John Owen Jones

After the fancy dress party fiasco I decided to put it behind me as quickly as possible. No point crying over spilled milk – especially milk dressed as a famous person! So I got in my car, had a couple of ham sandwiches and headed out across the country to Aberystwyth.

The first thing I needed to do was learn how to pronounce the name without sounding like a fool. My subsequent three-hour journey mainly consisted of me saying “Aberystwyth” to myself over and over again like some kind of rubbish Tourette’s sufferer!

When I finally got to Abetyswyth I found yet another market town. Why does everybody in Wales want to get rid of things??? Anyway, I parked up and took a look at the tourist information centre, which was just a blind man with a dog, and before long I was on my way to the National Library of Wales.

I’m not a big reader (12 stone sopping wet hahahajoke!) but I do like to be in libraries. The eerie quiet and disdain poured upon you whenever you speak really made me miss home! I stumbled into the National Screen and Sound Archive of Wales but all they had there was the best bit from Gavin and Stacey playing on loop!

Two minutes later I was back in the main book area of the library, trying to look up the local history of the area. However, I got lost and ended up in the self-help section reading about casino tips and tricks.

I decided not to stay the night in Aberyswyth – the seaside Hull. My decision was primarily based on the fact that I was starting to run out of money, and couldn’t really afford a place to stay. I drove along the coast and parked up on a hillside and slept. When I woke up, a crowd of people had gathered around me thinking I was dead.

Bye!

One of the ‘biggies’ on my road trip across Wales was my stop at Llanidloes. Basically, I’d heard from my friend Gavin that Llanidloes have these things called ‘Fancy Dress Parties’, and they sound a right laugh.
Basically, at these parties people come but dressed up as someone else. Not just anyone – like Mad Alan from next door – but a famous person. Except for women – they usually only come as cats or devils.

Anyway, I made the long drive from Abergavenny to Llanidloes very early so that I could pick up a costume and be wearing it as soon as I arrived. Turns out there aren’t so many fancy dress costume shops on the major Welsh roads.

At about 5pm I pulled my car onto the hard shoulder. This was a real emergency and I needed to consider my next move. Before I knew it, inspiration hit me and a police car appeared in my rear view mirror. I should go as a the police! The driver slowed down, which I think was too give me enough space to get out, and I drove away, giving him the thumbs up out of the window. I was on my way to Llanidloes!

I rolled into Llanidoes at 7pm with my hair fashioned into a stylish mullet and a drab personality, just like Sting. I got out of the car, a rock star going to a real life fancy dress party, so far away from my days in the bingo games chat rooms at home, and shouted: “EVERY STEP YOU TAKE, EVERY MOVE YOU MAK—”

Someone barged into me. He was obviously going to the fancy dress party dressed as a hobo. He approached me and started shouting something nonsensical, probably Welsh. I backed away from my car and thought “What would Sting do?”
However, I didn’t have time to make another smug remark about how The X-Factor is killing music so I just ran.

Then I heard police sirens. I stopped and turned around. The police officer was stood at my car and talking to the man dressed as a hobo. Before long he was hauling him into the back of his car, probably to the Fancy Dress Party. I still didn’t want to go.

I waited five minutes and then got back to my car. Then I got the hell out of Llanidloes.

I spent most of the drive to Abergavenny from Builth eating sandwiches and staring up at the sky wondering if we are truly alone.

Suddenly I saw a bright light and swerved off the road. I remember the clock was at 5.35 just before I saw the light. When I woke up it was 5.36, but it felt like 12 hours had passed. Even more strange was that it was now evening whereas before it was becoming light. I didn’t dwell on the incident though, as I knew I was heading to Llandloes for my first ever Fancy Dress party.

As a got back on the road I switched on the radio. They were playing rock classics like ‘Do You Wanna Be In My Gang?’ by the Beatles and I rocked out for a little bit. I hadn’t heard that song since I was a little kid, and now here I was 20 years later embarking on this huge undertaking of self-discovery.

What have I learned about myself, now I’ve reached the halfway point of my journey? Well, I know that I like ham sandwiches a lot, and that I much prefer Starbucks to Costa.

Similarly, I’ve found out that Legally Blonde 2 is much better than the first one, mainly because it has more of a political slant. I have also discovered that I don’t really need my parents for anything anymore, only to give me money to finance my journey of self-discovery. I think when I go back to school next month I’m going to be a very different John Owen Jones.

Well, seeing as I’m heading to Fancy Dress Party Central I need a costume. I wonder where I can get one from at this time, and in a place so remote. Maybe if I send a message in a bottle…

It seems like a while ago that I visited Builth Wells. In fact, it was only six days. But that’s what life travelling around Wales does to you – messes with your perception of time and reality.

