I’ve always considered myself quite a seasoned traveller around the UK. I love the rolling hills of the West Country, the wildness of Northumberland, and have spent ample time visiting many areas of this beautiful island we live in. However, there is one glaring omission which has never really been on my radar. Besides of accidentally boarding a train to Newport, the odd sort over the Severn Bridge and a few visits to Wrexham on business, my personal experiences of Wales have sadly been few.

I blame my subconscious English superiority complex for holding sway in my earlier years and keeping me out of the principality. My ignorance personified, meant Wales, in my sad eyes was a country full of slag heaps, men singing loud and proud, and holiday cottages burning brightly in the twilight hours; torched by the nationalistic movement The sons of Glyndwr, determined to keep the English out!. Of course I hummed along to Men of Harlech in Zulu, and even cheered them on against Scotland at football – they tended to have more Everton players, but in general, I treated the place and its people with a degree of antipathy.

Maybe it was because of connections in other parts of the country and sticking to that old adage of better the devil you know, meant over the years I have normally gone for the tried and tested when selecting holidays. I’m a bit of a steady Eddie if you want; Few things beat a week’s camping in Devon with my mates or a trip to Spain or its islands, with my wife Julie to bask in its sunshine. But as with anything in life, things are rarely plain sailing. Multiple Sclerosis has confined me to a wheelchair chair and about 4 years ago we took on a dog, Lo-lo, after her previous owner died.

Holidays, therefore, need a bit more planning. We have to ensure any accommodation caters for our needs and that of course, they are also dog-friendly, if the in-laws are unable to dog sit. Subsequently, forays to the Mediterranean have become less common and we’ve started to take more UK breaks. We’ve had some good trips – staying in Suffolk, Somerset, and Cornwall, exploring what’s on offer and inevitably have started to look at pastures a new. Recently we found ourselves being drawn to North Wales for a number of reasons.

Besides of my own personal guilt for an extended use of blinkers, Julie’s brother Gary lives on Anglesey and her parents were staying with friends in Mold. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to kill three birds with one stone and also feed my wifes habit. She’s always been a bit of an adrenalin junkie ‘me Julie’. Besides of being mad enough to marry me, she lists her biggest thrill ever as flying in an RAF Jaguar down Loch Ness at a rate of knots most of us could only dream of.

When Gary completed the Zip wire last year in Snowdonia, it set her mind racing. For most of us the contemplation of hurtling at 100mph attached to a wire for 1500m, from a mountain, a mile in the sky, might furrow some brows – but not my wife. The dye, therefore had long been cast, before we decided dates and booked accommodation. Julie was going flying and I was finally going to a mythical land, its inhabitants I’d long ridiculed as ‘sheep shaggers’ for some re-education.

A few months later, Lock and loaded we set off from our flat in Parsons Green London. Crossing the border north of Shrewsbury we skirted its length in the patchy rain for about an hour. We picked up words of Welsh from numerous road signs, whilst Red Dragon’s fluttered proudly on the verge ways. Later we cut west, picking up the A55 motoring past Holywell, before an imaginary curtain opened up and suddenly Colwyn Bay was before us. The view reminded me of driving south down the Pacific coast highway in California as you approached San Clemente – it totally blew me away. As the sun glistened on the sea and the mountains of Snowdonia appeared in the distance standing like giants, I felt a glow inside, a rising excitement. It was if I’d arrived and had found a forgotten place that had always been deep inside me.

We caressed the shoreline for 10 miles passing Colwyn, a walled town with its imposing Castle not dissimilar to York, as The mid-afternoon sunshine, would momentarily blind us as it reflected off the sea, before underpasses or ‘Twanells’, helped shield us – maintaining the flow. Before long we reached the Menine straits, Anglesey’s live sea moat, passing over Robert Stephensons imposing Brittania bridge whilst Thomas Telford’s suspension bridge gleamed majestically a mile westwards – It was an awesome site as we entered the island on our final approach to our accommodation after a mammoth 6-hour journey.

Accessible holiday lets can often be hit or miss, but our minimalistic chalet overlooking a small lake in Llanfaelog on the West of the island was near on perfect. Equipped with adjustable beds and an ingenious walkway, it offered level access throughout and was the perfect springboard for exploring the local vicinity which we avidly did over the next week.

