In the Interest of Folly and Absurdity: Portmeirion

Why is it that the English are so good at building things so wholly devoid of use other than pleasure? When we try we end up with something like Las Vegas or Atlantic City; I'd rather spent my time on the saccharine shores of Portmeirion, in Wales:



A bright toy begun in 1925 by Sir Clough Williams-Ellis, Portmeirion developed over the course of over 50 years, growing in size and complexity as bits of buildings destroyed elsewhere were added to the mix. Cottages take on the trappings of a Mannerist grotto:



Pools fill with weeds, and are incongruously surrounded by palms, while brightly colored building are seemingly roofed entirely by lichen:



Care to shop? I'd buy anything from these stores, but would most like to take home their signage; I love those crimped horns, not to mention the iron tassle:



I'll stay in this little white cottage ...



and you can stay here, if you like:



When it rains, or is too bright, we can take shelter under an awning:



But I fear I'd have trouble not trying to make off with one, or ideally two, of these. Very Tony Duquette, no?



Can it possibly look this verdant always?



When I've had enough of the town, you could likely find me here: