Will make you nostalgic for things you didn’t even know you missed. Wales is one. Listening to the great star with a booming voice praise his native country makes one dream of a land with peaky hills and calm waters, a pub in every stark unadorned village corner and tenors imbibing ale at all times of day, a country with names so unpronounceable to the lay person that Pontrhydyfen is just one more.
So irresistible is the appeal that with a couple of friends we decide to rent a pile in March –“March! The place is bound to be freezing” I despair; a diehard travel companion assures me the central heating should be fine- and spend a fortnight exploring the countryside. A couple of old London Welsh hands offer unsolicited advice, “stay away from the local food”, “Wales is the end of the road” and I start to fear that maybe March, before even spring has officially began, is not the best idea. Four days before we leave my husband and I host a fun cocktail at home which turns into a mini super spreader since one third of the guests, yours truly included, come down with a raspy cough and other nasty symptoms. We think nothing of it and valiantly soldier on. We leave early on the set date because the place is 5+ hours away: one more hour and you land at JFK.
We are driven in a super car by friends with great driving abilities. I repay their kindness by coughing non-stop at the back of their necks; they must truly regret their generous offer since they are serious jet setters the kind that will go two days to Wales on their way to Aspen for a week of skiing, just for the heck of it –I can see their minds working “Shoot. There goes our trip”.
By the time we arrive I have completely lost my voice, I am probably running a fever and the house is of course freezing.The group is already there in excellent spirits fuelled by some first class bubbly and suggest a barbie (“What?! Bar B Q in the GARDEN?!”) I look fondly at the lukewarm kitchen where a wholly unserviceable Aga makes almost no difference but still sure beats eating outside. No way, garden it is.I surrender and by the end of lunch I have developed the beginning of serious frostbite in my feet.I take the dog for a walk trying the get the blood running again and then take to my bed where I spend the next 9 days.
Mainly in a fog, with high fever, aches and pains, horrible nausea and the most severe case of dry cough ever. In spite of four Covid shots and four negative Covid tests the houseguests keep sending me texts asking me to test again and again, every day, probably cursing the idea of being under the same roof with the unmentionable.
I vaguely remember NHS coming twice bringing cheer and no cure because of course there isn’t any and deciding I am not sick enough to go to hospital, bless their Celtic hearts.
My husband’s birthday, one of the highlights of the trip, comes and goes.
The day is saved by his son and his culinary-gifted granddaughter –French of course- who along with boyfriend take care of everything and drive for miles in order to find edible fish and prepare a three-course-meal with cake and candles. At the appointed hour I hobbled down the stairs looking like a confused hunchbacked Hobbit and sit in a thick fog through a dinner of which I remember nothing and nobody except there are pictures (me looking gadawful!!) to prove I was there.
All things eventually end and two days before the fortnight is up I muster enough strength to face the journey back to London which includes 4 train changes and one bus, but no matter, I am going home to my warm, toasty home in Chelsea.
Lulu our Russell terrier, a dead ringer for Dilyn the PM’s pooch, is the only one who seems to have thoroughly enjoyed everything about this misbegotten junket –not least sleeping on our bed, where one feverish night he puked all over me, the duvet cover and part of the carpet, that is gratitude for you! He makes the most of the return trip by staring out the window with undiluted concentration.
I never did see Wales, never got to visit a Richard Burton’s pub, or even left the house, guess I will have to go back.
I did get a bird’s view of Aberaeron and learned how to pronounce Aberystwyth with native aplomb, lisp included, and no small feat if you come from Peru.
A month later to the day I finally feel like myself for the first time.
I can cook again; a sure sign that I’m over whatev´.
To the right: "Wales Survivor"
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