It was a dark and stormy night--

--and four Americans were driving around the Isle of Anglesey with a cabbie who didn't speak any kind of English I had ever heard, looking for lodging on what turned out to be the only weekend of the year that Holyhead has any real need to even offer overnight accommodations.  But let's start from the beginning.

I credit (and you can blame) much of my current love for travel to my aunt, who dragged me to Ireland in the first place.  She taught me that travel doesn't have to be some esoteric idea that one dreams of "doing someday," but can be a part of your regular existence if you keep yourself open to new experiences and jump at opportunities as they arise (which is how we  once found ourselves crammed on a hill in sub-freezing temperatures with 15,000 other people waiting for a groundhog to appear, but that's a different story).  She also taught me, the hard way, that sometimes you need just a little bit of a plan.

Our trip to Ireland wasn't all  pub songs and museums, we were actually there to perform a new oratorio by composer Andrew T. Miller.  Through a long, and somewhat mundane, series of events, we found ourselves part of the choir, so there we were.  But with a day off from rehearsals we thought we should seize the opportunity to get another stamp in our passports, and we boarded the ferry from Dublin to Holyhead, Isle of Anglesey, Wales.

I know a few things about Wales: Wales has a prince, and Welsh is the most ridiculous looking language on the planet.  Really, that's about all there is to know about Wales, so I figured we were in good shape as we crossed the Irish Sea.  It turns out there's one more thing you should know: there are no hotel rooms available anywhere within 20 miles of Holyhead on the third weekend in August.  Trust me.  I've looked for one.

We step out of the Holyhead ferry terminal and are greeted by.............nothing.  No restaurants, no pubs, not even any streetlights.  Just dark emptiness for as far as the eye can see.  Apparently the ferry we were on was just bringing all of the Welsh tourists back home.  Dubliners know better.  What we had expected to be a quaint seaside town with B&B's and friendly pubs turned out to be, well, not that at all.  It was instead a narcoleptic town that closed down at 5:00 and just happened to be hosting the Anglesey Agricultural Fair.  But we were determined that we were going to experience Wales, so we call a cab company and proceed to attempt to explain to our cabbie that we want any room/food that is available.

After four hours, and numerous unfruitful stops, we pull up to The Bull Hotel--and there are two rooms available!  Famished, exhausted, and a bit cranky that our passports didn't actually get stamped when we crossed into Wales, we were ready to sleep just about anywhere, even if we were 15 minutes too late for dinner.  "Is there any way the kitchen can scrounge something up for us?" we beg, hoping against hope that our poor grumbling stomachs aren't going to be denied.  "Well, tonight was Chinese food night.  Come to the dining room and we'll bring you some," is the unexpected reply.  We look quizzically at each other, but since our cabbie had already pealed out of the parking lot with our 4-hour fare, chuckling to himself about the crazy tourists, we head over to the dining room to see how the Welsh do Chinese.

Now I have never been to China.  Until recently I thought Safeway made pretty good Chinese food, but even I know that you don't see a lot of potatoes in Asia.   Maybe it was fusion, or maybe it was just confusion, but there on our plates were sweet and sour chicken, over rice, all over "chips."  Yep, french fries.  If I move to Canada and open an International Poutine stand, this is going to be the first thing on the menu. 

Fortunately, after a good night's sleep (and a shower involving more pulleys and levers than an 18th century sailing ship), the world again looks promising.  And it was good we were well rested because awaiting me that day was going to be one of the biggest challenges I have yet encountered: navigating for someone who is driving on the left side of the road.

I don't understand driving on the left side of the road.  Why wouldn't you drive on the right side?  But apparently on the British Isles left is right and right is wrong.  No wonder all of their colonial holdings have been able to break free.  But I digress. 

The hardest part about navigating in Wales is that all of  the names of places are so long, and the places themselves so small, that by the time you read the whole town's name you've already driven through it.  Case in point, the town of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.  Imagine having to write that on every form you ever fill out!  In fact, the town governors figured residents were spending approximately 3 years of their life just writing their town's name, so they shortened it to Llanfair PG.  Parental guidance suggested.

When you plan your trip to Wales, learn from our mistakes, take my advice, and head straight to the town of Beaumaris.   That's the Wales you want to see.  Castle ruins, tea houses, locally made blankets, and all the charm you could ever want.  Just remember, no right turn on red.