My internet connection has been a bit fragile this week, so I’ve barely been able to get online. The last thing I did do was look up Builth Wells online on Wikipedia. I discovered that the town has the distinction of having a rare post box. It’s rare because it bears the cipher of King Edward VIII, who was abducted from the throne in 1936 for loving Marge Simpson.
It must be very hard to abduct a king, and it makes you wonder why the government doesn’t officially acknowledge the existence of aliens. Still, it could’ve been an abduction by humans, but where the Gavin Henson they got a spaceship from I don’t know!

No-one has ever abducted me. Auntie Frieda once took me to Tesco for 13 hours but she wasn’t well, I’m not sure if that counts. I ended up being pushed into a pile of discount cling-film by police, but it’s OK because they were just helping!

If anyone did abduct me it would probably be doing something like playing bingo or teaching Year 8 about Hitler again (I’m a PE teacher – why do they ask?!).

My time in Builth was fine other than that. Some lovely monuments and a really great Starbucks. If I was to rate Builth against, say, Lampeter I’d say that its leather seats are much more comfortable and that the staff are very friendly.

Next on my trip is Abergavenny – a town that cannot help but make me smile whenever I say it.

Abergavenny :)

I didn’t get much sleep in Lampeter, so it was with heavy eyes and a car that I drove to Brynmawr. When I arrived, I noticed that I was in a market town once again. I don’t mind market towns that much, it’s just that I wanted to experience the real Wales – a glorious metropolis filled with Starbucks’ and McDonalds’ – not a toothless old man selling fish by a lake.

When I was piecing together the road map for my trip, I was particularly looking forward to visiting Brynmawr as I was under the impression its name comes from the Welsh for ‘Brian Moore’ – the very famous rugby player. However, I’ve seen realised that it translates as ‘big hill’ which is nonsense really. Brynmawr is definitely not a big hill, it’s a town.
I almost cancelled my stop in Brynmawr because of that, but I decided to head there regardless to see if there was a Starbucks I could sit in and enjoy the view, eat a sandwich and perhaps watch Cheaper By The Dozen on my portable player again (great film – four stars).

Apparently, the growth of Brynmawr came thanks to the ironing industry, and it’s certainly worth remembering the effort those poor loves 100 years ago put in each and every day, making sure the men of Brynmawr were nicely presented.

I was thinking about those strong ironing women for a good hour or so, drinking a latte with milk and eating an iced barmcake. I thought about my own mother, and the sacrifices she made in her life by just having me. She has literally lost all of her friends.

I felt weary so I put on lots of clothes and left Newcastle Emlyn. My next stop was Lampeter – the smallest university town in the United Kingdom. I hadn’t shaved for two weeks and was already starting to grow stubble. My head was wired – literally (I ahd my mp3 player in).

Going west across Wales made me reflect on my trip so far, the places that were still to come, and the home comforts I was missing. What, oh what, would Machynlleth bring? And Bala? What is Bala? Questions I needed answering, questions the world needed answering.

Lampeter is known for having Wales’ first rugby team, so I have the town to thank for my lifelong love of the game. Indeed, I got into the sport as a baby – toothless, incomprehensible, fat and bald. I was meant to be a rugby fan!

Finding somewhere to stay was no problem. Lampeter is full of students, so there are plenty of motels to stay at. The one I settled on actually doubled as a massage parlour – presumably to service the sports injuries of all the rugby players – and the lady on the door seemed surprised when I said I wanted somewhere to stay. Even more annoying was the knock on the door of my room every thirty minutes, waking me from my nap! Very expensive though, I’ve never known a motel charge by the half-hour.

Once my nap was over I headed out to find the nearest quiz machine and finally show Noel Edmonds who’s really in charge on Deal Or No Deal. Unfortunately, the only pub entertainment I could find was a betting game involving a parrot riding a mini bicycle while toothless, bald men spat tobacco, clapped and threw money at it. Then we watched the rugby.

All in all, my experience of Lampeter was slightly hindered by the fact that the students had all gone home, leaving a quiet ghost town haunted by spectres wearing traffic cones.

When I went back to the massage parlour I shaved in order to stay respectable, wondering what my trip to BrynMawr (Welsh for ‘Brian Moore’) would bring…

My second, unexpected day in Whitland was lovely. It reminded me of family holidays – beautiful scenery, lots of alone time and plenty of movies to catch up on.

