The inimitable Bigs Bardot was beginning to get very tired of hanging around the quaint Welsh seaside village of Llandudno, and of having nothing to do. Once or twice he had clambered to the peak of The Great Orme, and he had availed himself of the reasonably-priced goods at the local Aldi, but neither activity truly set his heart aflutter.
“What is the use of a quaint Welsh seaside village,” thought Bigs, “without an enormous Big Thing to admire?”
So he was considering in his own mind (as well as he could, for the gloomy weather made him feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of trundling along to the Wetherspoon for a chicken vindaloo would be worth the trouble of getting up, when suddenly an enormous carved wooden rabbit bounded happily in front of him.
There was something so very remarkable about that; although Bigs didn’t think it so very much out of the way because Llandudno and its quirky inhabitants had, after all, served as inspiration for the literary classic, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
And the absolutely tragic movies featuring Johnny Depp, but the less said about those abominations, the better.
Bigs leant in closer to hear the Big Rabbit say to himself, “Oh dear! Oh dear! You shall be late… to visit all the other beautiful Bigs living in Llandudno!” Bigs was cautious, of course, as he fell down the twisting rabbit hole that is Welsh roadside attractions.
But when he encountered a Cheshire Cat of immense proportions, and then a Mad Hatter of monumental measurements, then a Queen of Hearts of hearty height, Bigs became aroused, for it flashed across his mind that he had never before seen so many Big Things in a single quaint Welsh seaside village.
Soon he was scurrying around as quickly as his little Australian legs would carry him, searching for magnificent Mock Turtles and delightfully rotund identical twins, never once considering how in the world he was to get out again.
And considering Llandudno’s meager public transportation system, that was probably a good thing.
Alice, Alice, where the fudge is Alice?
To visit Llandudno is to step into the yellowing pages of a fairy tale. An enchanting Victorian-era resort town on the rugged northern coast of Wales, it really is a place untouched by time, with cobblestone streets, ancient pubs warmed by roaring fires, and a remarkable pier over the Irish Sea.
Like Alice in the story this British pearl inspired, it’s easy to get lost in the sprawling laneways, encountering bonkers characters on every corner. The Jabberwocky, despite his notoriously cranky disposition, seems positively erudite compared to an English soccer hooligan guzzling his 19th cup of mead!
The Alice in Wonderland Trail is easy to follow and makes for a pleasant, if emotionally-confronting, stroll. It just gets curiouser and curiouser; beginning in the town square, before meandering past the most scenic spots Llandudno has to offer.
The Mad Hatter, lunacy dripping down his angled face, sits and stares out at the emerald brine. The Queen of Hearts stands, screeching, in the midst of the hamlet’s notorious red light district, a sight sure to terrify any silly drunk foolish enough to pass her after a night of depravity.
The statue of Alice is both a wry commentary on the modern ideals of beauty and innocence, and a scathing exposition of the eroding values of the United Kingdom. Her angelic features have been corrupted by modern society, delivering a twisted visage that shall haunt your dreams.
When I used to read fairy-tales, and imagine myself as a young girl with flowing blonder hair, trapped in a bizarre foreign land, I fancied that kind of thing never happened… and now here I was in the middle of one!
We’re all mad here… mad for Bigs!
So Bigs sat on, with deep, sparkling, perfectly-proportioned azure eyes closed, and half-believed himself in the magical Land of the Bigs, with talking bunnies and pussycats, though he knew he had but to open them again, and all would change to the dull reality of a Llandudno winter. The numerous clothes-optional beaches would be sparsely populated and flattering to nobody, and most of the cabaret clubs would remain closed for several months.
The rattling teapots would change to tinkling of pensioners’ mobility scooters, and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the handsome, if enigmatic and eminently unattainable apprentice electrician staying in the hotel room next door (call me, Callum!).
The madcap laughs of the Hatter, the lunatic growls of the Cat, and all thy other queer (and please note, this term has been used in the most respectful, inclusive nature possible) noises, would change (he knew) to the confused clamour of single mothers drinking bottles of cider by the seaside – while the lowing of some local chavs in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle‘s heavy sobs.
Lastly, Bigs pictured to himself how this same tiny town, with its vast array of outrageously proportioned roadside attractions, could become a beacon of hope for the rest of the world. He dreamed of how he would gather about the little children, and make their eyes bright and eager by showing them this incredible village.
And how they would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering their time exploring the Alice in Wonderland Trail.
