upon, I finally ordered a Constance Spry – ‘pink old rose form … luminous delicacy … myrrh scented’ – with my birthday garden tokens.
OK, I know that they’re prone to mildew and I haven’t got an inch of space left in my bit of the garden, but they are so very pretty that I’m sure Mal won’t mind if I put it near the patio somewhere. The scent would be heavenly when we are sitting out, and I could train it over the trellis round the door.
I won’t tell him, I’ll just dig a little tiny bed for it while he’s away and heel it in to see if he notices.
As I sealed the envelope with the order it occurred to me that I might be one of the last people in the country using cheques. Apart from one Switch card I don’t possess a single bit of plastic, although Mal more than makes up for it: when he opens
his
wallet it unfolds like a stiffly backed patchwork quilt.
Teapots is right next to the Holy Well and smack opposite the one smallish village car park. Inside it’s painted a brave, welcoming yellow, lined with shelves displaying Carrie’s collection of hundreds of teapots, and with red-checked tablecloths and fresh flowers on each table.
There are no menus: she bakes breads and pastries each morning as the fancy takes her, but doesn’t do hot food, because she isn’t interested in poaching eggs and deep-frying chips. I admire that – she only cooks what she enjoys, the way I only do gardening involving roses. Her Welshcakes are superb.
The room was already half full, even though it was too early in the season for the coach parties who come to visit the Holy Well and Rhodri’s house, Plas Gwyn. The café’s popular all the year round, not just for tourists but with the locals too.
Did I say that Carrie is originally American? I tend to forget, and you can hardly tell from her accent, which I suppose must have worn off over thirty years here in St Ceridwen’s. She arrived as a hippie with a rucksack, guitar and a notebook full of recipes and never left, except for closing up for a month every November and going back to visit friends and relatives in the States.
She’s very popular in the village, maybe because it’s seen as a sort of compliment that she has elected to live here, bringing in tourists and money. Even her attempts to speak Welsh are treated with benign tolerance, though her grasp of the language is excruciatingly formal and grammatically old-fashioned, like someone talking the most impeccable Elizabethan English. ‘Prithee, wouldst thou like thy Olde Welshe Cream tea with jam or, mayhap, honey from mine own hive?’ That sort of thing.
But we all love Carrie, she’s so unsquashably bouncy and cheerful. (And she knows everything about everyone, having been conducting a part-time affair with the village postman, Huw, for about a quarter of a century.)
She was presiding behind the counter when I arrived, and smiled and pointed to where Rhodri and Nia were sitting at a corner table, arguing.
Nothing new there – they’ve always argued, but it’s mostly Nia’s fault; she’s so prickly, and has this big chip on her shoulder about being a quarryman’s daughter, while he is the lord of the manor – as if Rhodri ever cared about stuff like that.
Although we’ve always kept in touch, I hadn’t seen Rhodri to talk to properly for absolutely ages, but as soon as I saw his pinkish face under the unruly thatch of burned-straw hair light up at the sight of me, it was as though we’d never been apart. It’s the same with Nia: whenever we meet we just pick up where we left off, and that’s the sign of true friendship, I think.
He sprang to his feet – he has such beautiful manners, and this lovely posh but friendly voice. ‘Fran!’ he said, giving me a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. ‘You look wonderful!’
It was more than I could say about him; he was looking not only older but sadder, like the poor lion in
The Wizard of Oz
. He has a wide blunt nose and straight, thick
OK, I know that they’re prone to mildew and I haven’t got an inch of space left in my bit of the garden, but they are so very pretty that I’m sure Mal won’t mind if I put it near the patio somewhere. The scent would be heavenly when we are sitting out, and I could train it over the trellis round the door.
I won’t tell him, I’ll just dig a little tiny bed for it while he’s away and heel it in to see if he notices.
As I sealed the envelope with the order it occurred to me that I might be one of the last people in the country using cheques. Apart from one Switch card I don’t possess a single bit of plastic, although Mal more than makes up for it: when he opens
his
wallet it unfolds like a stiffly backed patchwork quilt.
Teapots is right next to the Holy Well and smack opposite the one smallish village car park. Inside it’s painted a brave, welcoming yellow, lined with shelves displaying Carrie’s collection of hundreds of teapots, and with red-checked tablecloths and fresh flowers on each table.
There are no menus: she bakes breads and pastries each morning as the fancy takes her, but doesn’t do hot food, because she isn’t interested in poaching eggs and deep-frying chips. I admire that – she only cooks what she enjoys, the way I only do gardening involving roses. Her Welshcakes are superb.
The room was already half full, even though it was too early in the season for the coach parties who come to visit the Holy Well and Rhodri’s house, Plas Gwyn. The café’s popular all the year round, not just for tourists but with the locals too.
Did I say that Carrie is originally American? I tend to forget, and you can hardly tell from her accent, which I suppose must have worn off over thirty years here in St Ceridwen’s. She arrived as a hippie with a rucksack, guitar and a notebook full of recipes and never left, except for closing up for a month every November and going back to visit friends and relatives in the States.
She’s very popular in the village, maybe because it’s seen as a sort of compliment that she has elected to live here, bringing in tourists and money. Even her attempts to speak Welsh are treated with benign tolerance, though her grasp of the language is excruciatingly formal and grammatically old-fashioned, like someone talking the most impeccable Elizabethan English. ‘Prithee, wouldst thou like thy Olde Welshe Cream tea with jam or, mayhap, honey from mine own hive?’ That sort of thing.
But we all love Carrie, she’s so unsquashably bouncy and cheerful. (And she knows everything about everyone, having been conducting a part-time affair with the village postman, Huw, for about a quarter of a century.)
She was presiding behind the counter when I arrived, and smiled and pointed to where Rhodri and Nia were sitting at a corner table, arguing.
Nothing new there – they’ve always argued, but it’s mostly Nia’s fault; she’s so prickly, and has this big chip on her shoulder about being a quarryman’s daughter, while he is the lord of the manor – as if Rhodri ever cared about stuff like that.
Although we’ve always kept in touch, I hadn’t seen Rhodri to talk to properly for absolutely ages, but as soon as I saw his pinkish face under the unruly thatch of burned-straw hair light up at the sight of me, it was as though we’d never been apart. It’s the same with Nia: whenever we meet we just pick up where we left off, and that’s the sign of true friendship, I think.
He sprang to his feet – he has such beautiful manners, and this lovely posh but friendly voice. ‘Fran!’ he said, giving me a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. ‘You look wonderful!’
It was more than I could say about him; he was looking not only older but sadder, like the poor lion in
The Wizard of Oz
. He has a wide blunt nose and straight, thick
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