North Wales
Rhostryfan. Eryri. Anglesey. The places that made the stories.
The slate quarries of Gwynedd, the Welsh language, the tight-knit communities of the mountains, the sea air of the island — these are not backdrops in Margaret’s work. They are part of the texture of the stories themselves.
Margaret’s connection to North Wales — its people, its landscapes, and its stories — is a thread that runs through all of her work.
There is no place like home they say, and this is what prompted me to write.
Like most of us these days we have traveled. Done the sun, sand and sangria, and burnt our skin to an unhealthy orange on the hot sands of Tenerife, walked up steps and ridden on donkeys in Greece to get the best views. Camels in Cairo, that kneeled down low to let you ride a bumpy ride. Cruising in the Med with people you just met, and indeed those days were the best, but for me the best of all is the touch down in Manchester airport, and the rain lashing like stair rods on the tarmac. Feet getting soaked because you are still wearing flip-flops, legs tingling from the cold air. Scurrying for the luggage and finding the transport that takes you home.
The key in the lock, the dogs that bark on your arrival pleased to see you after a long, long week away. To hear the familiar sound of the kettle and enjoy a good cup of tea with milk that tastes like milk.
All these things make you look around and appreciate the wonders of Wales. The cool sand of Newborough beach, to drink a glass of wine in a small tavern on the beach in Y Felinheli and taste the salt in a dish of mussels, to sit awhile experiencing and enjoying the view high up in the Tryfan mountains and the scenery before you.
It’s so nice to go traveling but…
— Margaret Baldock, from the writer’s note in The Streets of London