at the edge

Some people like mountains and the triumph of reaching the top, I like to go to the edge.

The place where the land meets the sea; the cultural edge - as far as possible from the cutting edge.

Big skies, wide horizons and the weight of city life off my shoulders.

Time to find the simple stuff that pulls the memory threads of my childhood and reminds me I'm alive.

Thanks to an extremely generous, belated wedding gift from my inlaws, we have just had a long weekend in Aberdaron at the tip of the Lleyn Peninsula, (the bit that sticks out at the top of Wales). They bought us a voucher that paid for three nights at the hotel where Mr Asparagus Pea proposed to me on the beach two years ago. 

The Lleyn is part of the Welsh speaking heartland of North Wales.  It's where I first had the courage to open my mouth and speak the language in a way that has become part of my identity, rather than just an intellectual party trick.  It's why I sound like an electrician from Caernarfon - much to the amusement of my work colleagues. Welsh is everyday there - the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker (and the naughty swearing boys with tattoos in the chip shop), all breathe and dream the language.

The weather was glorious...

we walked the cliffs

drank beer and watched tennis

Yay Andy Murray!

and poked around empty chapels and graveyards.

Poor Sydney - I've never seen a typo on a gravestone before.

We swam in the sea and played the beach games of my childhood

found treasure

and proof that I need to learn more about seashore foraging.

I picked out paint colours for the new kitchen (never off duty!)

We ate lobster from the chippy

and bought a picture of a lobster from my nephew in-law's show

So to the family in Felinheli ...

... thanks guys - it was heaven!