Seeing Thoughts: A love letter to Conwy

Tuesday, December 10th, 2013

Conwy Castle and Guild Hall (including disco lens flare)

I took a leisurely walk around the historic town of Conwy this morning, a place that has politely dipped in and out of my life for the last 16 years now.
I first encountered it in the summer of 1997 when I came for a job interview, after which I crossed the road bridge between Llandudno Junction and Conwy to explore. It was a very hot July day and I had a good vibe about how the interview went (in the event, it went very well and I got the job, but 16 years later that's not necessarily a bonus any more!).
At the quayside was a permanently moored tallship with a restaurant and bar aboard. This, to me, was beyond cool, and I remember enjoying a cooling pint on the deck of the ship overlooking the estuary. I also remember thinking: "Yes, this would be an amazing place to work."
I was right, at least for a time. Within weeks I was the local newspaper reporter for Conwy town and I was revelling in it. One coarse but appropriate phrase I learnt recently fits the bill - my arse was in butter!
I was doing what I had always wanted to do (journalism) in a town that simply oozed history and character and charm and grandeur. I went to all the evening council meetings, met all the councillors and shopkeepers and newsagents and gossips and police officers and barmen, and completely immersed myself in the town's daily life and culture. I even went along to Conwy Folk Club one evening. Never again, mind.
I remember fondly walking along Castle Street as dusk fell one summer's evening and being stopped by a couple of American tourists who seemed flabbergasted by the castle and the amount of history the town was steeped in.
"That castle is awesome!" said the husband, his arm expansively taking in the turrets and towers. "You're so lucky to have this on your doorstep!"
I should have agreed, but instead I mischievously said: "Oh that old thing. It's got into such a dilapidated state now that the council is thinking of knocking it down. We've got plenty of castles to go round in Britain."
The look on the American's face was a picture of horror and disbelief. Don't worry, I did put him right before I continued on my way.
My time as a cub reporter in Conwy only lasted a year or so before I was "promoted" to cover the much larger and troubled Bay of Colwyn as chief reporter, but I have never forgotten Conwy and its people.
But walking around the town today, mingling with tourists and locals alike, I no longer felt "at home" there. It's not that Conwy has changed all that much, but rather that I think I have moved on. And in many ways that is a good thing, and I want to move on even more.
But the charm of Conwy will never diminish. The castle is beautiful in its dereliction, and the quayside throbs with the rhythms of its fishing heritage, whether it be the seagulls or the musselmen or the amazing collection of lobster pots and nets or the forest of boat masts.

Fishing nets and pots on Conwy Quay (in retro sepia)

Devouring a hot sausage and egg bap on the quayside, I might have felt slightly threatened by the circling, vulture-like seagulls, but I was reassured by the stunning vista stretching across the estuary toward Llandudno and Deganwy, a sight that could not fail to mute any hardship.
And I bloody well miss that tallship.