My alarm sounded at 8am. I'd had a superb night's sleep, as did the others in different rooms. Ian and Jon were very glad not to have heard my snoring and I didnt have to endure my eyes being assaulted by Ian in his stripey green undies. We had really fallen lucky booking the Flambards Hotel and Tea Rooms and I recommend it to anyone visiting Cardigan.

As I ventured down to breakfast I was pleased to see the young family from the room next door were still friendly and chatty - obviously there was good snore-proof insulation in the walls!  In a very odd twist, the husband was also called Gareth Cole. Don't know what the odds are of 2 people with the same name checking into a hotel at the same time and being next door to each other,  but their 6yo son thought this highly amusing.  But as you all know,  there's only 1 ' Gar'.   Ian , Jon and Brian were all in good spirits,  a very decent full English was consumed and Brian said how impressed he was with the hotel (if Brian's happy then we're happy).

We arranged to rendezvous with the convoy at 10.30am at the Quay in Cardigan. I had planned a nice gentle start today,  no rush and no fixed schedules with a simple route that anyone could follow; just a cross-country jaunt through Newcastle Emlyn to Rhandirmwyn - a mere  47 miles.

​After yesterday's shenanigans I was pleased to see everyone had stocked up on fuel, chocolate, sweets etc, so I put on my best Michelle-of-the-French Resistance voice and said 'Listen very carefully, I shall say zees only wunce'.  My instructions were clear:  "It doesnt matter if your sat nav says turn left, turn right, turn around or do the Hokey Cokey - you follow me,  all clear?"  "Yes, Mein Fuhrer" came the reply.

The sun had even made an appearance and we waved to the townsfolk as an old Mondeo led a pack consisting of the 3.6 XJ40,  Rover P5b coupe, Jensen Interceptor, MGB roadster, Granada 2.8 estate, Morgan Aero 8 and the BMW 3 series Chase and Photography car. It was quite an impressive sight and we made a nice noise all together wearing our tour plaques and daffodils.

The next hour passed in driving bliss. It was warm, sunny and I had my arm on the window with my herd all following behind. As we started nearing the Cambrians the road started to elevate, so I took the opportunity to pull everyone over to admire the view. You could easily see for 10 miles and everyone was all smiles (you've cracked it today Gar old son) I smugly thought to myself.  I could see the keen photographers taking shots that I'm sure will be very popular with the group once they are all uploaded to the website.   

​As we passed through the tiny hamlet of Rhandirmwyn the satnav immediately lost signal; this was fully expected and I stopped everyone to let them know we were relying on our eyes for the next few miles. The turn onto the lane that leads to Lynn Brianne dam is a 'blink and you'll miss it' affair, so we kept it to 20mph on the single track road as it continued the climb into forested mountains.

At the last second I recognised the lane, did a hard left and the convoy followed suit to arrive at the Dam visitors car park. A stampede for the toilets ensued led by Andy 'tiny bladder' Perman. He's normally know as '2 pants Perman'  after once forgetting to bring any on tour.  Since then he brings an abundance of underwear so a new name was needed!

At this point Paul our photographer said to me in the carpark, "Is there some sort of natural phenomena around here you want me to photograph?" I led him over to the dam wall and let him look over the edge, down the several hundred-feet drop. "Whoaahhh"  he exclaimed,  "that's made my knees go a bit". I then showed him the vast lake on the other side of the dam. "This should keep you busy for a while - get snapping!"

After treating ourselves to ice cream we settled in a group. The lovely Sat Nag Pat produced a stunning ginger cake and Ian brewed everyone a hot drink from the back of the Granada. As I sat on a rock eating nice food with my friends in a stunning location, I couldn't help but think "Life is good right now".

A local couple in a vermillion orange MGB had also parked up near to us. Being the sociable (and nosey) sort that I am, I went over to speak to them. They had seen our cars wearing daffodils and thought it was a lovely and respectful gesture upon visiting Wales. They were proper valley people with strong accents, very much like my family back in the Rhymney valley.  They even corrected my pronunciation of Llanwrtyd Wells. After 1 or 2 attempts I got it right; I later relayed said translation to the gang and they just looked at me as if I was speaking Klingon and had just given an order to launch a spread of photon torpedoes.

