Return to Little Pudding

Having been freed from the pantry by the Girl in Grey in a life-or-death struggle (my wife said if we didn't stop struggling she'd kill me), we said good-bye to my daughter and her husband and set off on the road to Norfolk. Our return to Little Pudding was greeted by the hanging of felons and the burning of a captured tax inspector. The manorial court went back into session to try a vacum cleaner salesman who had been arested for witchcraft. I've told the company that their men will keep being burned if they keep sending them. The gallows on the crossroads has been re-varnished, so I'd advise them not to try to serve any writs.

Trapped!

For those of you wondering why I'm not blodding right now, I have been trapped in the pantry at Plas Llangarmon since Sunday lunchtime. Someone locked me in, then lost the key. At the moment, I am living off the contents of said pantry. The experts predict I can last until Christmas. Bob Rule says that he'll use an axe on the door until then.

However, my wife has apparently gone to London to do some murdering while I'm locked up. So if a sweet little blonde should meet you and ask you back to her flat, don't go. You might well have something very nasty happen to you.

Welsh Castles: Dinefwr

This is Castell Dinefwr (or Dynevor Castle) near Llandeilo, Carmarthenshire's nicest town. Being more exclusive than Carmarthen and rather less down-at-heel than Llandovery, it has a feel all its own. Carmarthenshire is still slightly off the beaten track, and thus it is like much of England a couple of decades ago. Last time I was at Dynevor was just before Lord Dynevor was forced to sell the estate to cover massive death duties. Of course, when General Sir Owen Rule, Bob's father died, inheritance tax was waived after three men from Inland Revenue went missing.

The castle has been done up by CADW Welsh Historic Monuments, stones set in great pools of concrete. Sadly this has now set, so we had to hide the chap Scarlett killed in the river Towy, which flows at the bottom of the castle.

Plas Llangarmon 2

This is a part of the Plas Llangarmon Estate in the Towy Valley, Carmarthenshire. Bob Rule, my son-in-law, runs the estate much as his fathers did, although with greater success than his father, who spent most of the money. My darling daughter had to bail the family out, not that she minded. After all, she is still very much in love with Mr. Rule after all these years.

Sadly, the trees hide a small brook from view. They also hide the remains of the man who went into the local pub and demanded that the locals speak English.

Scarlett, of course, learned Welsh a long time ago. She has a natural gift for language, and can speak five, including jaguar. The large and fierce jaguar in the grounds of the house in Norfolk is her adopted sister.

The Towy Valley: Landmarks.

Just outside Carmarthen is what used to be the Middleton Hall Estate. Sadly the house was deserted and burned down years ago. It was built by a chap called Paxton who came to Carmarthenshire after making an acre or so of boodle in India. Having becoming very, very rich, he decided that he was the right man to become the MP.

He bought an awful lot of alcohol, which he fed to the voters. Some of these people died due to partaking over-much of the falling down water.

His main campaign pledge was that he would build a bridge over the river Towy if he was elected. To prove that he could, he bought the stone and hired the masons.

However, despite having spent liberally, Mr. Paxton lost.

So, Paxton went to his masons and gave them new orders. The stone was hauled up to a ridge overlooking the Towy, and clearly visible from Carmarthen. There it was built into a tall tower which has no use at all. I like Mr. Paxton's reaction to the electorate.

More from Llangarmon

As I write, the dawn is breaking over the Towy valley. The birds are singing, the sky is still blue, except in Carmarthen, where it rains almost all year long, and the dew is wet upon the ground. Mostly because dew is wet. I can see the gilded weathercock on the church tower, as well as the iron pinnacles on the chapels which surround it, like a hostile army investing a city.

My son-in-law, Bob Rule, is whistling, as he makes coffee and waits for his wife to return with a couple of rabbits. Lady Arcos is not yet awake, and will not be until almost noon. The dear child does not like mornings, and as she no longer has to get up before about eleven, she doesn't.

But now I have to go. I've noticed my daughter stalking the milkman.

A Few Useful Words

Our delay in reaching Carmarthen was more than compensated for when we broke several records driving to Carmarthen (my daughter wanted them dropped off, but we took a hump-backed bridge too fast). We arrived at Plas Llangarmon in the Towy Valley (pictured), home of Mr and Mrs. Bob Rule. Since my daughter doesn't like publicity, we have reproduced her drawing of the place. The house is named after the church of St. Germanus of Auxerre, which stands on the edge of the park.

The house is small for a mansion, although larger than it was. When my daughter first went there after she and Mr. Rule became engaged, her elder sister, who went along with her as chaperone had to share her room. Of course, it was sort of hard to get on at first, given the local suspicion of her. But now she's most definitely local. Not that squire's wife is her natural habitat, since the dear child was adopted.

She was brought up by wild animals in the jungles of South America, and is still known to bite people now and again.

This is the famous Castell Coch ('Red Castle') at Towngynlais, near Cardiff. Some nobleman had this rebuilt in the nineteenth century as what he thought a Welsh Catle looked like.

On our way to visit one of my daughters in Carmarthenshire, the wife and I paused at this splendid building. A traffic warden tried to give out Rolls a ticket. I politely informed him that he ought to look at his system, as we are exempt from such things. He replied that no-one was above the law.

My wife loudly disagreed with him, and bunged him down the castle well, aided by the other visitors to the castle.

Little Pudding is mercifully free of traffic wardens. The last one was gibbeted from the church tower until the birds pecked out his eyes and he went mad.