On crossing the Severn

At last, I see why the Welsh are a proud race. As we crossed over the river on the Severn bridge, I felt my spirit soaring up to join the free-wheeling seagulls. The bridge is geometric steel confectionery, and delicious to behold. It made me quite goosepimply. Then the man at the toll booth was friendly and the vegetation got ever more lush and verdant. We stopped for lunch in a pub built like a ship overlooking Cardiff Bay and watched the rain prick the choppy water. Even Welsh rain is tolerable, particularly after Birmingham, which not even the sunshine could paint pretty! Then we ventured up north, along rolling green lanes made into tunnels by ancient hedgerows and broken by gates that boasted views of happy cows. I was hugely entertained by the road signs, which proclaimed destinations I couldn't pronounce without spitting on anyone in a two mile radius. Every village we passed looked like it had recently been buffed and polished. And everyone was calm and sunny, despite the sky regularly emptying its contents on their heads. Whatever their secret is, I plan to go back and find out...