My brother in law, who is a refuse collector in Anglesey, warned us the place was swamped in the summer with tourists. ‘Half of bloody Liverpool and Manchester descend here then mate – It’s a nightmare on the roads. Best you don’t come then – end of’. We’d heeded his advice and fixed things to visit in September which he described as ‘Champion time mate – it flows like a rat down a drain pipe round here then’ He was true to his word and we toured the island taking in some great spots. The beaches and coves around Trearddur Bay, many with excellent accessibility easily matched some of the best I’d seen in South West England and Beaumaris’s Georgian splendor and its Snowdonia’s backdrop really took your breath away. The town was on storm Aileen alert so flood barriers were everywhere but we were still to able to view its impressive castle and the elegant Victorian Terrace, which holds a commanding view over the straits and the distant mountains.

The food was a little disappointing but there were some gastronomic delights available if you book in advance. The Marram Grass near Newborough was featured on the BBC Great British menu. It offers fresh and local produce which was excellent and at a competitive price. Close to the Menine straits, a bracing walk or push in my case allows you to wheel off any excess pudding and gaze across to another of Wales 100 standing castles Caernarfon, towering proudly beside the meandering Afon Seiont. The view is somewhat soured by an appalling new block of flats adjacent to the edifice, symbolizing architectural ineptitude at its finest. I’m sure Prince Charles’s blood would be boiling at its crassness after going through his investiture in the city all those years ago.

With all family duties out of the way by midweek, we turned our attention to the main event and Julies launch into the unknown, which was luckily booked for once the storm had passed. With some time to kill as Aileen battered our chalet with her siren blasts, I started to do some research on my family history. The magnitude of castles across Wales illustrated its turbulent past and lauded history and I was keen to see where my kin fitted into its tapestry, especially as I knew we had some Welsh ancestry on my mother’s side.

To say it was a chastising period would be an understatement. Six hours later after some painstaking research, a long chat with a close cousin in the ken, and half a bottle of Welsh whiskey, I had my Danny Dyer, ‘Who do you think you are’ moment. It transpired that my learned cousin had dated my mothers family back to the Norman conquest and deciphered that we were distant ancestors to Margaret Hammer through one of her children, a few cousins removed. What was illuminating from the news was that Margaret’s husband was none other than Owain Glyndwr, the ultimate Welsh rebel and the true Price of Wales. I was flabbergasted by my new found knowledge and lineage – even if it was a slight distant. Boring Julie senseless, I pouted on about Owain’s heroic deeds fighting Henry IV for the independence of the nation, declaring – ‘He’s one of our own, He’s one of own! before the whiskey started to take hold and I retreated or was rather helped to my bed, soon falling into dreams about forgotten heroes and dragon slayers alike.

My hangover was thumping the following morning as I guzzled black coffee surveying my fiefdom over yonder before reality took hold and I was bundled from my temporary castle and daze, into the car by my agitated wife – pumping herself up for her high-octane speed trip in nearby Snowdonia. Zip World Velocity in Penrhyn Slate Quarry, has brought valuable income and employment to an area largely dependent on tourism – transforming industrial old too blade runner new. It’s certainly not for the faint-hearted and would be difficult for anyone with a severe disability to complete. I wasn’t going to use that as an excuse but after the whiskey the night before I left Julie to it, watching her sprint away to the reception area, cowering against a withering hail storm.

Remaining in the car with Lo-lo, we had a bird’s eye view of the quarry and of the daunting drop, she was about to hurtle from. I watched countless people perform the feat. Some I tracked from the top, others just loomed out of the mountain mist, their presence betrayed by the sizzle of the wire as they flew by less than 50 yards away. I had no idea which one was Julie before she returned a couple of hours later brandishing a beaming smile and tales of soaring like an eagle capturing the most breathtaking of views. The experience was clearly exhilarating for her and although not cheap is one of those once in a lifetime opportunities to grab if you are planning a trip to the area and are made of brave stuff.

After Julie had returned to earth, we set off touring the northern half of Snowdonia’s National Park. Some of the views on the road to Betws-y-coed made the backdrops on Game of Thrones look like a play ground. Peaks swathed in shades of green and gray, cut by silver veins of water, cascading to tarns below, steered solemnly down upon us, having seen it all before. I wondered whether Owain and his boyos had taken those same path centuries before, tooled up ready for battle. I yearned to be on those low fells, intoxicated by their history, smells and wild beauty.

