I found myself in Conway in Wales (In Welsh I think it’s spelled Cyfcuyrfddyaysy) and I was standing in line to see The Smallest House in Great Britain. Cheese is in short supply in Wales (unless it’s actual cheese, which is both plentiful and delicious) so I felt the need to take advantage of this most American sounding attraction. It was the weekend of the Queen’s Jubilee, celebrating her sixty years on the throne wearing vibrant hats and pantsuits, and a Bank Holiday had been declared; the streets were filled with celebrating Welsh drinking Fuller’s Ale and enjoying the rare blue sky.
The line was long. And it was a slow go. I could have gone off and visited Conway castle or walked the ancient city walls, which were built by the English 800 years ago to keep the Welsh from complaining about all the high taxes the British needed to essay in order to build more castles. But I had convinced myself of the need to see this house. Anyone can see a castle: there are 642 castles in Wales alone; but this was the smallest house in the entirety of Britain! Only a fool would miss it!
I bought a second and then a third ale as I waited. The revelers were spontaneously bursting into Welsh ballads and dancing with one another all around me. They were way ahead of me on the drinking front. I was growing a little annoyed at how slowly the line progressed. It inched along, tediously. I might as well have been standing in line for a free MRI. Finally the guy in front of me walked into the house. I promptly bumped into him, knocking him into the rear of the house.
The downstairs, I now saw, was standing room only. One person standing room only. It was stupidly small. There was a tiny stove on the left and a water tap in the back. No chairs. No television. No sofa. Nada. Upstairs, which is so small you can’t go up there (you see it from a step-ladder) had a small bed and a small cabinet. Only a toddler could stand upright on the second floor, and even they might feel the walls were closing in on them.
The house, I would learn later, is ten feet tall, six feet wide, and entirely unnecessary. Yet it was inhabited for five hundred years. Granted, back in the Middle Ages people were smaller. But the last inhabitant was a six foot three fisherman named Robert Jones, who was evicted in 1900 when it was – obviously! – determined unfit for human habitation.
Do I regret standing in line to see such ridiculousness? Yes. Yes I do. It would be foolish not to. Yet, for me, that’s what travel is all about. Wandering around and gambling on a new experience. I enjoyed talking to the people in line and watching the drunken Welshmen belt out ballads for their own amusement and eavesdropping shamelessly on their fun. But if you get the chance, by all means, skip it.
