Sleep over-night on top of Cadair Idris and in the morning (legend tells us) you'll be either a corpse, a madman or a poet. But perhaps the mountains bless all who just see them with the gifts of madness or magic -- because from the Stone Age to the New Age the rugged beauty of Wales has inspired numerous painters and musicians, poets and dreamers.

At weekends local farmer Arfon Evans leaves his life on the land and heads for the sky. In the 1950s Arfon flew Meteor jet fighters with the RAF. These days, he's a member of the Mona Flying Club on Anglesey, and his aircraft is a small, two-seater Cessna -- but it still needs checking for safety.

For over ten years Arfon's been accompanied on his flights of fancy by amateur photographer Gwilym Davies. Gwilym juggles upto four Mamiya cameras, using fast colour film, which he develops himself at home. Once in the air, they're coasting the currents and circling Wales at heights upto five thousand feet and reaching speeds of around one hundred miles per hour. Even so, Gwilym pokes his head out of the open window, aiming for his best shots of the countryside below. Climbing above the mountains and the clouds, he's built up an intriguing portfolio of photographs with an extra-terrestrial quality.

Meanwhile, down on the ground, ValleyStream's camera-crew have scoured the land over several years to find the best eye-level video footage. Blended together with Gwilym's eagle-eyed views, their camerawork provides a fascinating guide to the spirit and attraction of North Wales.

On the extreme tip of Holy Island, west of Anglesey, the isolated rocks of North and South Stack reach out into a blue Irish Sea.

All these cliffs are the haunts of sea-birds: hundreds of razorbill, guillemot and puffin nest here. The Victorians encouraged them since their cries gave sailors warning of land during foggy weather. Indeed, one of the caves is so noisy with squawking that it's known (fittingly) as 'Parliament House'.

The first lighthousemen reached South Stack over the crashing waves in a basket slung on a rope. Nowadays, a chain suspension bridge will take you across -- if you can climb down (and up) the 400 stone steps that is!

Holy Island has always been important because of its nearness to Ireland. The Romans built a fort here in the 3rd century to defend their British colony from pirates. After 300 years, St Cybi re-used the Roman walls to surround his new church. Later on, the many inns in the fishing village of Holyhead (which grew up around Cybi's church) were crowded with impatient passengers, waiting to set sail.

After the completion in Victorian Times of Telford's road (270 miles from London) and Stephenson's railway, Holyhead became the chief port for Dublin. For over 500 years, since 1575, the mail to Ireland has always got through. Only once, when the Menai Strait Railway Bridge burnt down, was the post delayed.

Near Holyhead station an obelisk honours one marine postman who campaigned for improvements to the harbour. Alas, poor Captain Skinner fell overboard and was drowned near North Stack -- despite his mail boat being called 'The Escape'.

The inner harbour of Holyhead is protected by a 1 1/2 mile breakwater from rough Irish seas. In calm weather the Victorian steam packets took 5 to 7 hours to make the crossing. Today, the Stena Line ferries take just 99 minutes and offer round trips at sunset.

Trearddur Bay, nearby, is now a popular water-sports centre for yachtsmen and jet-skiers, but 5000 years ago the New Stone Age Men who lived here were more interested in life's essentials: harpooning fish from dug-out canoes. These people lived in timber huts, long- since rotted away, but the stone tombs in which they buried their dead still survive.

Both Holy Island and Anglesey are scattered throughout with the signs of our earliest ancestors. Around the time of Christ, the druids retreated to Holy Island from a Roman invasion of Britain. Today, an embankment bridges the 2 islands, carrying Telford's Highway and Stephenson's Railway via the Roman road (renamed the A5) to the city of Londinium beyond.

Near Moelfre on Anglesey the limestone villa of a native chieftain, alive in Roman Britain, can clearly be seen. This was a wealthy agricultural estate. The family left behind coins and silver, glass vessels and imported pottery (neatly repaired). By this time, Emperor Constantine had introduced Christianity to the British Isles.

Our earliest churches were founded in the 5th century: churchyards were circular, and the church was aligned with the shadow of a cross held up at sunrise.

St Seiriol settled at Penmon. He and St Cybi (of Holyhead) were good friends and met each other every day. St Cybi always walked 15 miles eastwards into the sun, and thus, being tanned, he earned the name 'Cybi the Dark'. St Seiriol walked 15 miles westwards, away from the sun, and he was called 'Seiriol the Fair'.

The peaceful saints were followed in the 13th century by Edward 1st, war monger of England. He created 4 new boroughs in North Wales, each one protected by an encircling town wall and a grand castle.

