Hotel sublime, the “Royal Sportsman”
in Porthmadog where many thoughts can
go roaming over hills and steam trains,
the sea and harbour where the gleam reigns
from sliding sun that casts its shadows
on busy streets, on church that hallows
my visit with its firmly locked door,
to send me back to sand and rock shore
beside Ffestiniog’s old railway,
there with a real refreshing ale stay,
to watch a sometimes train approaching
with many passengers for coaching
on narrow line to Blaenau village
where hills were gouged in slate mine pillage:
but now Porthmadog fields are riven
with bypass through the valley driven,
which we must cross with mapped out walking
to hill whose pathways few went stalking
around the contours, sheep at grazing
on journey with some steepness raising,
up Craig-y-Gesail whose hut circles
explore we round the hillside’s knuckles ―
few stony groups they make us wonder
how time those peoples came to plunder,
but then, amazed, we met tall standing
construct of stones, aged circle branding
that proudly looked across the valley:
admired with little time to dally,
off down the steep sides nearly falling
through trees, wet leaves since rain came calling,
discovered we reserve of nature,
with hidden steps and brambles stature,
where none have walked since closed to public
till we arrived, no path for grew thick
the saplings, bushes, ferns, wet grasses,
the message clear that no one passes ―
retraced our steps, back to the roadway,
bypass re-crossed to our abode stay:
there we relaxed and showered early,
our appetites for dinner curly,
a sherry, then our white-robed table,
and feasted well, as much as able,
in “Royal Sportsman”, far the finer
in meeting needs of guest and diner.
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