Ruthin (RITH-in) was an accidental footnote hanging off the end of my long weekend excursion. It was merely a stopover where Gillian kindly dropped me off at nine this morning so I could catch the bus to the Wrexham station. So how did I end up at Ruthin Castle, you may ask? Predictably, I got sidetracked looking for coffee and missed the bus.
Killing the hour I had to spare before the next X51 bus, I followed the tourist signs to Ruthin Castle, a 12th-century English castle of which very little remains. Most of the ruins have been incorporated into a more recent hotel.
Perpendicular to the modern hotel’s castle-themed gatehouse, I found an interesting crenellated path:
I suppose I imagined that a path this picturesque must lead somewhere—a ruined tower, a grotto, a secret garden with peacocks and overgrown roses. What I found were suburbs. I’m still confused. What, you might ask, was the purpose of crenellating the path to the suburbs? If I were a besieger, I’m not sure Ruthin’s suburbs would be at the top of my priority list.
I also found a museum occupying Ruthin’s oldest house. The timbers have been tree ring dated to 1436, just after Owain Glyndwr (anyone who read The Raven Boys knows who this is) sacked the town.
