Well here I am, back from Wales. Only just though: because if those Welsh hill farmers had their way I wouldn't be here at all. First of all one tried to knock me down in Dolgellau - and all because I was stood on the pavement looking in a shop window. Admittedly it was an estate agents: perhaps he thought I was about to buy up the whole town (as if! - although most of it does appear to be up for grabs). And then I went walking. With my friend Ray. Up a hill. On a footpath. Except we had trouble finding exactly where the footpath joined the farm track (and, yes, we were using an Ordnance Survey map). So this is where we stopped and asked for some assistance - our position's marked on the satellite image here:
And have you ever spoken to a Welsh hill farmer? Because the first thing is that they flatly refuse to make eye contact with you. And then if you ask them where the footpath is, this is what you get: "no footpath here - sign at the bottom says that." Bloody miserable sod.
And of course there is a footpath there: through the gate and round the dog-leg above the red circle there. Come at it from another direction and here are the footpath signs (on the gateposts there):
So, byddaf yn anghytuno, fy ffrind. You're not going to stop me coming to Wales. And walking on your footpaths.
I missed the launch of the iPad while I was away, of course. Now maybe those Welsh farmers have put me in a grumpy frame of mind. But that's a pig in a poke by Apple standards, isn't it?
Sounds like you picked a surly one. Are all Welsh hill farmers like this?
Posted by: Jenny WOolf | 01 February 2010 at 08:17 AM
One of my early memories is of an apopleptic Welsh farmer hurling fish at my Dad.
We were camping near the sea, and someone had given us some fish they'd just caught. Dad hung the fish in the stream behind our tent to stay fresh. But the stream was just - JUST - on the wrong side of the division between our campsite and the farmer's field.
It was the first time I'd really heard anyone swear: "You BLOODY English, take your BLOODY fish, think you can do what you BLOODY like," etc.
I clearly remember my Dad (a vicar, since recalled by his Boss) standing stoically and sensibly, trying to reason with this lunatic while flying herring (or whatever they were) smacked him in the face and fell about his feet.
It's been a struggle to like the Welsh ever since.
Posted by: Mike Reed | 01 February 2010 at 12:39 PM
Jenny, I think Mike has probably answered your question for me: but in my experience, yes, they are (and not just the farmers).
Posted by: davidthedesigner | 01 February 2010 at 03:12 PM