I used to live in North Wales, back in the mid-1970s. Many London hippies did. We were “getting back to the land” although most of us knew nothing about land. If I remember correctly, I hitch-hiked to Wales with a backpack full of brown rice, a pot of Marmite and, I guess, some clean clothes. I think my mother packed the clothes.
I lived in a small caravan by a river for just a week. I then moved from house to house, enjoying the comfort of strangers. It was a fine summer full of mountain hikes and ice-cold rivers. I was skinny and brown, my hair almost down to my waist. I rode horses – bareback. I was macrobiotic and probably malnourished but I was healthy and happy. All of us hippies got together frequently. We talked of mushrooms and wildflowers and poultices and poetry and getting back to the land we’d already got back to. Sex and drugs were abundant. There was no need to talk of sex, it was everywhere. We talked about it nonetheless. There was a lot of dope. An apt name I discovered later. There was music. We listened to the Grateful Dead and The Incredible String Band. Clapton was still God. Some of us played music. Some well, most not.
I needed to garden. I needed a job. After the summer, I started work at Plas Brondanw, then the home of Clough Williams-Ellis, the creator of Portmeirion. Decades later, just last week, I returned to Snowdonia, to walk the mountains, visit friends, and look at stone.
Here are some pictures of Plas Brondanw, a Welsh-Italianate garden.
After Plas Brondanw, I worked at Portmeirion.
A silly, lovely place. But it was the mountains that interested me the most. Raw and beautiful, often pouring with water, criss-crossed by Roman roads and rock-walled sheep pens. My time there was one of the most powerful in my life. I was pleased to visit it again and pleased that I no longer live there.