The Real Mr Llandudno is wearing an unseasonably warm maroonpullover. He perspires over the pedals of his Hammond organ,thumping out a tune as the crowds chatter and clatter past hisbooth ('stage' would be too generous a term), perched on theboardwalk leading to Llandudno pier. A series of parp-pa-pa-parpsheralds 'New York, New York' My objection is not so much to Mr Ll'ssub-Sinatran rendition, but to his choice of material. Llandudnohas little to do with the US East Coast. But it is North Wales'answer to California.
Welcome to the hotels of the principality's largest resort.About 700 establishments cater for the influx of tourists. Top ofthe range are the handsome four-storey Edwardian terraces, forminga shoulder-to-shoulder sweep of spruce frontages around the broadsweep of a bay that would not look out of place on the Pacificcoast. The shoreline forms a kind of hammock, anchored at each endby a chunk of prehistoric granite. The Great Orme and its slightlydownsized partner Little Orme are gigantic casualties of the eventsthat shaped Snowdonia. Now they serve as geographic exclamationmarks for Llandudno.
Behind them and the town, the mountains darken with altitude.Snowdonia shifts from tree green to barren black as the range risesinto the clouds. The Sierra Nevada never looked this moody.Furthermore, the Welsh go one better than the Californians in thatold West Coast trick of skiing in the morning, swimming in theafternoon. In Llandudno, you can ski at noon and be splashingaround in the surf of the Irish Sea by five past. True, the skislope is as dry as a daiquiri. It is, in fact, a go-faster carpetanchored to a slope of the Great Orme. But in midsummer 1996, thewinter sports enthusiasts were queueing for the ski-lifts while afew hundred feet below, bathers were acclimatising to thestill-chill waters.
A road runs right around the foot of the Great Orme, threadingnervously between sheer rockface and steely seas. Comparisons withHighway One, the dramatic coastal route between Los Angeles and SanFrancisco, are entirely apt. The Welsh circuit is frequently usedas a location for the sort of car advertisements that feature ClintEastwood pose-alikes. So if you find the road barred when youarrive, the closure is probably due to a posse of film crewsworking at Wales' Hollywood.
If one Californian city deserves to be twinned with Llandudno,it is San Francisco. The similarities are extraordinary. Forexample, each operates cable cars to cope with sharp inclines. Themain difference between the Great Orme Tramway and the Powell-Masonline is that Llandudno's is the more expensive. But your pounds3.40 ticket buys a ride on a system whose steel cable hoists yourrickety old wagon up the sort of gradients that would deter SteveMcQueen. Only a proclamation that 'Man United R Shite', etched in20-foot high letters on the hillside, reminds you that Liverpool iscloser than Los Angeles.
With no Pacific mists to obscure the view, you need neitherbinoculars nor imagination to spot the Isle of Man, 50 miles north.And on the way down, you get to see the site of Llandudno's versionof the Gold Rush of 1849: the Copper Rush of 2000 BC. AncientBritons were extracting the metal from the tangled veins of theGreat Orme long before the Romans arrived. Every wave of occupantsdug deeper, with the Victorians extending shafts out under the sea.
San Francisco has Fisherman's Wharf; Llandudno boasts one ofBritain's finest piers. In either location, you can dine on goodseafood (cockles, 99p) and mingle with millions of fellow tourists.In these excitable June days, Llandudno gets the edge thanks to thewide-screen television in the Pier Head Bar. Last Sunday Germanyslugged it out with Croatia while visitors slugged down lager.
The closest you can get to Malibu is a bottle of the sweetcocktail of rum and pineapple in the Carlton, a shambling old pubthat drapes itself around Llandudno's main street corner. Followthe gnarls of Victorian ironwork, and you eventually stumble upon ahandsome, ruddy-faced row of civic buildings culminating in therailway station. These days, the main destination is LlandudnoJunction, just three miles inland. San Francisco's train stationhas slipped into similar ignominy.
As you walk, scour the streets for evidence of a fake Mr (orMessrs) Llandudno; some skulduggery must have persuaded the seasideorganist to add the definition 'Real' to his title. Back on theboardwalk, he tootles away to a somnolent audience of people whoare of sufficient age to have enjoyed the '68 Summer of Love to thefull.
God only knows why he doesn't play something by the Beach Boys.
Llandudno tourist information: 01492 876413
To book the Real Mr Llandudno, call 01492 573557
