After what seemed like an eternity - or a whole Celine Dion concert for those requiring a little perspective - we arrived at the picturesque hamlet of Brecon. Actually, thinking about the definition of hamlet perhaps ham is closer to the mark. Yes ham, it was definitely bigger than a hamlet.
Anyway, it was pushing on in the day and although the sun was still out, there was a customary chill to the air. A chill that came with the Beacon territory. We decided there and then that we shouldn't put off finding accommodation for too long, based primarily on my appalling track record in this area.
I have this truly unique ability of rocking up to little piss ant, three tourist a year towns during the middle of their biggest festivals. Wankworth, population 56 every day of the year until the day that fat Aussie bloke turns up then add a few zeros, type thing. I've been forced out of towns due to daffodil festivals, coin collector conventions, even monster cake and bake sales have played their part. So we set off with mucho gusto in search of quaint lodgings and cool ales.
Brecon really is a handsome little place, albeit far from pulsating. I'm hip to that. A lot of aging gray stone buildings, neat little lanes, charming market squares and an indescribable feeling of space. The sort of place that makes you feel like climbing over a fence and running around a paddock, then maybe patting a cow if the urge grabs you. Spending even a short amount of time in London can drive you to impulsive acts when you're freed from its claustrophobic confines. I resisted the urge to bond with heifers..on this occasion.
We where in luck. Although the town hosts a well renowned Jazz Festival in August, it wasn't this particular weekend in August - it was in fact, next weekend. Thankfully the town folk didn't know I was coming - I didn't even know I was coming - or they'd have probably brought it forward a week just to crush my spirit and weaken my will to live.
Our search for perfect lodgings led us to a number of different establishments. All had their merits. We decided on an elderly little pub on a corner, a short stroll from the crumbling remains of the Brecon Cathedral. The publican lacked any gross facial disfigurement but he was seven foot three with hands like reams of A4. He had to stoop down as he showed us to our room - a five bed to a room incestuous affair with velvet curtains and bedspreads straight from the pages of some seventies crochet craft catalogue.
With my hangover a distant, dark memory I was ready to bask in small town hospitality, share tales of fence mending and sheep dipping and generally get shed-faced on the local poison.
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