At this point young Jonathon Woodward made a fatal error. While chatting to the same couple he attempted a Welsh accent and said,"Ooh theres lovely". Their faces immediately clouded over and they started to pack up. Jon being ex-military realised something was up.

​Fearing an attack with a sharpened leek and a daffodil thermometer he quickly beat a retreat to the Granada. He later asked me what was that all about. I explained that Welsh people endure folks attempting their accent wherever they go in the world, usually with good grace and humour - however an Englishman attempting that accent while in the heart of Wales was akin to flying to New Delhi and berating the locals with your best "It ain't half hot mum" Indian accent.

Now at this point I was still on a smug high from everything going so well. I told the gang the next bit was simple but beautiful - just turn left as we leave the dam and that is the stunning 13-mile Devils Staircase single track road. The road would take us straight into Llanwrtyd Wells and our hotel for the night. Nothing could go wrong, just enjoy the scenery and be careful of the steep edges and wildlife.

Off we set and stopped within minutes for the first set of photos overlooking the stunning Arfan reservoir.  The sheer scale of this area is breathtaking. The cars looked like toys on the little road with huge mountain sides above and below. This section is more open land with sheep grazing the slopes and you can see cars on the other side of the valley as the road snakes it's way back and forth,  you do have to be careful as the views are mesmerising so it can be hard to focus on the road.

As the road nears the summit you enter the National Forest and the scenery changes once again, the open countryside giving way to massive trees on either side of the road and the open spaces between them filled with purple heather and bluebells in the shade of the trees. It's really quite magical and you understand why its voted the number 1 cycle, hike and driving route in Wales.  

We levelled out over a series of cattle grids and I spotted a long steel bridge across the next river. After pulling the convoy over, I asked Paul to go on ahead & set up the video camera to get some footage of the cars crossing. Being first to cross and showing off a bit I zipped across the bridge flashing my lights and waving, not realising the bridge has a dip and hump at the other end!

I winced as the sump made hard contact with the road and limped off out of shot hoping I'd not damaged anything. Luckily all my gauges behaved and with my ego deflated I slowly led the convoy onto the last part of the Staircase towards the hotel. Now as pretty as the scenery was, it started looking less and less familiar despite having done it once before only 2 years previously.

13 miles passed and the expected town did not appear. Descending a 16% road I spotted a sign for Tregarron and my smugness evaporated quicker than a Taliban peace promise. I couldn't work out how I'd gone wrong when the route only led to one destination! I stopped everyone again and asked if anyone had a satnav or phone signal? All were dead,  except Paul's phone which wanted us to return the way we had come, but for 9 miles.

This didnt seem right and I feared the nav was taking us back to the dam and the longer route along the A roads, but with no choice we spun around following Paul, climbed the 16% road and started back into the National Forest on the same road we had traversed earlier. I stuck it for a few miles then became convinced we were heading back to the long way round, which would add another 30 miles to the trip. I then started honking the horn frantically trying to stop the cars ahead; I still had no phone signal to ring anyone but 4 cars did stop while the rest sailed on, oblivious.

An Ordnance Survey map was produced and opened across the bonnet. "Where are we Gar?".  "Umm well to tell the truth I've never used a map in my life". "WHAT?".  "Well I passed my test in the 90s and I've always had a Tom Tom". Looks of disbelief were exchanged, however we did start to make sense of it. We had to pass through Abergwesyn to reach our hotel at Llanwrtyd Wells,   then back the way we had come to Tregarron and onto a road called Abergwesyn road.   

Common sense said surely the Abergwesyn road would take us to the hamlet of Abergwesyn,  so we spun around and headed back once again to do the 5 miles back to Tregarron and hopefully the road to the hotel. As we arrived at Tregarron the sat nav took us on the Abergwesyn road for all of 300ft before it asked us to turn around and retrace back 9 miles the way the first half of the convoy were already doing. Feeling once again like the Twilight Zone had descended upon us, I held my hands up in desperation.  Phil then produced another map which clearly showed that the Abergwesyn road DOES NOT connect to the hamlet of Abergwesyn on the other side of the valley!  Unsurprisingly, this brought the convoy to a halt.

At this point Pat Osborne and Jo Tait were both wearing the expression that strikes fear into men's hearts. The look that says "You're a bunch of incompetents and if you don't sort it fast we will take charge".  Then like a beacon from the sky Nick's phone found a signal and showed the route directly to the hotel,  but once again going back the way we came for 9 miles before making a turn. I asked everyone if they had seen a junction on the entire route? "Nope" came the 10 replies. "Who cares?" said Nick "it's the route back to the hotel.  Zero your trip counters, so if if we lose signal again we know the turn is in 9 miles".  Smart man.