Beaumaris Castle was the last of these, and it was the masterpiece of his favourite French architect, James of Savoy. This is the ultimate in designer castles. Beaumaris was never completed although over 2000 labourers were employed here -- and none of them were Welshmen.

The Welsh population had already been removed to Newborough. Only decades later, a terrific storm buried their cornfields in sand. This was the beginning of Newborough Warren dunes, which provided rabbits for the pot and marram grass for baskets and fishing nets.

At one end of the beach St Dwynwyn settled on the rocky spit reaching into Caernarfon Bay. Her secluded church became a pilgrimage site for lovers.

Both ghost ships and grey seals patrol the northern coast of Anglesey at Traeth Dulas. River-borne sand has formed shifting banks here which almost block the estuary. On an island nearby a Victorian lady stored provisions for shipwrecked mariners. Optimistically, therefore, during World War Two a grand flotilla congregated off-shore, preparing for D-Day.

At Porthwen Bay the sea has eaten into rock to carve out a naturally gothic arch. In his turn, man split off quartzite from the cliffs to mould into bricks for the Industrial Age.

Closeby, beautifully blue polluted waters fill the abandoned lakes of Parys Mountain. As always, the Bronze Age people were here first, and the Romans followed after them. During the 18th century the mining company blasted out the new harbour of Amlwch Port. Soon Parys Mountain became the biggest copper mine in the world. Rapidly, the original six houses became engulfed by the most populated town on Anglesey. Eventually, underground pipes carried crude oil from an offshore terminal to the Shell Refinery in Cheshire.

For 13 dangerous miles racing tides surge through the Menai Strait between Anglesey and mainland Wales. Before the two bridges were erected, ferries carried passengers to Beaumaris whilst cattle swam across. Mid-stream, Stephenson's Railway Bridge was perched safely (we hope) on a rock which had sunk the 'Britannia' only a few years before. Tall ships could sail easily under Telford's Suspension Bridge, 100 feet above the water. At its completion in 1826 bagpipes played in celebration -- and the Irish Mail was the first to dash across.

Between the bridges and the banks, the Island of the Red Weir flings out its arms to catch unwary fish (and sometimes canoeists) then smokes them in its own small curing tower.

Surrounded by mud and wading birds, Church Island was the peaceful retreat of St Tysilio. In 1188 the Archbishop of Cantebury stopped at the Church, drumming up money and volunteers for the 3rd Crusade to the Holy Land. Today, the island's reached by a causeway built by Belgian refugees during the Ist World War.

From mainland Wales Bangor Pier stretches out for 1500 feet, halfway across the Strait. Deiniol built his timber church near here in the 6th century, enclosing it with a fence (made of woven branches) which was termed a 'bangor'. The saint became Bishop of Gwynedd, his church became a cathedral, and his humble fence gave its name to the city.

Seen from above, Penrhyn Castle, outside Bangor, looks like the perfect Norman castle. In fact, it was built 700 years too late with the profits from the Bethesda slate quarries. Hewing slate from the mountains between Bethesda and Llanberis had been a village industry since the reign of Queen Elizabeth 1st. Then, in the 18th century, Baron Penrhyn bought up all the rights and hired back the local men as his labourers. Penrhyn Quarry paid them 12 shillings a week. It also made the fortune which financed Penrhyn Castle for its owners, providing the slate for their billiard table and their one ton bed.

The finished roofing slates come in a range of sizes and natural colours. The various types have superior names: queens, duchesses, countesses and ladies -- "And all the best judges prefer, it is said, A countess in blue to a duchess in red."

Bethesda slate was transported by steam railway to a new harbour near the Castle. A rival quarry above Llyn Peris exported their product from Port Dinorwic. The Lord of the Manor was a Master of Hounds, a cricketer and a gentleman. By Act of Parliament he enclosed four-fifths of the common land to establish the Dinorwic Quarry, depriving the villagers of their rights. They could work for him, though, in their thousands, and they lived in the new village of Llanberis.

The scars of the Nantlle slate quarries lie beneath the mountain of Mynydd Mawr, shaped from afar like an elephant. At the valley's far end Llyn Dywarchen boasts a legendary island which floats on the water. Cattle used the island as a wayward ferry, and in 1658 the astronomer Halley (comet-struck) rowed it around the lake.

At the mouth of a river, beyond high mountains, the Spanish General Macsen Wledig discovered the castle and queen of his dreams. For 7 years Macsen lived with his Celtic wife, Helen, at the fort of Segontium before leaving Britain to become Emperor of Rome.

