Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau

...or indeed not. I'm not actually Welsh at all,* but I think Wales is wonderful. Curiously, I often receive sceptical looks when I say that, which (with a similar regularity) merely demonstrates whether or not my interlocutor has ever visited the lovely little country in question.

Welsh people are the cheeriest, most down-to-earth, funniest people I have yet come across in my travels. They have a rich literary heritage, breathtaking mountainous landscapes, stunning historic sites, and their own beautiful language. And dragons.

As I sound not entirely dissimilar to a tourist brochure, here's a quick run-through of Wales' cons: it rains a lot, many people have difficulty pronouncing the place-names (Sean quickly replaced 'Llandudno' with 'chl-you know', and when navigating managed to read 'Llanelli' as 'lllllllll'), apparently they hate the English, it is by no means free of the strange 'yoof' culture that's invaded the UK since I last lived here, and did I mention the rain? I've wanted to drag the other half there for quite some time now, and he finally gave in.

Helpfully enough, what with his having grown up in Israel, cold and rain are apparently desired things on a holiday, so off we went. We flew to London (skilfully bankrupting ourselves in the process), stopped off in Bucks for a day to say hello to friends and family, grabbed my little Peugeot and drove off. We stayed at Ye Olde Ferrie Inne in Symond's Yat for a night on the way down (which despite the superfluous 'e'-filled name was surprisingly comfortable), then the second day drove through the Brecon Beacons to Dolgellau and thence to Eglwysbach, a tiny village where we had rented a cottage.

The cottage itself - Derwenfa, oak-something? - was tiny yet adorable, just right for two people. It even had a hearth, which has always been a little dream for us both. From Eglwysbach we were fairly central for North Wales; visiting the small Victorian town of Llandudno (and even dipping our toes in its night-life, for want of a better word), tramping round innumerable castles, fantasising about buying a house in any one of the little villages, driving through beautiful mountain passes not mentioned on any of our maps (those of you who know me well are aware of my love of getting lost), sheep-spotting, and of course forcing Sean to climb Snowdon.

I've always wanted to climb yr Wyddfa, and this was a great opportunity. I was cursed the entire ascent in a language no-one else understood (except perhaps the Hasidic family we passed in shock at the halfway point where I made a fool of myself pointing and saying 'תסתכל, אמרתי לך שיהיו יהודים בויילס!' loudly), but he shut up at the summit. There's a reason they once put a plaque there upon which it was written: 'Grwydryn, aros ennyd; ystyra ryfeddol waith Duw a'th daith fer ar y ddaear hon' (Wanderer, hold ye a moment; consider God's wondrous work and your short journey on this earth). It truly is awesome, in the original sense of the word.

Sean had never before visited any part of the UK outside of London and its immediate vicinity, but this trip seems to have soothed any worries he may have had about our upping sticks and moving Albion-wards. He was full of wonder for the politeness of strangers, especially the very pleasant rural custom of greeting anyone you happen to meet (which I had clean forgotten about; in Israel you're having a particularly good day if you get a reply to your cheery 'Shalom!' as you enter an establishment, let alone in the street). I feel that I can worry less now about his potential struggle to adapt to life in the UK, and concentrate on worrying about more temporally urgent issues such as my thesis, the work visa, and getting a job. Which is a good thing.

*One Cornish and one Scottish grandmother are the closest I can get, to my profound chagrin.