The Jensen is a remarkably quick car for a 44yo. It corners well and effortlessly powers up the steepest of the hills. It was great fun trying to keep up on the twisty bits but everyone did their best. Still skeptical of this route and the turning nobody had seen, I kept quiet. As the 9th mile approached I couldnt believe what I saw; there in front of us was the same steel bridge I'd asked Paul to video us crossing,  and right next to the bridge was a tiny lane with a sign for Llanwrtyd Wells!

Winding my neck in like a tortoise, I realised that I (and everyone else) had missed the sign post because we were too busy waving at Paul and the video camera as we approached the bridge. At long last we were back on the correct road and soon the final 1 in 3 descent to the valley.

Despite all that had happened, Nick still pulled us over at a parking spot to take in the scenery. It was stunning; a clear open valley,  a river running through the middle with a trio of low raft bridges that zig zag across it. It was eerily quiet apart from the water - you have no sense that anyone else is within miles of you. I've honestly never been anywhere so peaceful within the UK. Everyone should see this place just once.

The remaining convoy arrived at the Neuadd Arms Hotel in Llanwrtyd Wells and I heaved a big sigh of relief to see the others had already arrived and checked in. Keen to do the same, we approached the desk. The landlord gave me my key and said, "That's them all". I turned to Brian next to me - yes our cheerful easy-going Yorkshireman - rubbed my temple and asked if they had any more rooms as we now needed 9, not 8. We originally had 16 booked but 7 had been cancelled over the previous weeks. The Landlord said he did have one room he keeps spare for situations like this,  but it wouldn't be the double room with easy access shower I'd originally booked for Brian.

The hotel is nearly 300 years old with a faded grandeur feel to it - open fires, big creaky staircases etc.  Brian's room turned out to be on the 3rd floor up 2 flights of stairs and no lift. Jon Woodward helped carry his case upto his room. I quickly made my way to the "Green Room".  They had given me this suite when we originally booked the whole hotel; it's a lovely oak panelled room,  king-size four poster and a whopping ensuite. After the day we'd had I did what any mature 44yo would do: I leapt backwards into the 4 poster and did starfish moves in the luxurious bedding.

Joining my fellow tourers for an evening meal I was confident nothing else could go wrong - or at least, nothing I could be blamed for! I entered the bar and Brian was on me like a Jack Russell on a postmans leg. "I've got some bad news for you", he said. "That room's awful and it's PINK! You can't swing a cat in there. The bed's soft and everything's pink! Pink carpet, pink bathroom suite, pink curtains. Even the bloody TV is pink!" 

I was tempted to ask in what way was this bad news for me, but thought better of it. Instead I did the honourable thing and offered Brian my suite. I told him it was on the 1st floor and very comfy but he refused, saying he'd stick it out but would have words with the owner in the morning.  He might have changed his mind if he'd seen the room he had turned down but I had offered, so didn't feel so bad about it.

A pleasant evening passed with a decent meal and quite a few drinks. Despite all the hiccups, everyone told me what a great adventure it had been and what fabulous scenery we saw.  I was quite emotional as one person told me they had seen parts of the UK they had never seen thanks to the tours and another said I should be proud of how I'd brought so many people together from different backgrounds over the last 5 years and the friendships that had been forged.  Wow ... praise indeed.

We said our goodbyes the following morning after breakfast. Brian was the last to emerge from the hotel;  he'd told the owner what he thought of the pink shoebox they had put him in and emerged smiling saying that no money had changed hands, either for the room or for his breakfast.
 
As they say in Yorkshire ...  'That'll Do '

One thing I'm still learning about when organising trips is time management and leaving enough time between stops. As we headed off from Barmouth we had 4 hours to cover 78 miles; no problem at all - 18 miles an hour with quick stops to regroup.

So the scheduled 9.30am start went out the window as we headed off around 10am. After crossing the Penmaenpool bridge things started to improve; the rain eased off somewhat and the mists started to lift. As we travelled along the coastal road the scenery became even better. The roads were great; stone-walled twisty lanes revealed fantastic view after view across the estuaries and bays.

