The surprising Welsh village that looks as though it should be on the Italian Riviera

Ambling around this strange seaside village, it was sometimes hard to recall exactly where I was. Yes, the peaks of Eyri (Snowdonia) reared craggily behind. And, when I paid for my coffee, the server thanked me – “Diolch!” – in Welsh. 

But, with its tumbling gelato-hued buildings, domed Pantheon, soaring campanile bell tower and brawny bronze Hercules, the place looked a lot like Italy; or at least some fantastical version of it. Well, Croeso – welcome – to Portofino-ish, North Wales.

If ever there was a year not to go to the Italian Riviera, this is it. Threats of flight cancellations and passport-check chaos as the EU’s new entry system is rolled out are making it seem far more appealing to holiday at home. Fortunately, Portmeirion gives you an Italian taster without the need to head abroad.

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Perched beside the Dwyryd River, the tourist resort of Portmeirion is madly, splendidly out of place – as it has been for 100 years. The pioneering architect Bertram Clough Williams-Ellis spent ages searching for the right spot to build his idealised village; he eventually found the Aber Iâ estate, on the Gwynedd coast. 

It had everything he wanted: a Mediterranean-like setting on a broad, cliff-backed estuary, plus interesting old buildings and a frill of trees. Clough was keen to prove that, if done sympathetically, a naturally beautiful environment could be enhanced rather than spoilt by development. He acquired the site in 1925. In 1926 he opened the Portmeirion Hotel, creating the village around it over the following decades. 

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A century on, the whole place is still gloriously weird. Clough had a passion for preservation – and was also strapped for cash – so Portmeirion is a masterclass in architectural salvage, utilising and upcycling unwanted artefacts. He called it a ‘home for fallen buildings’. The result is colourful, whimsical, fun, and quite unlike anything else, anywhere. 

You can still stay at the Art Deco-style Portmeirion Hotel, and most of the village buildings are holiday lets. However, I checked in at Castell Deudraeth, on the main drive in. There’s probably been a fortress of that name hereabouts since the 12th century, but the current castellated one – high Victorian Gothic, a proper castle-y looking castle – dates from the 1840s, and opened as a hotel in 2001. My room felt modern, but my bathroom was brilliantly tucked into an old turret. 

From Deudraeth, I walked down into the village and wandered in wonder amid the archways, pavilions, chequerboard piazza, mermaid-inlaid ironwork. I investigated the Town Hall – constructed using remnants of a demolished Jacobean hall – and the Colonnade, once part of Bristol’s 18th-century Arnos Court bathhouse. 

I waxed nostalgic in the Ship Shop, with its shelves of Portmeirion pottery, a side-business founded by Clough’s daughter in 1960; the ceramics took me back to my Grandma’s kitchen, where the pretty botanical-print jugs and mugs sat on her dresser to be admired but never used. 

I also browsed the markedly different wares – Patrick McGoohan face masks, ‘I Am Not A Number’ fudge – at the Prisoner Shop. It occupies the building used as Number Six’s house in cult 1960s TV show, The Prisoner, filmed at Portmeirion, and still drawing fans. Even the younger generation love it, the lady behind the counter said: the show’s themes of identity, freedom and surveillance resonate hard in the modern world.

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That evening, I sipped an aperitif by Castell Deudraeth’s sculpted stone fireplace, then tucked into delicious lemon sole in the brasserie. However, the main delight of overnighting here was nipping out early, when only the sheep and songbirds were up, to watch the sun rise over the Rhinogydd range and get the village to myself. 

I continued along the promenade to the observatory tower. A statue of Nelson in all his finery gazed to the water, looking grumpy, as if peeved at being stuck on land. 

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Some 19 miles of pathways weave through Portmeirion’s surrounding Gwyllt (‘Wildwood’), leading to the lighthouse folly, to secretive beaches, via lakes and temples, past exotic trees. I had a map but followed my nose down tangled paths confettied with electric-pink camellia to Mywent y Cwn, the Dogs’ Cemetery. This hidden-away glade was created by the reclusive Adelaide Haig, who lived at Aber Iâ mansion before it became the Portmeirion Hotel; she’s said to have been far keener on dogs than people.

While Portmeirion feels like a world unto itself, it’s actually a good base for exploring further afield, even without a car. The nearest stop on the Cambrian Coast Line is only a mile and half away, the Wales Coast Path runs past the grounds. But on a fine day, with the sun glowing on the candy-coloured facades, and the cafes serving refined afternoon teas and scoops of gelato fresh-made on site, it’s quite tempting to imprison yourself right here. 

How to do it

Entry to Portmeirion costs £20 per adult, £14 per child. Castell Deudraeth has doubles from £165pn B&B, including village entry (portmeirion.wales). The nearest train station is Minffordd.