I had at least 18 hours (not including sleep – I didn’t want to sleep after my t-shirt dream…) to kill so i decided to make the most of my digital movie player. Here are some reviews:

Rita, Sue and Bob Too: Excellent friendship film! Really liked how they all got on so well!

Eyes Wide Shut: Not for me!

The Mighty Duck: Best ice hockey film I’ve ever seen. FACT!

An Unconvincing True: Bit boring science documentary. FACTS!

Momento: Can’t remember hahahah just a laugh! It was good but I think my player might be skipping bits!
A really good day and night in overall. Oh, and for those keeping count: ten sandwiches. I think I have about 40 left. I’ll be fine with that.

On Saturday I headed over to Newcastle Emlyn which is a country rich in Norman’s castles. Of course, I drove around and around looking for Norman… hahaha I’m not that stupid! I went up to the ruins and licked the stone, tasting hundreds of years of history. Yum.

I next needed to find somewhere to stay, and Norman’s was out of the question so I found a B & B close to the town centre. The town centre is full of lots of small businesses and I found it difficult to get a true small-town vibe without a welcoming Starbucks or Costa nearby. In the end, I had to settle for a ‘Welsh milkshake’ (uses cheese-milk) while humming the McDonalds theme tune.

My bed for the night was sorted soon after, and it was great to find a place where they spoke Welsh. I love the Welsh language and I’m really proud of it. However, they didn’t bother speaking it in the motel – it sounds daft – and before long I’d unpacked my bag and was lay out on the bed.

Not a lot of people know this but Newcastle Emlyn is actually named after the English city of Newcastle and the former Question of Sport team captain Emlyn Hughes. I’m a big fan of culture, so it’s great to see two great English institutions celebrated here. Surrounded by Norman’s castles, this leg of my journey had taken on a really English feel…

Driving through Whitland in the rain was fun if a little bit scary. I was skidding around like It’s A Knockout but with cars!

The weather meant that I didn’t have much chance to check out some of the finer points of the area, and it was getting too dark to take any pictures, so I found and a bed and a breakfast hotel and checked in.
When I finally got up to my room I was bloody knackered! I’d only had a few hours sleep since my three-pint binge and I felt like my head was swimming in a ditch… I decided the best cures for this would be a lovely viewing of A Cinderella Story.

Before I knew it, I’d bloody passed out and I was having a dream. Basically, me and a friend were travelling across South America on motorbikes. I don’t know what we were looking for, but every now and then we’d stop and help out the local people. You know what? It felt lovely, like Lovejoy but with help instead of antiques.

Anyway, I really, really liked helping people (I wanted to be a doctor as a child but mother said that was the devil’s job) and eventually we were made dictators of this village. Then they took us to a secret warehouse where there were stored millions and millions of t-shirts all in my image:

I woke up in a cold sweat and calmed my nerves with a game on the online casino. I had a couple of sandwiches and eventually slept.
Perhaps I should keep a dream diary in future and try and keep track of what’s going on when I sleep! Normally I just dream about the kids at school – not in that way haha!!!

I arrived in Rhayader just before eight o’clock as the sun began to set in the east. The people were mad, mad to live, mad to drink, mad to speak Welsh in 2010, mad to be saved. I like the mad ones, I thought, checking into a Powys guest house which “acts as a great base from which to explore this fascinating area” (UK Hotel).

I spoke to Gwyneth on reception and knew that somewhere along the line there’d be visions, small kettles, everything. Somewhere along the line the room key would be handed to me. Thirty seconds later, it was.

Sitting on the edge of my bed I heard the sounds of the night which had come to represent Rhayader and the people. Kelly Jones’ voice bopped through the air of the local Wetherspoons, and I picked myself up and wearily headed out for what I knew would be a heavy night.

I was back in my hotel room two hours after leaving. I fumbled around for the bag of cotton wool I keep next to my bed at home only I wasn’t home, I was far away in a cheap hotel I’d hardly known, unsure as I stumbled past the small kettle to the en-suite bathroom, old wood creaks and old man snore, and after about 15 bloody weird seconds I figured out what had happened to me: I’d had another nose bleed after three pints.

Four ham sandwiches later, I sat up and looked to make sense of my crazy, crazy trip. I grasped the emergency sellotape roll I keep in my shoes and taped my phone to any stationery I could find so I wouldn’t run out of places to write should my battery die. I had something to say and I only found it when I logged into Twitter:

I saw that the best mind of my generation, David Mitchell, had retweeted me. Starving, hysterial, naked David Mitchell, burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night (Twitter).

So in Wales when the sun goes down and I sit in a broken-down Rhayader hotel room, when I see that wasteland and dream its immensity, don’t you know that God is David Mitchell?