We had driven through Snowdonia on Monday but the mountains had been devoured by the rain.  Occasionally, bites of mountain would emerge tantalisingly from the grey maw of weather before quickly disappearing again.  As I have been longing to see mountains, I was disappointed.  Tuesday however was clear and bright.  The lake sparkled like a jewel and the mountains stretched up in the morning air: it seemed impossible that they had been so well concealed the day before. 

I had first heard of Bedgelert as a child when my mum told me the famous Welsh legend this town is named after.

Gelert was the great and loyal hound of Llewelyn, a Prince of North Wales.  One day, he went out hunting and left his baby son and his dog alone in the house.  It is unclear why he left the baby in the guardianship of a dog… I trust Tess but I would not leave her as guardian to a jelly baby, let alone a real one.  She’s a dog, after all.  Perhaps though, he had given his servants the day off and maybe his wife was at Primark or something.  Either way, in the legend, the dog and the baby are left alone.  When the Prince has had enough of riding through the surrounding hills shooting at the wildlife, he comes home and finds his dog covered in blood and the baby’s cot empty.  He immediately assumes his dog has eaten the baby and uses his sword to kill his dog.  Just at the moment his sword plunges into his canine friend, the baby cries… 

Llewlyn, sword dripping with the blood of Gelert, who no doubt lies taking his last few bewildered breaths at Llewlyn’s feet, marches to the cot and finds that actually the baby is in there, he just hadn’t bothered to look properly before deciding to kill his dog.  Then, behind a curtain that no doubt blows theatrically open at this point, he sees the savaged body of a great wolf.  It turns out that rather than eating his master’s first born, Gelert had been protecting him all along and saved him from becoming the wolf’s mid-morning snack.

Well, no doubt Llewlyn fell to his knees, wrenching at his manly locks in despair, hands raised to the heavens pleading with the Almighty to please, please let his dog live!  However, the poor dog dies – victim to his master’s impulsive stupidity.  

Llewlyn then does the only redeeming thing he can think of: he buries the dog on the estate and names the town after him – which is why it is called Beddgelert, which in Welsh means Gelert’s grave.

Apparently Llewlyn never smiled again either, which makes me feel a little sorry for the baby who no doubt grew up in a joyless, bleak home with an absent mother and a miserable father.  I’m sure he left Beddgelert as soon as he could and headed for happier places: probably to Llanddwyn to hang out with Dwynwyn and her eels; that must have been a real hoot after a lifetime spent with Llewelyn.

I first heard this legend when I was very young and it has stuck with me.  In my mum’s version, it had been a massive rat behind the curtain, which I prefer as I love wolves, but despite this, going there today was a fantastic experience.  The town itself is beautiful: quaint little shops, a fast flowing river and mountains surrounding it like behemoth guardian forces.  We went for a walk down the river, crossed the bridge downstream and then walked back up towards Gelert’s Grave.  It was early in the morning with few people around, just some residents walking their dogs.  Tess was off lead as we approached Gelert’s Grave and sniffed the statue of Gelert without real interest.

We had another reason for wanting to come here and that was that we’d lost our German Shepherd, Dakota, very suddenly earlier in the year.  We had him cremated privately and wanted to scatter some of his ashes in Beddgelert.  He was a great dog and not only do I love the idea of his spirit floating over the mountains of Snowdonia, but also that he will be there, in a place where great dogs are honoured.