The file is slammed down on the desk and he strides out of the office, back to freedom. The accelerator feels good beneath his feet as the car eats up the miles. He is unaware that another car is following...as he packs a suitcase in his flat a feeling of wooziness overwhelms him. His last conscious thought is: gas. He awakes on the floor, pulls aback the curtains and sees...
I have a theory that part of the reason for the popularity of The Prisoner lies in its expression of a wish we've all harboured from time to time: to walk away from a job, telling our employers to get stuffed. Or, then again, maybe not. But, having seen the TV series, a chance to visit the location for its filming, Portmeirion in North Wales, was too good to miss.
If only somebody had done the same for my wife Helen and me as they did for Patrick McGoohan and spirited us straight to Portmeirion. As it was, we struggled up the M40 through hail and driving gales, pausing only to shudder as the lorry in front of us overturned...still, the rest of the journey was pleasant, passing through Shropshire on our way over the border. The Welsh road to the coast is long and winding and extremely pretty.
By this time, we were tired and ready for bed. The next morning, I pulled back the curtains and saw...well, not quite the same view as that credit sequence. But it still sent a shiver down the spine.
The bell tower, just as steep and forbidding as expected; the dome (no longer green, due to a redecoration a few years ago);the Roman remains; the pool in the centre of the Village; all combined to produce a theatrical effect. It was hard not to think of the surroundings as a giant set, awaiting a cue, even in broad daylight. The architect of Portmeirion, Sir Clough Williams-Ellis, once said that he wanted "to show people, with a sort of light-opera approach, that architecture could be fun, could be entertaining, interesting, intriguing."
The Village is all of those things. If the art lies in concealing art, then the Village is a work of art; a architect weaving all the tricks of his trade, concealed by natural beauty. Look at the buildings, breathe in the sea air, walk down to the estuary through the palm trees and you could be by an Italian lake. Yet one of the most startling qualities of Portmeirion is its ability to deceive. False perspectives, fake windows, life-size figurines are everywhere. Two-storey houses turn out to have only one floor. The walk up the hill is steeper than a casual glance might imply. Even the small shops have a vaguely unreal air to them; the assistants might be speaking fluent Welsh or, then again, they might not.
Although one can take a walk through the nearby woods or go down past the hotel to the stone boat near the estuary, everything revolves around the Village. Given enough sunlight, a peek through the Camera Obscura at the southern end of the resort will produce a clear image of the Village, as if viewed through a television camera.
It was a pity when the moment came to wave goodbye to Portmeirion - farewell to fantasy, back to drab reality. At least once in a lifetime you should resign your top-secret job and come to see the Village. Who knows - you might never escape.
First published in VISA 16 (1995)
