veni, vidi, mansi
My thoughts about this remarkable place have been maturing for sixty years. Even when I first visited I quickly learned the town’s correct name. A sepia photo of a road sign fronted the holiday leaflet: ”Croeso i Abermawddach” it said. I stayed in Orielton Hall (pictured above, left of centre), long since converted into flats, but then one of the many “guest houses” of a now defunct hiking organisation. My bedroom was on the far left hand end of the ground floor, just visible in the photo; the same one a year later. It was a single room with high ceilings and plain decor, tucked away behind an equally bleak games room. Over a game of table tennis, I sought my father’s advice on girls. “I’ll tell you when you’re older" he said, but never did. My room was strangely cosy, and it was, for a ten year old, my space. I almost imagine it still is, as if I never left. It’s a truism to say that wherever you go you’ll find you’re still there.
They fly red flags at the harbour mouth. While indicating danger from wind and tide, they now evoke for me the history of the above group, of which I would have been only dimly aware as a child. Walking as an organised activity had its origins in the Christian Socialist movement. The influence of the related Arts and Crafts movement can also be seen in the way those houses were furnished.
The Birmingham Garage, in business since the 1940s, is beside the road into town. There has been a direct train connection to Birmingham for over 150 years, across the iconic wooden railway bridge. I’ve heard erroneous claims that the name (Barmouth in English) is often shortened to Bermo (correctly “y Bermo”) due to its historic link to Birmingham. But the etymology is pure Cymraeg, an abbreviation of Abermawddach, the mouth of the Mawddach. In 1970, a secret proposal to close the line was sabotaged by the quick thinking of civil servant Reginald Dawson, who quietly authorised funding that stopped those plans in their tracks. In a story worthy of comedy series Yes Minister. It’s claimed that his responsibility for railways was later seen as incompatible with his sympathies for them. He had a keen interest in the nearby narrow-gauge steam railway at Talyllyn .
Looking up the estuary from the bridge I was told the face of King Arthur could be seen in profile, pointing skywards. The name was often mistakenly conflated with legendary giant Idris, whose name is attached to the mountain behind, Cadair Idris. But the view is the same sixty years later. Back then, I played around some old boats on a small beach beneath the bridge. I have a scar on my left ankle from an encounter with a rusty nail, and still recall the tetanus injection.
Near the station, the original art deco Milk Bar remains, save for a lick of paint, just as I remember it on a cold damp summer day six decades ago. Behind its steamed-up windows, I drank my first ever steaming cup of that Cymreig/Italian fusion, a frothy coffee. The current proprietors seemed impressed when I told them. Around the corner, I’ve passed the more recent Carousal cafe many times. Despite recent renovation, signs on the fascia still have the initial C hanging off. For decades visitors have been amused by the remaining word “arousal”, as if a verbal nod to those saucy seaside postcards. It’s not clear if the intended name was originally carousal or carousel: there is a difference.
While this is what Bermo means to me, there are many more dimensions to the small town. For some it may be encapsulated in a salty seaside with donkey rides. For others it has been a new destination for upmarket restaurants or bespoke furnishers. For those whose home it has been for generations, its deeper maritime history is still evidenced in the Reading Room of the Sailors’ Institute. Dating from 1890, it remains open daily from 9am to 6pm. Behind Bermo, the hill is shared between a new development of “executive” homes, and a jumble of old “fishermens’ cottages” built into the rock up a network of steep stone steps. Above is the location since 1895 of the first ever property of Ymddiriedolaeth Genedlaethol/National Trust, the five acres of Dinas Oleu.
Veni, vidi, mansi
Mi ddesi, gwelesi, arhosesi
I came, I saw, I stayed. No conquering was involved, other than of my soul.
LINKS
Birmingham Garage - near Barmouth in Wales
The Counter Revolution of the Rambling Rodneys
Reg Dawson, a very brave and determined man | Pocket Book
The North Wales cafe that's 'arousing' visitors - and not just for its chips - North Wales Live
Neuadd Orielton Hall. | Pamphlet by Archibald Keightley, M.D… | Flickr
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I look forward to your comments. Also it would be nice to know where you are in the world. Thanks for reading.