Near the end of May this year...
... a venture to Ireland to oversee the Christening of my baby daughter led to an overnight stay on the island of Anglesea. There is but one town, clutching bravely at the rock of this barren land mass. A shabby sign welcomed those who dared pass through this portal to the seas beyond.

Cold, damp and desperate for something that may vaguely be described as food, my wife and I ventured out into the slate grey morass of cottages and disused car parks in search of nutrition. Despite the weekend afternoon the town was a ghostly place, bereft of the laughter of children, the tutting of mothers or the conversation one might expect. Amidst the gloom stood a neon beacon promising warmth and company. Slowly we approached, fearing what we might find there. Entering through a glass door, thick with seemingly centuries of grease and despair, we discovered the hub of the community - a grizzled man in a shabby suit, nursing a Yorkshire Terrier long since absolved of any enthusiasm for life. The pallid faces of desperation and a clinging sense of regret at having ever ventured near the place engulfed the 'restaurant' like a spiralling miasma. As I perused the glossy synthetic food substitute options before me, a thin, reedy voice, filled with the memories of a thousand lonely nights whispered to me "would you like fries with that?"

If I had known then what I know now dear reader, then I might perhaps have accepted this invtation to imbibe fat smeared potato starch, for I would need the sustenance of both fries and the apologetic, tepid McNuggets that flopped before me in their cardboard tomb.

Leaving this emporium of lost souls, we dared venture once more onto the streets, cloaked in the damp embrace of the afternoon. Somewhere, a sound like that of a retching cat caught our ears and out of the mist a light shone. Before we knew where we were an apparition of ghastly nightmares sidled up to our side. The lank face that stared out from within the chariot of the damned opened its mouth to utter a few lost syllables, but we were not for boarding this vessel of horrors, despite the tales of Colwyn and Bangor that the coachman promised.

Leaving in a cloud of acrid smoke, the departure of the bus plunged us back into the grey, watery silence that gripped the town so. It was at this point that, as one, we decided to spend the rest of the night in the comforting embrace of the TV screen and pillows of our hotel for the duration of the night, despite the apparently early hour.

Truly, never again would we visit Holyhead.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Thu 29 Oct 2009, 12:58, 4 replies)

Tis a cursed place
Since those pesky romans slaughtered all the druids on the isle
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 13:09, closed)

I knew there had to be an explanation!
I can still feel the damp air in my throat to this day...
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Thu 29 Oct 2009, 13:16, closed)

Back in about 1970
when I was a Dropfritt of but tender years, we went on a family holiday to Anglesea. On the whole it was OK-ish, until we found ourselves in Holyhead one rainy Sunday afternoon.

As a town it is truly a pimple on the arsehole of the world, I've seen more life in a tramps vest.

Doesn't sound as if it's changed much either...
(Snabblim Dropfritt, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 13:29, closed)

I've not been there
but I do know it's AngleseY. Although you probably hope you'll never have to write it again.
( Sonic the Hedgetrimmer doesn't care what you think, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 17:23, closed)