The trendy Danish concept of ‘hygge’ – a cosy, memorable, charming feeling of being utterly at ease – might have peaked as the big conceptual winter fashion, but it remains a wonderful concept. Here’s why a trip to the hills of South Wales is full of just the right kind of Hygge-like, cuddly charm…
Somewhere between Anglesea’s expansively named Llanfairpwllgwyngyll… (yes, we cut off two-thirds of the name, it is that long) and the Brecon Beacons National Park, you hit the winding hillside roads of Snowdonia. You cruise gently under tunnels of trees, the climate seemingly changing as you cross through each little hillside pass and rugged, three-house village. The land has that soggy green depth that feels like it hasn’t been dry in months, the texture reminiscent of an ancient realm of Hobbits. It’s the kind of place you almost drift through, giving re-emerging onto a dual carriageway the air of a post-dream slap around the face.
If Snowdonia is the realm of Hobbits, the Brecons feel more like they belong to the giants. The southern park is all expansive sweeping valleys, soaring hillsides and picture box villages that look unchanged in generations. They’re full of open spaces, their every building dwarfed by airy and enticing surrounds.
The main draw of the Brecons, then, is the scenery. In winter the slow rising roads lead you through tiny clusters of ageing houses, the pathways edging above the treelines until they burst out suddenly into great soaring valleys. They’re often spattered in shining snow barely hinted at a mile down the road, and stretching to distant but attainable peaks.
In the summer, this is a hiking hub. In winter you’d need to be more hardy to hit the upper slopes, but the delicate stone of the tiny towns comes into its own, lit up in slanting light and offering cosy corners next to fires to envelope guests.
Hay-On-Wye is one of the area’s more notable stop offs, and the place looks unchanged in decades. Tents pop up at weekends to expand the countless disorganised treasure-trove antique stores into the streets, while dozens of booksellers cram every spare inch with tomes, everything from first editions to scrappy paperbacks collected indoors and out, in more stores than a village could reasonably need.
There’s a regular vintage fair, where dozens of traders take root in every nook of the town, hawking anything from ships anchors and gemstone pendants to 1970s jigsaw puzzles, and doing so in the charmingly melodic local lilt from inside covered market squares and tiny lean-tos.