After 700 years Edward 1st (busy with his own empire-building) sited Caernarfon Castle nearby. This new castle reflected the style of Constantinople (because Emperor Constantine the Great had been born here). One tower was topped with stone eagles, symbols of the mighty Roman army, and in it Edward's son, the first English Prince of Wales, was born.

Vortigern the Tall, ruler of Britain, having abandoned his land in Kent to the Saxons, built his castle on the cliff-face of Nant Gwrtheyrn on the Lleyn Peninsula. When his refuge was destroyed by an avenging fire from heaven he leapt to his death in a stormy sea.

From the19th century upto World War Two Bardsey Island had its own king. The farmers were an independent lot, and the island's owner, in fun, appointed their headman king. He wore a brass crown and had a wooden soldier to stand guard over one silver chest.

Bardsey has been a pilgrimage site since the 5th century, three trips there being worth one to Rome. Along the route Clynnog Fawr became a traditional centre for healing. Patients bathed in St Beuno's Well and rested overnight on his tomb.

Now, the holy water couldn't help Mad King March of Abersoch, who had horse's ears. The King was so embarrassed that he ordered his barber to keep the secret, but the servant whispered it to reeds blowing in the wind. Unfortunately, the reeds were made into pipes, and they sang of the king's misfortune whenever the piper played.

Successfully tucked away on a beach is Porth Dinllaen. Above it, an Iron Age fort has been turned into a golf course -- where balls shot into the "rough" end up in the sea. Unbelievably, this small harbour once rivalled Holyhead as a port for Ireland.

For years these Lleyn villages were busy with ship-building and fishing boats. It's only recently they've become the quiet havens of holiday-makers.

In the 20th century Pwllheli was famous for Redcoats at Butlins, but it was the Black Prince (clad in black chain-mail) who leased the town out to a friend in the 1300s for the price of a single rose.

Hywel the Battle Axe served under the Black Prince in France during the Hundred Year's War, and on his return he became Constable of Criccieth Castle. Nowadays the Castle looks over Tremadog Bay but at that time it protected a wide estuary.

For centuries ships could sail up the Glaslyn towards Beddgelert. Then in 1808 Madocks built his one-mile cob across the estuary and reclaimed acres of marshland. The new harbour of Porthmadog became the outlet for the Blaenau Ffestiniog slate mines. So many ships dumped their soil ballast here that an islet formed in the bay, and on it grow plants from all over the world.

Initially, the mines transported their slate via a tramway. Horses pulled the empty trucks back up, but they hitched a ride down on the laden wagons, which descended to sea-level by gravity.

During World War Two the Ffestiniog mountains held an unusual secret -- oil paintings from the National Gallery of London were hidden for safety in the mining tunnels.

West of Blaenau and seen from Porthmadog, a distinctive mountain rises for over 2000 feet. Cnicht was given its name by English sailors, for whom the triangular rockface resembled the helmet of a mediaeval k-night.

Between the Rhinog mountains and Porthmadog is a wooded peninsula. It was here that architect Sir Clough Williams-Ellis imagined creating a fanciful Italian village. His dream materialised as Portmeirion -- where Noel Coward wrote his ghost play 'Blythe Spirit', Shakespeare leans over a balcony, and a stone boat never sinks.

The peninsula's town of Penrhyndeudraeth is secluded by two estuaries. A small place with a long name -- but it's simply Welsh for the location: on a rocky headland between two beaches.

Centuries ago, from his favourite rock at Harddlech, King Bran the Blessed looked over Cardigan Bay. At his death he ended up facing France from the Tower of London, where his head (only) was buried to protect Britain from invasion.

On Bran's rock, though, Edward 1st built Harlech Castle, two hundred feet above the sea. Owain Glyndwr made it his court, but it was surrounded by the English and his son-in-law died here of starvation. Later on, during a 7 year seige in the War of the Roses, the walls resounded to the song 'Men of Harlech'. The sea (and the beseigers, luckily) retreated from the Castle long ago.

Down the coast, beneath Cadair Idris, the beautiful Mawddach Estuary flows inland from Barmouth to Dolgellau. Turner painted it; Darwin wrote 'The Descent of Man' beside it; and Wordsworth rowed up it.

At the river's silvery mouth, above the railway bridge, 4 1/2 acres of cliffland became the first property in 1895 of a respectable society -- the National Trust. In the town below, a small round building was a lock-up for the more boisterous and drunken members of society.

Cadair Idris takes its name from a local hero, Prince Idris, who died fighting the Saxons - but he lives on as a giant who strode across the Mawddach and used the mountain as his chair.

Gwyddno was father to Idris, and he ruled over a proud and prosperous land. Then one wild night the keeper of the sea-wall got drunk, and the salty waters surged in. Church bells still ring at Aberdyfi beneath the waves.

