Stormin' the Castle

Still fighting off the illness, I woke up and took my medicine, had some breakfast, and was off. This was supposed to be a short day, minimal walking, and I got on my way. I left for the train station and hopped to the town of Caerphilly.
If you’ve not ever looked at a current map of Wales, look at the town names. They’ll bend your mind. It’s a language where J, K, Z, Q don’t exist. Towns like Merthyr Tydwil and Tongwylains are the easier to say. Once you’ve noticed that, you’ll then notice that some city will say Cardiff (Caerdydd) or Swansea (Abertawe). Yes, there is an entirely different second language in Wales (Cymru), a form of Gaelic that you wouldn’t think was in use until you watch TV, and then you find the all-Welsh channel where it’s in use for everything except for subtitling or voicing over English (they did no translation of President Bush when he spoke about the California fires for example; and for you cynics out there, it was a prepared speech and he was articulate and clear).
So when I stepped out in the morning, I needed to find a town amongst the jumble of vowels and c’s, d’s, f’s, and y’s. The town was Caerphilly, and in this town is a castle, which by complete and utter coincidence is called Caerphilly Castle. The travel book said to either take the bus or the train to Caerphilly (it even listed the correct bus number); with my familiarity with the trains, I hopped on one and headed north.
The train ride was short but pretty with plenty of the deep green you observe in this part of the world, and after about 15 minutes I was in the sleepy town of Caerphilly. I got off the train and looked for a castle. Those are fairly obvious, y’know- large, stone, on a hill, slits for windows, a prominent flag near the middle, possibly the front door, which is on top of two very large towers of the gatehouse. I couldn’t see it. I had two choices of direction, and I chose wisely. This is never a guarantee for me, and I was thankful that I went the right way. After a wander through one of the one-lane business roads, I happened to arrive to the castle.
Q: When is a castle –not- on a hill?
A: When it’s in the middle of a lake.
This castle is amongst the most impressive ruins to which I have ever visited, and when I left I realized I had blown over 150 pictures on it. The travel book understated just how incredible this site is. I would recommend GoogleEarth-ing Caerphilly Castle. It’s huge, and they explain in detail why it is in it’s current outlay- the lake (only about 3 feet deep) slowed individual soldiers, and was wide enough to prevent catapults and trebuchets from even hitting the inner castle. I say inner castle because it had two outer walls, one in the middle of the lake, before you approached the keep.
Once you get to the keep (which is quite easy, as you aren’t laying siege to an inhibited fortress or anything), you see a handful of restorers working on a barely visible section. There are many little nooks and crannies, small room in the keep that are completely unoccupied, and only a small handful of museum-like exhibits. The lack of a guided tour made the experience feel like a discovery, and the lack of people made it feel like the castle was mine for the exploring.
The keep’s great hall was open; almost completely empty, it had a small table with eight chairs, a few odd nice but not authentic pieces of furniture, some two-foot crest shields surrounding the room about 15 feet off the floor, and the obligatory 8-foot wide fireplace. A sign outside the hall said that the hall was available for rental for wedding parties. Given that the floor was cobbled, I don’t see many women enjoying a wedding and/or a reception in the hall wearing heels. Nevertheless, it’s a castle, and it’s a wedding, and some women will go to any expense to get what they want- Caerphilly Castle is certainly a worthy choice.
I haven’t mentioned all of the cool little things, like the leaning tower or the display of siege engines constructed from medieval drawings that work (or did at the time of construction), and I left when I had my fill of pictures and was ready for lunch. I wanted to eat at a pub, but the pub was “busy;” okay, the girls behind the bar (formerly known as wenches) were too busy flirting with the boys to actually serve anyone. So I crossed the street and ate at Subway. Again, not by choice, but out of necessity because I needed to catch a bus to my next destination.Side note: have I noted how much the Welsh love baseball? In at least three conversations, as soon as it is established that I am American two sentiments are immediately conveyed: 1) they want to or are in the middle of trying to visit all 50 states, 2) they love baseball! They are stoked about the World Series, many people here pulling for Boston. They have stated that they believe that a Welsh baseball league would take off here, and they watch it when they can. Women play baseball here, the women I spoke with said she had very fond memories of playing it as a girl, although the whole round-bat thing is their biggest hang-up (as opposed to a cricket bat, which is flat on one side). It is a fair thing to say that the Welsh dig the long ball. I had an at-length discussion about Manny Ramirez with one Welsh gentleman, and I thank Jim Rome for giving me the intel on ManRam. I didn’t have the heart to say I just don’t like baseball any more, and that I would rather watch Welsh rugby than another Yankees-Red Sox game.
Anyway, the bus! On my way to the second castle of the day, this one in the sleepy little borough of Tongwylnais called Castle Coch. This castle was on a hill, but was not of significant military importance; in fact it was one restored/made by the Marquis of Bute who did the Cardiff Castle I visited the day before. It was a much longer walk than I was keen on taking in my condition, and owing to poor pedestrian signage, I took a long walk on an unpaved path in the forest before making it to the keep, having to scale a steep hill for about 15 feet before getting to the castle’s front door.
The castle was a keep only (no outer walls), and as it had been ‘restored,’ it was kind of garish and tacky but otherwise cool (it is a castle, after all). The coolest things in the castle were the lady’s bedroom and the history on the intended use for the land. The lady’s bedroom had mirrors on the ceiling- more than one wife said “tha’s rather saucy, innit?” The mirrors weren’t garish plates, but little bars above the chandelier used to spread light in the room. I’m certain the restorers, when they placed the bed directly under the mirrors, could be described as ‘cheeky.’
The intended use for the land was to establish a winery. The land hand the basic requirements-good drainage and a south slope- but for some reason, French winemakers weren’t keen on sending anyone to start a winery there. So the Marquis of Bute- the richest man in the world- sent someone to them, paid their entire expense for 3 years to learn about wines, selecting the grape (something like Garot Noir, which was grown in northern France at the time) and bringing the vines over to ‘have a go.’ Someone wrote about what they viewed as the Marquis’ folly stated that “it would take four people to drink a bottle of his wine- two to hold the victim down, and one more to pour it down his throat.” The actual review of the 294 bottle first year said that the wine was rather like a non-carbonated champagne varietal, light and slightly sweet. Chalk it up to luck or whatever, but that was another money maker as the Marquis’ wine sold very well. The vineyards are now gone, in favor of housing, golf clubs, and reforestation, but the legacy is there, and I will be adding that scathing wine review to my repertoire of insults.
The walk down the hill was much easier, and when I returned to the main city intersection, I passed the Tongywlnais Rugby Club (all ages, all sizes wanted!) and chuckled as I could see Fred and I having a run at that for a bit. But I needed to get back to the city, and I had no idea how. The bus only came around once an hour, and the hotel was about 5 miles away. Walking and taking the bus seemed to be chronologically equivalent, so I made a bad decision and started walking. I walked for another two miles, my legs passing the point of pain in the plateau between aching and giving up, and I managed to stumble on a train stop during the walk and rode the rest of the way home.
Once back at the hotel, I took another bath to immerse my legs in the heated water, and ordered room service and began packing. Tomorrow, I’m heading to my final stop, and eventually to the work portion of my trip. I spoke with the guy for whom I’m working, who told me he was renting a car. That ought to be an experience- it’s still messing me up that the cars are coming from the right, as traffic is on the left side of the road.