The Princes of Wales

From an early age, consciously or unconsciously, we’re taught the world is an unsafe place, that people are not to be trusted, and that all good things come to end.

In a way, we’re left on our own to learn the opposite. Because, after all, what we’re taught is not the whole story of the world, of people, or of all those good things.

Is it?

Outside of fairy tales and children’s films, are we taught there are princes among the thieves?

 And what exactly makes a prince a prince?

As far as fairy tales and children’s films go, I’ve never been against Prince Charming. He has his place in the world. But I’m also not on the lookout for him. Princes with their horses, armor, and kingdoms would bring too much weight to my already too-heavy backpacked and nomadic lifestyle. Honestly, I don’t want a glass slipper to fit. I don’t want to trade my fin for feet. As a habit, I don’t go around kissing frogs. Certainly, I don’t want to prick my finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die. But then again, who does want that?

Now aside from the Happily-Ever-After kind of prince, aside from the Once-Upon-a-Dream kind of prince, there’s a whole other type of prince out there. I find this archetype in Wales.

I arrive to Llandudno Junction on a Thursday afternoon by train. My host won’t be finished with work until 4:30 and has asked that I wait until then to arrive to the house. So, with my too-heavy pack weighing down upon my shoulders, I walk across the street to the Station Hotel and Restaurant. I order a cup of tea and a snack and bide my time. 

Though I’d already taken note of the directions to the house it never hurts to doublecheck. Trust but verify, as Reagan said quoting a Russian proverb, and this advice holds good for more than treaties. To be honest, my directions are kind of vague. They say things like, “Head in the direction of such-and-such street” which is not helpful since I don’t really know where such-and-such street is located to begin with. So, when it’s close enough to the prearranged time, I go pay my bill and ask the cashier if she can point me in the right direction. She doesn’t know the street. So, she turns to the man at the bar beside me. He’s not much taller than I am. He has a twinkle in his eyes and a nearly empty pint close to hand. After thinking for a moment, he begins to give me directions. “Go up the road. Past the launderette.” He carries on for a while and then he says, “You do know what a launderette is, don’t you?” I claim that I do. “I wasn’t sure, because of your accent. Where are you from?”

I admit to being an American. 

Eventually, after some more chatting, he calls over a friend who gives me even more specific directions. “Go up the hill. Past the launderette. Don’t turn on the street there. Go to the next one and that’s where you take a left.” Then it becomes rather convoluted and I hope that between the launderette and my own directions I can get to where I’m going.

However, when he’s done with the twists and turns, to show I’ve paid attention, I repeat back what I know, “Past the launderette, don’t turn on that street, go to the next one and then turn left. If I get to…” I pause not remembering the name, “I’ve gone too far?”

“If you get to Betws-y-Coed, you’ve gone too far.”

Only later do I realize that that was a dry joke. Betws-y-Coed is the next town down the road and 16 miles away.

I thank everyone, the two men and the cashier, and go collect my things. As I’m heading for the door, the first man introduces himself to me and asks my name and then, as if names are all we will ever need, says, “I’m leaving now myself and I’m going that way. I could drop you off. It’ll save your legs.”

I evaluate the safety of accepting. It’s only half a mile. The cashier and the other man will know I’ve left with him. He’s only had one pint (that I know of). While I can’t quite tell if his offer is an attempt to segue to something else or simply kindness, I choose to believe in kindness.

“That’d be really nice,” I say.

He laughs at me a bit when I head toward the wrong side of the car, “It’s the other side in our country.”

“I’m not used to that yet,” I say, having only gotten into buses and the occasional taxi.

As he pulls out of the parking lot, we chat about the gold medal that the U.S. won that day in hockey. We chat about the things to see in Wales. Soon enough we arrive to my destination. He drops me off in front of the house and wishes me a pleasant stay.

He’s a Prince of Wales.

