July 15, Wednesday

We left Wales for one last night in Dublin, where we had planned to catch an early flight to Paris the following morning. Three weeks before, we made reservations to have dinner at “the oldest pub in Ireland.” For those who have heard, correctly, that the food on the British Isles has improved substantially over that past two decades, there are hold-outs. The company at our assigned table were pleasant enough (all Americans), but the overpriced meal was served in the manor of a wedding reception where the bride’s mother spent a few weeks paring down the price in creative, if gastronomically questionable, ways. Of this there are no photos.

On our long walk to said pub, we stopped at this quiet pub for a whiskey and coffee, respectively. Somehow, I got into a long conversation with another patron. Rod says that this was just a ploy for me to show off my political erudition—hardly an opinion auditioning for the Book of Revelations.

The walk back to the hotel at about 10:00 took us one last time down Temple Bar, the street of many pubs. Costco on a Saturday afternoon handing out free pizza and beer would be less busy. These people do not understand the excitement of seeing a stranger “voted off the island,” asshole though he may be. There must soon be a push to install televisions in Irish homes.

We were early for both flights, but noticed that our return flight from Paris to SFO would be La Premiére or first class. It was, in a word, acceptable.

The food was outstanding and the beds were a nice way to pass the time…sleeping.

Here’s some examples of the food we were served on Air France:

It was the extraordinary salmon tartar with caviar and gold leaf that made me realize that this was not a meal to be ignored. Rod had duck foie gras; I had yellow zucchini soup, Rod had (heart healthy) salmon pàté and sesame duck foie gras; I had grilled mixed vegetables in Creole-style aïoli sauce; Rod had slow-cooked fillet of John Dory with a tomato and eggplant compote. The banner photo is of a salad of ingredients, specified by the passenger, with a selection of cheeses. The Chardonnay and Burgundy were more than tolerable. An 18-year-old Glenlivet rounded out the meal nicely.

This proved to be an outstanding trip. All accommodations were exceptional and many of the places we visited were completely outside and beyond our expectations. The people of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales are more advanced than one might think. They put a high value on education and on common, social space. Edinburgh appears to be about 50% park. Wifi is everywhere and free. Scotland’s unemployment rate is under 5%. Ireland’s is higher (though now under 10%) but the country has infectious optimism.

There remains substantial acrimony in Scotland and Wales toward Maggie Thatcher, but it is hard to see how the absence of coal dust has dulled life in these quasi nations. I once thought it crazy for writers and artists to move to Ireland to avoid taxes on their windfall incomes. Now I only wish I had the talent, skill, intelligence and energy to have earned an invitation.

July 13, Monday

A light rain confined us to the car on the drive from Lledrod to Beddgelert. Considering how little rain we had seen until this point, the weather could only be regarded as cooperating. We had intended to stop at a particular town (tomorrow’s trip). It was best that we did not.

Our approach to this town was miles down narrow, houseless roads, leaving me to think I had booked another remote farmhouse, kept amused by shorn sheep. Not so.

The town of Beddgelert boasts three pubs, several restaurants, three decent hotels, and a few novelty shops. Our GPS took us down this narrow alley to a foot bridge that even a European-sized sedan could not traverse. The actual road to our hotel required crossing the two tributary rivers.

Rod found it easy to enjoy this immaculate town with its fine stonework, freshly painted details, and superb setting. We made two dinner reservations immediately, one at our hotel where the owner buys and cooks from a selection of what the market offers; the other at a restaurant recommended by our hosts in Lledrod.

We took a hike to the top of the mountain behind our hotel. By California standards, this is not especially high, but the Welsh make up for that by leading unsuspecting tourists into what we thought might be our alpine grave when we completely lost track of anything that could be called a trail. Had it not been for a small series of better equipped hikers appearing and disappearing, apparitions from what must have been our town, we might have spent the night with the mountain goats. (Not their best choice, either.)

We showered quickly and reached our restaurant at 8:31 for a 8:30 reservation. As Oscar Wilde once quipped, “Punctuality is the thief of time.”