The stretch of road between Barmouth and Tywyn beach is highly recommended to everyone. Anthony Osborne seemed to be having a great time in the MGB throwing it around the corners and I'm sure a few of us spotted some understeer/oversteer flicks on some of the bends.

We headed off minus 3 cars towards Borth beach and our lunch stop further on respectively. It was quite sad to see the state of these small coastal towns - many lovely old granite stone pubs had been boarded up, shops and visitor centres the same. You could really see the devastating effect Covid has had on the tourism industry - none more so than in Borth itself.

Very little was open; it was dead quiet considering this was the holiday period and the only thing happening was an idiot boy racer thrashing his diesel eurobox up and down the promenade.  After getting a few shots of our cars we decided to head for lunch.  Sat nav said 19 miles - 40 minutes getting us there at 1.20pm. The landlord had already phoned me to ensure we were coming and I assured him we were on our way and not to worry.

Shortly after our departure we were passed by 2 police cars at high speed that were going in our direction. 10 mins later my traffic warning popped up to say the route to our pub was now 'Black' and the road was blocked. I quickly pressed it to reroute the convoy. Unfortunately the new route would take another hour, getting us to the pub for 2.15pm. I signalled to turn left not right at the upcoming island so I could pull over to inform the gang and phone the pub. Just as we got to the island the "Dam Busters"  consisting of the Jag and VDP crossed the island directly towards the accident. I pulled over feeling the vein in the side of my forehead bulging.

At this point nearly everyone's satnav and phone signals started to drop in and out,  giving wildly different routes and arrival times to the pub. I made a grovelling phone call to the pub to tell the owner we'd be 45 mins late; he was far polite than I expected but informed us they had wanted us there at 1.30pm as they were closing at 2pm and no they wouldn't stay open waiting for us.

Fearing the no-dinner mutiny could soon turn violent, I had to think fast. Lunch was lost so i told everyone to put the code for our final stop into the navs - Cardigan Island Park Farm. I knew this place had a large car park, full facilities and a big restaurant that served food all day. Only one person had a signal but that was good enough,  at which point Thomas "4.8 V8" Griffiths informed us that he was "Running on fumes".

The nearest fuel station was 8 miles away up some steep mountain roads,  so I told everyone to stay together, make sure Thomas got fuel and we would then all drive together to Cardigan Island. Everyone agreed (yep no problem Gar, you're the man Gar,   following you Gar) etc etc. Having set the fuel station as the next destination on the nav we set off.

A quarter of a mile later, 5 of the 8 cars turned off behind me and took a different route. At that point I started feeling like I was either in the Twilight Zone or Groundhog Day. Despite this we carried on, filled up the Morgan and were rewarded with a fantastic drive across the mountains which took us past the Devils Bridge Waterfalls and ironically the Internal Fire Museum that we had planned to visit if only it had been open.

​Thankfully everyone did eventually arrive at Cardigan Island; I could say it was a relief, but i think the following photo says it all:

By the grace of the Welsh Gods the much needed refreshments were top notch at the Farm Park and slowly smiles started to return (including mine). We headed off on the short drive to our 3 different hotels/B&Bs which I'm pleased to say were all lovely and we took a much needed power nap after check in (well I did!).
 
Being in Welsh Wales we decided to try some local fare. At our hotels restaurant I had a stunning trio of lamb chops and Jon had pork & leek sausages with mash - comfort food that was much needed after the days driving. I phoned the other tourers to enquire if they were also sampling local Welsh fare in the town?  "No, we're in the curry house" came the reply, "actually the curry boat, a floating restaurant in the Cardigan estuary". 

We parked up the cars for the night and went for a few drinks at the lively Black Lion in the town centre,  where we were joined by our group photographer Paul Cheetham,  who had braved an 8-hour journey from London so he could join us on the Sunday tour.

Tales were swapped, pints downed and laughs a-plenty ensued. By around 10pm I noticed Ian could barely keep his eyes open,  so I signalled his lad Jon and we took him back to the hotel.  Apparently some inconsiderate person had kept him awake the previous evening by snoring rather loudly (see Part 1 here if you don't know who it was).
 
To be concluded in part 3

​A full 12 months to the day that we originally planned to visit Wales it was now finally here in 2021. This was to be an experimental tour for us. Rather than having one base campsite or hotel that we returned to every night we planned to stay in 3 different hotels over three nights at different destinations;  Barmouth, Cardigan and Llanwrtyd Wells respectively.

