There is an imaginary bridge to Wales which could be hanging as the Rande at Ria de Vigo. But that's another story. At the end we got to Wales, catching a train to Llalludno Junction where we descend to the mountains of Snowdonia. These peaks are famous for its slate, as with areas such as Courel in Galiza. Anyone who travels feels enter lands Lugo or Gipuzkoa in the Basque Country, with hills filled with white dots that are called sheep, and with remnants of castles, towers probably tribute, with invisible soldiers and horses galloping before dawn, riders on the storm, one thinks. At the end of the bridge is the day to go, and one has the feeling that finally arrives in Ithaca, a place where a language as the Welsh tries to survive off the first language spoken in the world, a place where you will not find any flag UK, only red dragons. It seems that we returned home, but everyone speaks strange always with a smile on his mouth. The evil dragon seems an exaggeration here in Wales.
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