Sadly though Snowdonia is definitely not suited for wheelchairs.

It was frustrating as hiking and long walks were always a favorite pastime of mine before disability nipped them in the bud, but I was compensated by the stunning landscapes, roaring whitewater rivers and Welsh cakes that I soon got a taste for. Returning we cut back to Capel Curig and took in more eye-watering scenery such as the vista point looking down on Llyn Gwynant – its waters bathed in blue, trees hugging its distant shoreline, before heading down to the seaside town of Portmeirion, partly made famous by being the set for the iconic sixties science fiction show the Prisoner. A fleeting visit and homage to Hooky and the boys in Harlech, a few miles down the road, was sadly a bridge too far – time was against us. Instead, we snaked our way back along the coast in the evening sunshine, past the splendid ramparts of Caernarfon castle and its nearby flats and cheap motels from hell – towards our base in Anglesey.

The week had flown by if you can excuse the pun and we were both quite sad knowing it was our penultimate day as we set off for Llandudno, Colwyn Bay, and its Great Orme. Known as the Wales Queen of Resorts, Llandudno is a timepiece of Victorian and Edwardian architecture with its pier and excellent esplanade. It was blowing a gale so we decided to park up and just take in its ambiance before setting off for the Great Orme towering above us. Its limestone headland coined in Viking times meaning sea serpent commands panoramic views over the bay and is impressive, to say the least. It offers a tram all the way to the top for those after something nostalgic, but we opted to drive to the summit.

A cafe awaited at the top and over a warming hot chocolate we took in the spectacular view of the sea rolling in breaking on the yellow sands of Llandudno as we laughed at our dog’s futile attempts chasing seagulls. The road allows you to drive around the whole headland and I loved the windswept cemetery on its north side reaching out to Liverpool Bay. If there was ever a good place for an extended rest then few places could match. Perhaps my new hero Owain Glyndwr, whose body was never found and remains an enigma to his people has a hidden place there – it certainly had the feel of warriors resting place.

As I pondered the following morning preparing to return to London I was delighted to have been so enriched by what I’d seen and experienced, vowing to return and explore more of the country. It had been great to escape the city and I’d loved the emptiness of Angelsey and the awe of Snowdonia. We’d decided to follow the road back to Betws-y-coed for our return but the weather and incessant rain made the journey slow. We still swooned at idyllic, rustic cottages, with wood smoke spiraling into the leaden skies as we drifted past imagining a different life of peace and tranquility before the atmosphere was broken by breaking news on the radio told of a terrorist incident at Parsons Green tube station.

It was a shock bringing us back to reality, reminding us of what a screwed up world we live in. Luckily the suspect device had not fully ignited – if it had the consequences would have been catastrophic. Besides of the poor people who would have been maimed and killed our block where we live is directly adjacent to the tube station and the structural damage would have been severe. I’d already received words from friends who had already been evacuated by armed police some in their pyjamas or worse, the whole area now in total lockdown.

We drove along silently listening to the rolling reports shaking our heads at the madness we were thankfully away from but heading back too. The incident had awoken us from our relaxed slumber, angering me, as I questioned the politics of the situation and why I was returning to a place that I’d outgrown and where many now lived in a flux of hyper-normalization and terror. It seemed far removed from the serenity that had enchanted me for less than a week. I think we decided there and then that London had had its day and that a leap of faith was required to take us somewhere better suited to the lifestyle we craved.

It’s not as though we hadn’t thought about it on our travels but there’s always got to be a catalyst. If the thought of Parsons Green getting blown up wasn’t bad enough the site of some of my neighbors running round in their underpants for twelve hours pushed me over the edge. By now the sun had broken through the clouds forming a beautiful rainbow as we entered Corwyn set in the Dee Valey and crossroads to North Wales. Glendwr had taken his stand here and a statue commemorates his battle for Wales. It was kind of fitting to pay my respects to him and his legacy as I was exiting Wales a cleaner and better-educated person for my visit.

I know one day I’ll be back to visit the rest of the country, although I’ll never live in it. Old habits do die hard and Owains sword pointed westwards, it’s the direction I intend to follow. It’ll take me back to my heartland a place I’d always fought for, a place I love. Wales and Owain just made that homing call resonate a little louder. See you soon bauys.