The Gate

Growing up, we were fortunate to spend our summer holidays away in the family’s VW Camper. First would be a fortnight in Wales, followed by a three week trip over on the continent.

There would be a lot of excitement at the start of the holidays, the first Saturday would see the Camper loaded up and we’d head off mid-morning. Dad driving, Mum up front with her knitting and my brother and I in the back with our shiny new cassette Walkman’s on and our noses in books.

We’d skirt Nottingham, through the West Midlands, on through Shropshire and over the border into Wales where we would stop for lunch, usually alongside the Welshpool & Llanfair and we’d hope to see a train.

After lunch, there would be a real anticipation of our holiday as we pressed on over the mountains until we turned down the single track lane in Bryncrug a couple of miles from the coast to our destination, Tynllwyn camp site and caravan park, nestled into the hillside.

The Gate - 1983

Once checked in, parents would set up the awning and my brother and I would start the first of many campsite cricket games of our holiday. But then we’d hear the whistle in the distance, drop everything and run for it.

Across the camping field we’d go and up to the gate in the hedge because on the other side was the Talyllyn Railway. We’d spot the loco, hoping for a foot on the whistle or a wave from the crew before the carriages rushed past. Waving like loons, with some of the passengers waving back, in a moment the train was passed and we’d return to our cricket.

During the fortnight, in and amongst the trips out, the race to the gate would be repeated many times. We would try and guess the loco by the whistle or the beat of the loco as it climbed out of Rhydyronen station. Sometimes we would walk over to the station and catch the train up in to the hills to walk to the waterfalls or amongst the forest to the old quarry.

These summer holidays cemented my love for the narrow gauge, the Talyllyn in particular. But also some of the French lines visited later in the summers.

When my Dad and older brother started volunteering, we moved to a campsite closer in to Tywyn and handier for the Pendre or Wharf starts and now I’m one of those driving past the gate, tooting the whistle and waving.

For the second week of our holiday we returned to Tynllwyn, hiring a static caravan. Amongst friends, our children all played together and we could hear the trains whistling, invoking childhood memories. The hot summer meant that the fire trolley was much in evidence and this became a firm favourite with the children.

The whistles still brought about the desire to cross to the gate, more a brick lumbering than the running of my youth. The children still trying to work out which loco was coming by the whistle. The hedges have grown (as have the length of my shorts) but the childhood joy of leaning on the gate and waving to the train is still there. Turns out I still like standing on the right hand side too.

The Gate - 2026