Up river at Machynlleth Owain Glyndwr was crowned Prince of Wales. Like many royals, Owain had family problems: his cousin (a man of great stature) loosed an arrow at him whilst out hunting deer. The Prince survived, but his cousin disappeared. Years later, a large skeleton was found in the deer-park, stuffed inside a hollow oak tree.

From Machynlleth to Corris a steam railway ran to serve the slate quarries. There's no railway now, but the Centre for Alternative Technology has been recycled from one disused quarry.

A less green alternative is Britain's first inland nuclear power station, now closed down, which recycled the reservoir waters of Trawsfynydd. This unnatural lake was created in 1930 to supply water for the reactive residents of Liverpool.

In the village a statue commemorates a local shepherd whose poetry won him the bardic chair at the1917 Eisteddfod -- just after he'd been killed fighting in France. The chair was swathed in black.

The long straight road alongside Trawsfynydd isn't Roman but the Roman road of Sarn Helen and their fort at Tomen y Mur lie in the moors above. For 150 miles Sarn Helen runs from Caerhun in the north to Carmarthen down south. Another Roman road passes through Tomen-y-Mur from Segontium to Caer Gai near Bala.

400 years after the Romans Caer Gai became the home of Kay and his foster-brother Arthur. Then one magic day Arthur pulled a sword from a stone to become King of the Britons.

During the 18th century the men, women and children of Bala knitted woollen garments. That mad English monarch, George 3rd, always wore their stockings to warm his rheumatic legs.

Bala became a religious stronghold. From her cottage beneath the castle of Castell y Bere, a young girl set out for the town. Mary Jones walked barefoot for 25 miles in order to buy a Bible. When she reached the town, the clergyman had none left to sell -- so he gave her his own. In1865 a ship sailed from Liverpool for Argentina with 153 Methodists, mainly from Bala, on-board. In Patagonia they were free at last to speak the Welsh language.

Edward 1st brought Wales under English rule in the13th century. The first castle and town to be built during his battles with Llywelyn the Last were at Flint. One hundred years later King Richard surrendered to his usurper, the future Henry 4th, in the castle. When Richard left for London to abdicate his throne, his fickle greyhound deserted him for a new master.

Rhuddlan was the second of Edward's castles, and (like them all) it had to be able to withstand a seige. So that it could be supplied by ships, a new channel was dug for the River Clwyd, making Rhuddlan into a port despite being 2 miles from the sea.

Both Rhuddlan and Flint were overseen by Edward's pet architect, Master James. He also designed Denbigh, a more sophisticated yet unfinished castle. Its completion was entrusted to Henry de Lacy, who lost interest when his eldest son died, plunging down the well.

Across from the Denbigh Moors Ysbyty Ifan lies cradled in bandit country. The hospice was founded by 12th century Crusaders, the Knights of St John, as a peaceful sanctuary for travellers, safe from the laws of the land. Ysbyty became the haunt of villains like the ruthless Red Savage Gang -- all of whom were hanged.

In the next valley, at Penmachno, Iorwerth the Broken Nosed was buried. He had been heir to the Kingdom of Gwynedd but wasn't allowed to take control because of his irregular face.

Iorwerth retreated to his timber castle by the river meadows of Dolwyddelan. His son, Llywelyn the Great, built a stone castle nearby on the flanks of lonely Moel Siabod. This distinctive mountain has on its summit an enclosure: Victorian guides used it for their ponies, resting after carrying up tourists.

Behind Moel Siabod is a famous view -- the Snowdon Range beyond the lakes of Mymbyr. In Victorian Times twelve shillings (60 new pence) would buy you a pony ride up Snowdon from Llanberis, and the guide would take your luggage on his back. Of course, if you're very fit, you can always run up it in 30 minutes via the Pyg Track.

One hundred years after her death, Queen Victoria still lives on in the mountains -- look at the profile of Tryfan and she's there, gazing up at the clouds. Yet, strangely, from the other side you can see two people standing on the summit, and they're much older even than the Queen -- two upright boulders named Adam and Eve.

Closeby, the Devil's Kitchen is haunted by the murderer of Prince Idwal. On the orders of his jealous uncle, Nefydd the Handsome, the boy was drowned in the lake, which took his name.

Snaking through the mountains, Telford's Victorian road runs from Bethesda to Capel Curig. The previous road through the Nant Ffrancon Valley was so steep for horses that coach passengers had to get out and push.

