Bored by England’s long tradition of male voice choirs (there are only so many renditions of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot that a non-rugby fan can take) I ventured across the Severn Bridge this morning, to investigate the principality’s unrivalled reputation for fine cuisine. I was in luck: there’s a Greggs in Chepstow.
Despite taking plenty of stock pix, and working on my ‘belief’ book, I feel I’m in holiday mood. I’ve been in Wales less than an hour and already I’ve been abused by a local. Let no one suggest that a Welshman has a chip on his shoulder…
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