Morning gathers at the coach bays off Store Street, where Manchester hums and the minibus door slides open like a promise. Within minutes the city thins, mills give way to hedgerows, and the road leans west toward the A55—where the Irish Sea keeps pace on your right and the hills of North Wales rise on your left as if they’ve been waiting for you. The coach rounds the coast; Great Orme pushes into the water, a limestone headland that stares down the tide. Conwy Castle appears abruptly, its ring of towers crowding the river—medieval muscle still visible in the stone. The mountains of Eryri (Snowdonia) begin to shoulder the sky, rolling the windows with their weather: one moment sun streaks a valley, the next a fast shower darkens slate and makes the green glow. Nature here has opinions; the wind ushers clouds along, the rivers urge you upstream, the sea tugs at your attention.