St. Davids, Haverford West, and far too much time spent in transit

I arrived in St. Davids just in time to see the cathedral at dusk. St. Davids is Britain's smallest city. In the U.K., the distinction between city and town is not a matter of population but of the rank of the church building erected there, so by virtue of the cathedral St. Davids would be considered to be a city even if no one lived there, which is close to true since the population is under 2,000. 

That night I bought meat and eggs to go with a loaf of bread which had completely crumbled in order to make meatloaf. Stocked with supplies, I walked out the two miles to the local hostel which was, of course, closed until Easter. I tried to sleep under a tree nearby, but it was too rainy and cold, so I walked back to the city to try to find some ruins or anywhere sheltered to sleep. I failed. Eventually I gave in and got a room in a bed and breakfast. 

The cathedral looked much the same in the early morning as it had the evening before. 

The distinctive purple stone on the main entrance did make quite the impression, though.

Across a small stream was the old bishop's palace. 

Black and white checkered bricks and tiles were a common theme in this ruin.

There was a nice view of the cathedral from this former mansion.

From St. Davids I backtracked off of the peninsula. The day involved ten and a half hours of time in transit or waiting for public transit. Wales' transportation system sucks compared to that in England and Scotland, especially in terms of frequency. Among my layovers was one in Haverford West, where I looked at the shell of the old castle and wandered the shops. 

I noticed that the Welsh brewing company's logo seemed to be warning of zombie dragons: 

Also in Haverford West, I bought Canterbury Tales and On the Road from the Oxfam bookshop. The British Heart Association, Aid for the Elderly, Breast Cancer Cure, and other causes all have stores that have volunteers sell donations to raise money for their cause. I donated the books I'd finished so far on my travels: Tolstoy's Resurection and an early sci-fi work by Arthur C. Clark. Thankfully I called ahead to the hostel in Porthmadog so that I found out in advance that it was full and that the nearby castle is closed on Sundays anyway (Sunday was the bane of my travels). Thus, I went on to Caernarfon. On the last leg of the trip, a bunch of rowdy guys were loudly speaking Welsh and consuming large quantities of alcohol. The bus driver even waited while they got more bottles and cans to openly drink on the bus then toss to the floor. I somehow don't think that would fly on the bus in most parts of the US. 

In the hostel in Caernarfon, I made an ill-advised meatloaf with the ingredients I had left unrefrigerated in my pack for about twenty-four hours now, along with the crumbled bread that was by this point slightly off despite still being sealed. Surprisingly, there were no adverse effects of this foolhardy choice. Sometimes I'm amazed I'm still alive.