My companion is Storm, an opinionated 12.2 hand British moorland pony. Our playground is the North Wales coast bordering Snowdonia National Park.
Signs of spring have all but disappeared. Lambs are sturdy and bleat less. Bracken springs up overnight and hides the smaller tracks in a maze of green fern. By way of compensation, the perfume of wild honeysuckle entwined through the hedgerows is divine, especially after a spell of rain. It’s been a cool, wet spring with flashes of brilliance. Through April and May I brushed out enough pony hair to furnish several bird nests to luxury standard, but now Storm is resplendent in his full summer coat of golden dapples – other than random patches of dark hair on both sides of his neck, like designer stubble.
The bridleway across Conwy Mountain is a steady climb until it reaches a plateau where a couple of long grassy tracks pose opportunities for a canter. Ahead, there are far-reaching views across the Pensychnant Estate and the Carneddau mountain range. We gather momentum alongside the perimeter of Pen Pyra, the only farm on the mountain, once the home of first world war hero John Edwards and although it’s still a working sheep farm, the house is currently a holiday let.
Towards the end of this track as the the land falls away towards Dwygyfylchi – where Edwards is mentioned on the war memorial – the Irish Sea looms ahead. It’s not unusual to get blasted by the wind at this point, but today it’s relatively calm. A sharp left has the pony leaping to the top. There’s a pond here, frequented by Carneddau mares and foals and we stop awhile to watch them graze the plants at the water’s edge and paddle in the shallows. Ears pricked, Storm champs his bit in contemplative mood, like he’s chewing the end of a pipe.
Skirting across the front of the farm we cross a small stream and since we’re facing home, Storm races up the short incline. As we slowly retrace our steps towards Conwy, the castle and the estuary hove into view. And as we amble lower down the stony track, more wild ponies, and a commanding black and white turreted building is glimpsed through the trees. Oakwood Park Hotel and Golf Course opened in 1898. In its heyday, Oakwood guests included George Bernard Shaw, David Lloyd George, Amy Johnson, and King Alfonso XIII of Spain. The hotel closed in 1940 and both the golf course and the hotel buildings fell into disrepair. After serving as a private school and a care home, the hotel was refurbished and divided into three private residences. As well as the main building the lovely old pavilion remains including the original railings along the lane, although the golf course is now returned to pasture and inhabited by two equine friends. Storm often draws to a halt here and stares at something I can’t see, oblivious to the leg and any other command. My friend says it’s like they’re seeing dead people when horses do this. I imagine there’s plenty of ghosts in this area, both human, and equine. In fact, reading about some of the history of Oakwood I came across the dairies of Isobel Lee, including her long visits to Oakwood Park Hotel; describing the parties, the golf, and the tennis she filled her days with – through to a more sombre existence doing voluntary work in a hospital. Her final diary entry was June 6th 1917. And her home address? Wilmslow, Cheshire. A little uncanny that I had also moved from Wilmslow to Conwy, and the date of my ride on this day was June 6th… hopefully not my last diary entry!