A couple days later, I walk along the coastline toward the Great Orme. I’ve left the house without a solid plan, I just kind of headed out with the idea that I would walk until I didn’t feel like going any farther (I end up walking just shy of 14 miles that day). At some point, I pass a public restroom. One of my travel mottos is when given the chance to use a bathroom, take it. The only problem is it costs 20 pence. I normally don’t like paying for bathrooms, but this seems advisable since I don’t know when I’ll pass a place that I can use without either buying something (like a coffee or tea which makes the bathroom issue arise again later on) or crossing the railway tracks. I check my wallet. Well, there’s that decided for me, I only have 18 pence anyhow.

I walk away.  

Of course, now that I’ve thought about the call of nature, nature seems to be calling my attention back to it. I wonder how weird it’d be to ask someone for 2 pence.

I pause and then I head back toward the toilets.

A family of three and a dog are coming my way, but I hesitate and they walk by me down to the beach. What to do? It’d be weird to go chasing after them now. I mill about, indecisive, wondering if I look lost or suspicious as another couple comes from the opposite direction. 

I gather my nerve and my change and say, “Excuse me.”

The man stops, the lady keeps on.

I explain my situation. I try to speak distinctly so as not to have to repeat myself. My accent, you know. As I ramble on, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a fistful of change. “How much do you need?”

“It’s 20 pence. I can give you eighteen. I really only need 2 pence.”

He gives me a 20p coin and I start to hand him all the change I have in return. He laughs and waves my offering off. He says, “Behave yourself,” and walks away.

He’s a Prince of Wales.

Yet another day, I decide to walk to Sychnant Pass to see what the mountains look like with last night’s dusting of snow lying like a light shawl over them. I’m walking toward Conwy Castle with the sea, at low tide, to my right. The sun is out. The air is crisp. I’m all but whistling. It’s a beautiful day.

A passing man, somewhere in that nebulous, sun worn age-range between fifty and eighty gives me the usual greeting, “You alright?” after I’ve smiled at his dog and looked up to give him a brief smile as well.

The American equivalent to “You alright” would be: Hey, how’s it going? And, getting more used to this greeting which I first encountered in Nottingham, I say, “Fine. You alright?”

Somewhat to my surprise, he stops and begins to chat. “Where are you from?” he asks nearly straight away.

“I’m from Texas,” I say. It’s the easiest explanation.

“Texas!” he exclaims. “I love those American names. Texas. New Orleans.” He stops there trying to come up with more, but that’s all he can remember under the excitement of talking. “I’ve never been to America, but I love the names.”

“I hope you make it there some day,” I tell him, thinking though, that he has all he could wish for in views and beauty right here.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“I’m going to Sychnant Pass,” I say, seeing no danger in honesty. “To see the views.”

“I have to go to Colwyn Bay,” he says apologetically, “or I’d go with you.” He looks deeply disappointed almost as if he’d rather cancel his plans, whatever they are. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I’m not really sure,” I say, noncommittally.

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m staying with a friend in Llandudno Junction.”

“I live in Llandudno Junction! You should stop by my address tomorrow,” he says, giving me a very Welsh sounding address. “Ask your friend. They’ll tell you how to get there. I’ll put the kettle on.”

I repeat the address and then on impulse type it into the notes on my phone. “Okay,” I say, not promising a thing. “I made a note of it.”

“I do hope you come,” he says. Still, I don’t promise, and we part ways.

What an odd thing, I think as I walk on. I’m glad that I’m still walking on my own, by myself, but am curious as to what, if anything, lies behind that man’s invitation. Was my brief smile not really brief? Why would he just want to up and walk with me? Is it the novelty of my Americanism? Is he hoping for a Princess Charming? Is it the simple need for human connection? I don’t know. But as I continue on my way, I leave off the questions and put him out of my mind.

