August, A Level year. My father had had a heart bypass earlier in the year, so the 'family' holiday was booked for not far away, North Wales. A chalet park, owned by Hoseasons, and, naturally some distance from any wild hedonistic seaside resort. I'm not sure but I think it was Ogwen Bank Country Park, miles from the corrupting decadence of Caernarfon, Bangor and Llanfairfechan.
The parents remarkably acknowledged I was an adult, so I was allowed to stay at home for half their holiday. I travelled by train from Altrincham to Bangor, changing at Chester, and they met me in Bangor, shielding me from the tempting seediness of its hectic nightlife.
It rained.
We went up Snowdon by train (no photos), because my father was not yet fully recovered. It rained
It rained.
One day we went to a slate quarry. It rained. Probably the most interesting slate quarry I have ever visited, twice. It rained.
One day it didn't rain, so we went to look at the David Lloyd George museum in his childhood home. We gazed out over Cardigan Bay from outside Criccieth, obviously avoiding the town centre because of its disreputable dens of iniquity.
I don't remember spending any of this holiday on the beach.