At Capel Curig the A5 joins a two thousand year old highway which linked the Roman's holiday villas on the Lleyn with their copper mines on Snowdon and lead works near the Ugly House. From here their northern road ran to more mines (and much needed baths) at Trefriw.

The 3-arched bridge between Trefriw and Llanrwst has two names: either 'The Buttermilk Bridge' because its collapse on opening day was blamed on workmen drinking mead and the repairers were limited to buttermilk; or 'The Swearing Bridge' because the first car to reach the top forces the opposing car, cursing, to back down.

Above Llanrwst the Carneddau Ridge lies parallel with the River Conwy. Llyn Dulyn, hidden in the mountains, is 200 feet deep and became known as an aircraft graveyard during the War. Over 20 planes have crashed into the cliff-face, which rises sharply 700 feet from the surface. At low tides and high moons the wreckage juts above the water.

Both sides of the Conwy are riddled with ancient trackways and forts. Caer Oleu near Eglwysbach means 'Castle of Light': beacons on the outcrop could be seen by other forts at Tal y Cafn, Pen y Gaer and Caerhun.

The bridge at Tal y Cafn is a young, one hundred years old. Before this time there was a ferry for animals and carts, a rowing boat for passengers, and a ford for the most daring. When the bridge opened, the last ferry floated -- abandoned -- out to sea.

In 500 AD a chunk of Irish rock with four saints on board drifted to Wales. Where it lodged at Glan Conwy, St Bride built her chapel. Then, 200 years ago, the land and chapel disappeared overnight.

The Pin Mill in Bodnant Gardens originated in Gloucestershire. Lord Aberconwy reconstructed it at one end of the Canal Terrace, overlooking the pond and water-lilies.

Lord Mostyn laid out a new resort (Llandudno) during Victoria's reign. Before this time, there was only a mining village on the Great Orme, reached by a noisy trek over sandy shingle.

On the Orme's cliffside is a flat rock submerged by high tides. Whenever a Mostyn steward mistreated their tenants he was kept on the stone for one day, naked to the wind and the waves.

On the hills above Deganwy, in the sixth century, a proud tyrant, fond of French wine, erected his castle. Maelgwyn Gwynedd united the tribes of North Wales and gave the county his name. Nevertheless, he died of the Yellow Plague, and his lands (which once stretched from the Orme to Puffin Island) were flooded by the sea.

Eventually, Maelgwyn's fortress was hit: firstly by lightning and secondly by the Saxons; and the Norman structure which replaced it was flattened by the Welsh. So in 1283 Edward of England looked across the water and decided to build on the opposite, safer riverbank.

No problems -- the Pope gave his permission for the monks of Aberconwy to be ferried down to Maenan. Soon, high walls encircled the new English town of Conwy, and the castle (its stonework gleaming with whitewash) dominated the estuary below.

For years the only route for horse-drawn vehicles between Conwy and Penmaenmawr was a rough track over the Sychnant Pass. Loose rocks threatened from above, and cliffs on one side fell sheer to the sea. Instead, many carriages waited for low tide and continued along the shore.

From their factory above Penmaenmawr, Stone Age Man (without transport) exported his stone axes along these ancient pathways. Later on, a Bronze Age tribe erected a circle of standing stones here, burying at its centre the cremated bones of their children.

Along the coast at Abergwyngregyn Llywelyn the Great kept as prisoner a gallant Norman knight. In time the ransom was paid, and William de Breos went free. However, the Welsh prince discovered that his wife had fallen in love with William during his stay. Llywelyn recaptured the young man, brought him back to Aber and hanged him from a tree.

Llywelyn was a formidable enemy of the English, and his stone castles still remain today. Eventually, he took the title 'Prince of Aberffraw and Lord of Snowdon'.

Our highest mountain in England and Wales has been visited by man, for pleasure and pain, since before the Ice Ages. In the mud of Llyn Llydaw beneath Snowdon two frustrated ancient fishermen abandoned their canoes, dug out from tree-trunks. Much later, mountain guides, laden with baggage, led tourists on ponies up to the summit, with a welcome break for diluted brandy or sherry on the way.

Despite the crowds, hidden in a cave on the slopes of Lliwedd, the Knights of the Round Table lie sleeping. Ready armed, they're waiting for King Arthur's return and a call to battle once more.

What better place than Snowdon -- a mountain of legend and mystery -- to descend to earth and finish our fantasy flight over North Wales. And would it be a bad thing if the spirit of the mountains invaded our souls and made mad poets of us all?

* THE END *

Copyright ValleyStream 1999
Photos strictly copyright Gwilym Davies Collection 2001

The Gwilym Davies Collection (32,000 aerial photographs of Wales) is now available for commercial use under
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