WELSH GRIT
We arrive in the pretty mid-Wales market town of Rhayader at the start of its July carnival.
The outdoor seats of the Elan Hotel are busy with officials stamping the cards of people who have completed the carnival’s Treasure Hunt so we share a table with a gentleman supping a pint who introduces himself as Pete the Gas. He’s the town’s gas appliance fitter who is waiting for a lift home from Bob the Butcher.
“He’s a bit late because he’s been busy dealing with Trev the Barbecue,” he explains. It turns out Trev the Barbecue is also Pete’s “apprentice”, despite being 78-years old. “He’s a fit fella but he does like his sausages,” explains Pete.
Then Pete greets a couple of community police offers who are making their rounds, one of whom cheerfully reveals a couple of treasure hunters have “gone missing”. They are on their way down to the bottom of Bridge Street where local youngsters have been enjoying the early evening sunshine by jumping off the eponymous bridge into the River Wye a terrifying 15 metres below.
“I view gravel as a welcome excuse to ditch the Lycra”
All of which is a
