Love is in the air

Tracy Muir is being wonderfully discreet. “I’m not commenting on any of it,” she says. And that, as the sun sets in some splendour over Anglesey, is that.

“It” is the widely-touted suggestion that the White Eagle gastro-pub, which she manages, is a regular haunt of Prince William, who is stationed as a search and rescue pilot at RAF Valley, just across the sands. It’s a new angle on Anglesey, the island off the North Wales coast.

William goes for burger and chips, the papers revealed breathlessly, and when he takes Kate Middleton with him, she generally has fish and salad. “By appointment to Prince William, Purveyor of Royal Burgers,” the White Eagle could conceivably claim over its front door. But no. Discretion and tact are the watchwords.

What Tracy Muir will say, however, is that she’s had journalists spending all evening in the bar (wildly uncharacteristic behaviour) in the hope that William will stroll in. “We’ve had CNN outside,” she adds. “And we had a phone call the other day that we were on the front page of the Calgary Tribune.” Anglesey has seen nothing like this level of royal activity since Edward I built Beaumaris Castle here 700 years ago.

More of Beaumaris, a lovely little town, in due course. For the moment, before anyone can launch a Kate’n’Wills tourist trail, let’s take in the White Eagle. It’s in Rhoscolyn, a village once famed for its oyster fleet, up in the top left-hand corner of the island, down winding lanes, past a solid Congregational chapel and left at a sign advertising “Shellfish”. It’s smart and modern, with lofty ceilings, log fires, and spectacular views over the misty mountains of Snowdonia across the Menai Strait.

I’m with Idwal Jones, an affable, knowledgeable guide who runs a company called Country Lanes Tours. As we drive round more twisting lanes to Beaumaris, he takes a wry view of all the media activity. “You never know,” he says as an RAF helicopter roars past. “That might be William up there... He comes over as a very nice, down-to-earth fellow, but we’re not overwhelmed by who he is. Why should we intrude into his life?”

Idwal accepts, though, that the royal presence – the couple may settle here temporarily – could boost the tourist economy. “My American market could benefit,” he says, as, without quite noticing, we hit Beaumaris and he drops me at my hotel before going off to his male-voice choir rehearsal.

You see Beaumaris from the mainland just as Thomas Telford’s great and gracious suspension bridge comes into view from the train from Chester that hugs the coast, past Prestatyn and Rhyl and Colwyn Bay and all the other seaside resorts of Fifties’ and Sixties’ childhoods.

I shared a train table with a drawling trainee body-piercer from Los Angeles. As we passed the rearing mass of Conway Castle, he lifted his shirt to reveal tattooed daggers all over his chest. I hadn’t asked him to do that, but it was entertaining in its way.

I don’t imagine there’s a lot of body-piercing in Beaumaris. It’s the most select of seaside towns, with antique shops and galleries and adverts in the newsagents’ windows for 1901 Broadwood grand pianos. There’s a shop “specialising in ladies’ wide-fitting shoes”, a trim little pier – a pierette where they perhaps had pierrots a century ago – and rows of handsome Georgian and Victorian terraces. Curtains tend to be left open in the evening, revealing high-ceilinged rooms with chandeliers and gilt-framed oils. I’ve seen worse-stocked art galleries.

There’s a great sense of well-being in Beaumaris, though people tend to say it’s a rather “English” town, which isn’t necessarily a term of endearment.

I’m staying at Ye Olde Bull’s Head Inn, which dates back to the 15th century and has welcomed Dr Johnson and Dickens as guests. The main building has cosy, traditionally-furnished bedrooms, agreeably chintzy, with dark beams , nooks-and-crannies and a coaching-inn sort of atmosphere.

The hotel has also opened the Townhouse, a faultlessly ‘cool’ annexe across the road. With its bold, bright colours and its boutiquey atmosphere, it will appeal to the young and the modish. All guests eat in the main building, where the brasserie offers a relaxed atmosphere and enormous portions of minted asparagus and pea risotto, spiced roast quails, or Moroccan fish stew.

Many visitors to Anglesey get no further than Beaumaris and its castle, which is satisfying in its symetrical way but not stirring like Conway or Caernarvon or Harlech. Others roar straight across the island to Holyhead to take the ferry to Dublin.

Idwal Jones, however, has a day’s worth of interesting places to show me.

We drive through a gentle landscape, oddly reminiscent of the Channel Islands and lush in summer. The hedgerowed lanes are dotted with pastel-painted cottages as we near Aberffraw estuary, where cattle amble tranquilly across the shining mudflats.

Further north, the coast is more rugged, particularly around South Stack, where thousands of roosting seabirds screech in Welsh. There are sandy coves and real Famous-Five places like the tiny seaside resort of Rhosneigr. “In summer, it’s all rock pools and kids fishing for crabs,” says Idwal.

We climb a gorse-scattered hill to a chambered cairn (lots of prehistoric sites here, lots of walking), and pay a token touristy visit to Llanfairpwllgwyn....and-the-rest-of-it, the village with Britain’s longest place name and a lot of coach parties. Far more interesting is Penmon Priory, with its dovecot once housing 1,000 birds. As we come out, a fox darts across the road a few yards in front of us.

We end up at Newborough Warren, where forest gives way to dunes and then a broad, shimmering beach patrolled by oystercatchers. A glorious mountain panorama stretches across the mainland horizon. “See Snowdon over there?” says Idwal. “Up in the clouds.”

Just across the sands is Llanddwyn Island, where wild ponies wander. Thanks to a fifth-century legend, it’s sometimes called “The Island of Love”. Cue Kate’n’Wills.