| FT WEEKEND
OUTDOORS: into the valley
By Mark Jones, Financial Times
Published: Dec 11, 2004
Betws-y-Coed is a beautiful smalltown in the Conwy Valley near Snowdonia and like other beautiful small towns throughout Britain, it gets over-run with walkers, daytrippers, school groups, church groups, tea-sippers, sweater-seekers and trinket-browsers.
The gastro-radar warns us to stay clear of
places like Betws-y-Coed. You know what to expect; undressed
salads with soggy lasagne, parsley with everything, Chef's
Famous Butterscotch Pudding and if you're really unlucky,
fayre. (what fayre? Any fayre. It doesn't matter) Hotels?
Let's think. Teasmaids, MDF wardrobes balancing uneasily
on MFI carpets, lace curtains and minature packets of Special
K for breakfast.
Best to stay clear then? Well I didn't. A
friend who fled London to take over a hotel in Colwyn Bay
said there was a small place called Tan-y-Foel (let's call
it
T-y-F) near Betws-y-Coed (or B-y-C), that cooks the best
food he'd had outside London. He is not a fayre-minded sort
of chap, so I thought I'd have a look.
T-y-F's website says your own transport is
highly recommended - compulsory” might be a better
word. Even then the hotel is not easy to find. My car has
GPS navigation but I still wound up accosting strangers
and making three-point turns up hill and vale around the
straddling hamlet of Capel Garmon.
I rolled up in a farmyard in pitch darkness,
late for dinner. In the front door, a quick dash to the
bedroom - wow! Weird wallpaper - and then down to dinner
praying to the gods of this far-off land that a) my mate
wasn't paying me back for something I said in 1995 and b)
I hadn't been better off cutting my losses
and having a burger in Bridgnorth.
The dining room is great for those who like
to eat in places that look like art galleries. I'm one of
them, so the stripped floor, modern sculptures and clever
exterior spotlightling didn't faze me. I drank an impeccable
Manzanilla sherry and the last traces of the journey were
blown away in one crisp and creamy Iberian liquid hit.
The menu was short, Like Sally Clark's restaurant
in Kensington (which the T-y-F dining room resembles), they
just put on what's good and fresh then trust the good sense
of the diner. Two starters, two main courses, two puds.
If they're doing it properly, who needs more?
So did they do it properly? Bear in mind as you read the words that follow that I am half Welsh and am thus precluded to floor the old lyrical accelerator pedal when I get half the chance. Bear in mind too, that this was the best meal I'd had (in London and beyond) in 2004. Then, if necessary, forgive.
I had a timbale of lemon sole and smoked salmon
followed by loin of Welsh mountain lamb wrapped in mint
and lemon rind and fried with a Moroccan-style fruited couscous.
It was just sensational - beautifully, freshly cooked with
the tartness, sweetness and lovely lamby greasiness all
working together in fluent harmony like the great Welsh
rugby teams of the 1970's. Whole male voice choirs were
singing powerfully and sweetly on my taste buds as I washed
the divine mouthfuls down with an Aussie Shiraz.
Phew. I tiptoed outside in the freezing air
to smoke a cigar and gaze over the twinkling valley, breathed
deeply and when I'd finished coughing, thought how wonderful
it was that A.A. Gill, Anne Robinson and all the other paid-up
anti-Welsh propagandists would never come within 100 miles
of this place. Breakfast was almost as moving. Nothing clever;
free range eggs, Cumberland sausages, compote of fruits
and Greek yoghurt - all with the freshness and innocence
of an Enid Blyton story.
I met the owners, the Pitmans, and their daughter Kelly after the feast. The moved here from Deal in Kent 13 years ago. They did the standard falling-in-love-at-first-sight-with-a-near-derelict-farmhouse-thing. Now they have created a far from standard country house with an understated, contemporary interior, and rooms with slightly odd wallpaper.
The lawns and mature gardens of rhododendron,
azalea and magnolia have big views over the valley. From
the small window of the bedroom I thought of R.S.Thomas's
poem "The Small Window" as I looked out on a misty
and sparkling morning: “In Wales there are jewels
to gather, but with the eye only.”
I spent the day clambering around damp parts
of North Wales, revisting Portmeirion and, rather ambitiously,
trying to rediscover the best beaches on
the Llyn Peninsular. Next time, I'll just ask around this
peaceful valley and dream of dinner.
more reviews
|