Not too much later in time, I pass the castle, go by the town walls, and with the help of my map I make it nearly to the road I want, but then the road signs are inexplicably unavailable. I stop in my tracks and look around. I know the general direction to go, but, if possible, I want to avoid over-walking and backtracking. It’s not exactly that I’m lazy, but the miles rack up quickly. I’m still recovering from my 14 mile trek of the other day. So, I wait at the corner of the street until an older man starts to pass by.

“Excuse me. Is this the way to Sychnant Pass?”

He pauses (probably in an effort to understand my accent) and then says, “I’ll show you.” We walk forward two steps and he points up the road, “Go up to the end of the road and then take a right there. That’s Sychnant Pass Road.”

That was easy. I was almost there. I thank that Prince of Wales and find my way up Sychnant Pass Road to a footpath which goes to the top of Conwy Mountain where, in fact, every single view is spectacular whether clothed in snow or bare of it.

That night, I remember my invitation to tea from the man with the dog. How odd. Why did he invite me to tea? Does he do that with people all the time? Does anyone ever take him up on the offer? How odd. I wonder what I am doing the next day.

The next day, in the early afternoon, to fulfill my curiosity and, perhaps, my own need for human connection, I decide to take the man up on his offer. I imagine he has stories to tell. And I can talk to him of places with exotic names like Arkansas, Colorado, the Wyoming wilderness, and Oregon. I walk down the road. A passing car honks and I look to see my host waving at me. I wave back at him (another Prince of Wales), happy, feeling like a local known by other locals. For a moment, I belong.  

As I go on my merry way, I think of a few friends who would freak out if they knew I was going to tea with someone I don’t know. Is this a smart thing to do? The world is an unsafe place. Is there some sinister motivation behind the invitation? People are not to be trusted. Why are you going? Don’t you know all good things can come to an end? You could be murdered. After all, curiosity often killed the cat.

Well, true. To some extent. But, I’m not a cat.

And yet, as I turn past a church I do wonder why I am going. It’s not too late to turn back. But no, I think I want to know what it is to be human from his perspective. I think I want to know if he’s extended his invitation as human to human or as man to woman. That can be so hard to discern, and I’m always on the lookout for that general connection, that easy camaraderie between two people, for that friendship without further expectation. I’ve found that before, but it is rare. I turn left onto his street and hope he’s not hoping for a princess. I think what I really want to know is if he’s a Prince Charming or a Prince of Wales. There is a difference.

I make it to the address he’d given me (with and without the help of street signs and for once without asking for any directions) and ring the bell. The man’s dog barks at me from the window. I wait, but no one comes to the door. There’s no car in the driveway. He must be out. Although my curiosity will not be assuaged, I am not really disappointed. Maybe, in a way, I’m relieved. I have nothing to regret. I tried. I write a little note saying I stopped by and slip it into the mail slot. Then I walk back the way I came, stopping to get some groceries to take along with me the next day on my trip out of Wales before heading back to pack up my things. 

In the morning, my host, out of the kindness of his heart, drops me off at the bus station. Ah, all these Princes of Wales. Someone in Nottingham had told me that people are nicer the farther north you go. I’m finding that to be true, for certainly the Princes of Wales are very nice. And definitely nicer than some of the historical princes (Welsh and otherwise) who went about conquering people, building castles, and locking their brothers into towers. 

What is it then to be a prince? A matter of birth, a matter of opportunity, a matter of kindness? 

I guess it depends on the kind of prince we’re talking about.

Somewhere along the way, in our lessons we learn that not every Prince Charming is a true Prince Charming. And maybe we even find out later that not every Prince of Wales is a true Prince of Wales. Maybe in the end, it’s nice to still have my questions about the tea invitation to ponder. For while I’m glad to have met the princes that I did, I’m also glad that I can travel on again. To be sure, the hope for a prince or a princess is never a bad thing. It’s just not my thing. I’m glad to be on my own. For indeed, there’s the world before me and I’ve found that it is a wonderful place filled with kind people and good things happen in it.

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