Continued

I feel that I need to say a little about SOME of the people that live in North Wales. I can undertsand why people hate the English, let's face it, we have a pretty poor history when it comes to international relations. What we couldn't occupy, we have pillaged, and have left resentful peoples the world over. The British Museum in London is an illustration. Walk around there sometime and hazard a guess as to what proportion of the exhibits are actually British. My guess is that at least 75% of the items in there were stolen by Brits doing their world tours or taking their "gap years".

Well it it true that many homes in North Wales were bought up by affluent English, and that of course led to housing shortages in that part of the world, leaving many young people with little choice other than to move away. This has a knock on effect and, produces demographic changes that have not been popular with the Welsh.

There is a significant element in North Wales that treat English tourists very badly. I have been sworn at and abused for simply walking past someone's house and many times have walked into pubs, where suddenly the language changes from English to Welsh as soon as they recognise the presence of the English.

They may not be the most sociable of people, but they do live in a spectacular part of the world and I still love Snowdonia in particular.

We always went in the spring, when the Rhododendrons were in full bloom, and stayed in a number of hostels that cluster around the base of the mountain. There are so many tales to tell of the North Wales trips but cannot possibly write about all of them. For one thing, I cannot recall the details and there is always the possibility of several trips blending into one within my imagination.

However there was one memorable trip, when we were staying in Llanberis, a grey and depressing little town with little going for it other than scenery. The hostel is a modern one and well provided with facilities and a good heating system; something pretty essential in Wales. We had walked there from a place the other side of the mountain and this was the last venue of our tour. Parties from our school had a pretty good reputation, as we tended to keep a pretty firm grip on the groups and also staff slept in the same dormitories as the kids.

As was almost traditional, on the last night, the lads decided to saboutage my bed. Nothing malicious, just making it hard for me to get into it and they had also gathered together the walking sticks from the group and arranged them neatly in between my bedding.

We were sharing the hostel that night with some not very well behaved and very excited young boys from a private school, whose Masters seemingly had little control over their charges.

Philip, was one of our most mature and sensible boys, but the did have a shaved head, wore big boots and denim jacket and jeans. He was the mind behind the practical jokes and he managed to convince the private school lads that our party was from a young offenders institution, and that the sticks were a weapon stache all ready for a breakout that night. The plan was to kill the staff and make a break for it.

The first I heard of this was early evening, when the Warden of the hostel, a dour and humourless man at the best of times, approached me along with one of the Masters from the other school. Apparently, the young boys were terrified, and afraid to go backto their dormitories in case they too were murdered. It was the only time i ever saw the Warden smile. He was able to see the joke and I think that Philip went up in his estimation too.

Enough of this - Suffice it to say that, the trips were wonderful, and i still meet grown ups who were kids that came with me on those trips, and they still talk about them with fondness and enthusiasm. I just hope that one of them will take it upon themselves to "pass it on."