With, but not of, the shooters

 When the bus reaches Llanarmon Dyffryn Ceiriog (destination indicator justifiably shortened to Llanarmon DC) it turns round and goes back. In fact it has no option whereas we did. Guided by satnav we came in by ten miles of cart-track high up on the ridge, barely a cars-width, dodging suicidal pheasants.

But then we were there because LDC is remote, even by rural Hereford standards. Did I mention LDC is in Wales? - Pays de Galles sauvage. It is.

The village is tiny yet has two outstanding pubs: we dined and bedded at The West Arms but it's traditional to have a pint or two across the "square" at The Hand Inn. Gradually the bar filled up with men there to shoot the pheasants we'd so carefully avoided. Some in knee breeches, some wearing shoes that may have been made by Lobb of St James. I asked one how many birds he reckoned he'd killed and he was strangely evasive. The landlord of The West Arms explained: "He probably thought you were Animal Rights activists, there to set fire to his Range Rover." I was thrilled to be thought a subversive.

The shooters began cracking very poor jokes which were marked by braying laughter. A disturbing sound and we left them to it. Another group had booked dinner at The West Arms but we ate separately, their maleness inaudible behind sixteenth-century walls. I ate Welsh crab and lamb-shanks, VR had brill. Wales does have some vineyards but there are limits to my ecumenicism. The bottle of CdP had solid worth.

WIP Second Hand (No progress; just blogging)
“The magazine was an anachronism. It dealt with general engineering whereas titles now tend to be more specialised. Its glory days were pre-war, plus a little bump of enthusiasm up to the early sixties. When I took over it had been in decline for more than two decades. Living on the echoes of its past.”

Celts vs. Saxons whitewash

Just back from north-west Wales where we celebrated Mrs LdP’s n’ty n’th at “a restaurant with rooms” which served us roast suckling pig, Pelorus rosé (Pelorus is the branch of Cloudy Bay that makes the fizz) and a 2005 Meerlust merlot. But where’s the music in all that?

True there was a distorted, very quiet muzak-y buzz, so bass-slanted that the vocals were an undecodable whisper, one step up from white noise. Luckily, 50 metres away were the ruins of Harlech Castle and we had our tune.

A very good tune. For hundreds of years England treated Wales like dirt; latterly Wales has hit back by beating us at rugby and via songs like:

Shall the Saxon army shake you,
Smite, pursue you, overtake you?
Men of Harlech God shall make you,
Victors, blow for blow.

Yes, there are other versions. But this is ours. Over the glorious mountain road between Dolgellau and Welshpool, we sang it aloud. Mrs LdP’s favourite two verses are:

Now avenging Briton,
Smite as he has smitten
Let your rage on history's page
In Saxon blood be written.

His lance is long, but yours is longer.
Strong his sword, but yours is stronger.
One stroke more, and now your wronger
At your feet, lies low.

I get the feeling if Avus reads this post he’ll accuse me of treachery. So be it. My patriotism – a wobbly quality at best – always takes second place to a good song with good words. Starts well too:

Fierce the beacon's light is flaming
With its tongues of fire proclaiming…

I mean, what have we got? The British Grenadiers? “With a tow, row, row, row, row, row…” Feeble!