“I am not a number, I am a free man!” so ring the famous lines from Patrick McGoohan who starred, directed and produced the seminal sixties series The Prisoner. As we determinably snake our way through the rusty moss-strewn hills in Snowdonia, the series sadly imparts a renewed relevance once again.
These are turbulent political times we sorrowfully inhabit. I’m here with my family to forget that nonsense, however, if only for a moment. Akin to Number 6, we’re here to escape, albeit to the very place he was determined to abscond from.
Snowdonia Calls
It’s never a good idea to meet your heroes, I’ve been told. Portmeirion as a place is not so much a hero, but more of a place of heroism which I’ve been acutely aware of for decades. Finally, I’m meeting the place and my nerves are fraught from two children wailing in the rear. I don’t blame them, it is a five-hour drive to Wales from South England. We require some respite immediately to reconvene.
Palé Hall
Palé Hall is the poshest of pit stops. Nestled close enough to the wide, expansive blue hues of Lake Bala, it cheerfully boasts its Relais & Châteaux credentials as soon as you arrive. A long expanse of driveway winds to a grand entrance where a blood-red Ferrari, Bentley and Rolls-Royce greet you, beckoning you to hire them and tear around the inviting Snowdonian tarmac.
© Christian Anderson-RamshallWe decamp early in reception, which is the most anti-reception I’ve checked into. So much so that I feel I am at a loss almost akin to a hotel usurper. Am I supposed to be here? It’s a sitting room with a smartly hidden desk, adjacent to a roaring fire - it’s gorgeous. The kids wail again, ‘We’re hungry!’ - croissants thankfully appear with immediacy. This clearly isn’t front-of-house Paul’s first rodeo.
And so...to suite
French pastry devoured, crumbs embarrassingly adorning the beautiful white sofas (Palé staff don't seem to mind) and we take a leisurely sojourn to our garden suite. Cases already ready and waiting, we try the complimentary mead positioned within an antique bureau. An odd choice we feel, what’s wrong with wine?
Rhetorical questions complete, we collapse into our surroundings and admire the beautifully bleak mountainside from the French doors. We could recline for hours but travelling with children scuppers this intention and we begrudgingly venture into the manicured grounds to play.
© Christian Anderson-RamshallThis becomes the extent of our activities at Palé. Exploring snickets, imbibing cocktails at the trophy-decorated bar whilst the insouciant fire crackles in the background, the kids’ farinaceous dining at the well-reposed restaurant and long, languishing baths in our room. It’s boutique recherché charm and a base from which to catapult yourself into Snowdonia.
Don’t expect much more, however. A pool and spa is not far off and far be it for me to say, but this will hopefully be a propitious move for Palé Hall.
Welcome prisoners of Portmeirion
I feel like I’m driving into the late sixties. Distant memories of my parents watching roaring white balloons devour escapees on television flitter wildly into my thoughts as our car enters Portmeirion. Then we’re at the gates and the recognition of the buildings is practically elating. I expect a gentleman in a Unicycle to saunter past, a large white badge pinned to a garish suit, but the tourists will have to do. I decide right then and there I will purchase the ubiquitous stripped scarf from the gift shop.
© Christian Anderson-RamshallOur accommodation houses a delicious malcontent of neo-Kitsch sixty style wallpapers and bedding. Gloriously entitled ‘Winch Villa’ this moniker coined after the infamous Captain of the same name who used to land his biplane in the estuary. This isn’t the first tale we’ll hear as we explore the vision of architectural impresario Clough Williams-Ellis.
© Christian Anderson-RamshallThe damn weather
Whilst the Welsh February weather allows us coveted exploration time, the kids delight in frantically darting through crooked stairways and clambering over all manner of eccentric delights on show.
This is what I believe was the first of a million modern resorts. Your self-contained village, which you have the run of (once the tourists vacate, of course). Accommodation options are also plentiful, from self-catering cottages, to hotel rooms and village rooms.
© Christian Anderson-RamshallThe break in the squall is fleeting and we are a prisoner to the weather. Without children, a heavy book and a glass (or two) of red would be the order of things. Or perhaps you could watch infinite re-runs of The Prisoner on Portmeirion’s own dedicated channel?
Fulfilling that is simple enough with the television, wine available in your room and/or the bar at an exquisitely boutique hotel. Parenting is the priority and we dart into the car. Looking valiantly for entertainment, we discover it buried in a disused slate mine.
© Christian Anderson-RamshallBounce Below
Bounce Below is an incendiary device, designed to spike a child’s excitement to otherworldly levels. A long-abandoned mine awaits, a series of nets support you as all ages bounce above the gaping pit below. It's all safety first, but the sweat appeared much sooner than anticipated. Perhaps I’m not as fit as I believe?
The kids vanish into rope-adorned tunnels and multiple levels of buoyant netting. It put a smile on my cynical face, but if that doesn’t satisfy then, take a train to the world’s deepest underground golf course.
© Meurig JonesMore than just a Prisoner
When the storms finally abate, Meurig, the location manager, is waiting with a golf buggy. Our eyes are truly opened to the history as Meurig’s passion is infectious and the children seem to be intently listening, or perhaps the golf buggy just seems to be entertaining them for now.
We learn about the Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein favourite cottage, which he insisted was extended for his raucous dinner parties. George Harrison’s security advising him not to take a cliff top house for fear of his demise and the countless other musicians and entertainers, who like myself, have a deep adoration for Portmeirion. I’m realising this delightful place has so much more infamy than Patrick McGoohan's cult series. We’re invited to a gig from Scottish punk stalwarts ‘The Skids’ that night too. Concerts are a frequent thing, it appears, and deservedly so.
© Christian Anderson-RamshallCome in number six, your time is up
I’ve been thinking a lot about the colours and sounds we experienced in Portmeirion. I remember the multi-coloured effigies rising from the hillside like protruding muddled obelisks. The cuisine we marvelled at courtesy of uber-talent Mark Threadgill in the stunning art-deco dining room. The kids pulling at my arms, marvelling at every nook and cranny as the village revealed itself to us.
I’ve been thinking about it all since we departed but I didn’t expect it to be so persistent. Portmeirion is rough around its edges for sure, but that adds to the convivial charm. It’s a constant beam of sunshine even when the weather conspires against you. There’s a saying in Portmeirion that you can always make things... more Clough. I think we could all use a bit of that in our lives right now.