We had been very disappointed that the Museum of Internal Fire Power would still not be open,  housing a fantastic selection of large steam and diesel engines it promised to be a 'highlight' of the tour. Despite being closed to the public for 13 months they had somehow fallen behind with maintenance and were not ready to reopen on the 21st as they had been advertising on their website.  Undeterred, the plan was to meet at Telford Services on the Friday morning on the way to Barmouth.
 
We originally had a very healthy 20 cars booked for the tour but life gets in the way and by the Friday of departure we were down to just 8 cars,  however we were being joined by Thomas Griffiths and his wife Gloria for the first time. TG had kept it quiet what he was bringing and as the rest of us gathered for a coffee and chat at the busy services a very tasty looking Morgan Aero 8 rumbled past us with both passengers looking at us. Ian Woodward leaned into me saying, "Is that the Griffiths?".  To which I replied, "I sure hope so with a car like that!". It was them and introductions having been made they very patiently waited while the rest of us had a good drool over the Morgan.
 
Keen to get going I told everyone to enter the postcodes of their respective hotels into the sat navs; I knew they would all have the codes as I had supplied all this information weeks before.  Several sets of blank stares looked at me similar to how sheep do when you honk the horn. Off we set for Barmouth with instructions to stay on my bumper. 

I had pre-programmed the route to avoid the congestion-filled A5 and to take us through the picturesque and hidden small villages on the alternative route.  This worked very well for all of 10 minutes until I crossed an island only to see in my rear view view mirror Phil, Brian and Thomas all turn left and go in a different direction.  "It's going to be a long weekend" I muttered as I carried on my way with just Ian and Anthony & Pat following me. However all was well as we found each other again several miles later at the natural habitat of the V8 classic,  the nearest fuel station.  With tanks refuelled and onboard buffets restocked we headed for Barmouth.

 The rest of the journey passed without incident apart from a few sat nav shenanigans finding the hotels in Dollgellau,  a theme that would recur but more of that later. We checked into our hotels having arranged to meet in Barmouth at the Harbour Fish Bar. This place had been recommended to us wholeheartedly by Graham Adams despite not actually being on the tour himself.  Of course Graham had checked that this place had reopened since Covid before sending us all there in the pouring rain - hadnt he?
 
After we found an OPEN restaurant we settled down to some locally-caught fish n chips as we admired the pouring rain and empty fairground rides outside (did I imagine that item on the news that the globe had just had its hottest July on record?). Our later arrivals joined us, introductions were made and all seemed well except ... I had noticed that Gloria Griffiths looked a tad bothered by something.

​It turned out the hotel booked for them had fallen some way short of its 4 star rating, especially the worn out interior of their room.  Not wanting their first tour with us to be spoiled by this I suggested they have my double room at the hotel we were staying at in Dollgellau and I'd bunk in with Ian and his lad Jonathon. It was a triple room with 3 beds so being the gentlemen they are they agreed so we could let the Griffiths stay in a better location.   Now my reputation for loud snoring and other noises precedes me but they said, "Ahh it's only one night".

​Moods improved as the customary full English (or Welsh) breakfasts were consumed to the background sound of pouring rain.  Overnight I had posted online the 6 sat nav codes for Saturday's drive from Barmouth to Cardigan. The route included 3 stops, a  pre-booked lunch and a final stop at Cardigan Island. What could possibly go wrong? 

Leaving Barmouth beach in convoy I planned to shorten our journey by crossing the 150 year-old Penmaenpool bridge, saving us 7 miles going the long way around. We had pre-arranged for Jonathon Woodward to run across the bridge first and film us coming across. 6 miles outside Barmouth we made the turn onto the little toll road leading to the bridge.

I sat for a few mins expecting to see Jon and his camera run past and cross the bridge. Then I ventured out and walked the length of the 7 car convoy but there was no sign of the Granada estate. With rain pouring down my face I called Ian to see if they missed the turn.  "Umm errrr sorry mate we won't be at the bridge. Jon has left his boots in the wardrobe at the hotel and we are heading back to Dollgellau.  We will catch up with you at Tywyn beach".
 
I'm not saying I swore badly in both English and Welsh, but even the seagulls gave me a shocked look.