Escape from Carmarthen

Carmarthen's early 20th century shire hall looms above the town, looking far more like Hitler's lair than a set of administrative offices. Luckily, there were some far prettier buildings -- mainly 19th century chapels -- scattered throughout the town and the countryside around it was stunning.



We were destined for Llandarog to help celebrate PJ's aunt/uncle's 40th wedding anniversary. We knew that there would be a number of young children there, so decided to stop at the White Hart for a swift sharpener* before entering the fray. What a gorgeous little pub, just opposite an equally picturesque church where a wedding was taking place. It's hardly surprising that Llandarog won a string of "Best-Kept Village" awards in the 1960s and 1970s, although it's recent lack of success must be a little disheartening.





Having fortified ourselves with a pint of barley-based stout (PJ) and a double vodka lime and soda (me), we headed off to Cousin Mark's for cake and conversation. Knowing that the latter would largely revolve around people that I'd never met (and that PJ didn't remember) and who were usually dead, we were planning an early escape. However, large amounts of cake and booze*, a bouncy castle, and the wine-fuelled* bonding of PJ and Cousin Mark over the challenges of parents who only talk about dead people (at length) meant we stayed until late into the evening. Good times in the wilds of Wales: Who would have thought it?

* I don't want to imply that we are dependent in any way on alcohol or have what the Americans might call "a problem" with it, but somehow our consumption always rises dramatically when we're in the UK -- and it does help smoothe most social interactions. This doesn't bode well for our livers on our return to our homeland.