Miranda and Cosimo among the Dragons

And I arose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days
- Dylan Thomas, "Poem in October"

I left Bristol for Wales with my italian pal Cosimo, in my open-top MG. It wasn't raining. This is frankly very unlikely, Wales is usually very wet in October, instead there was sunshine. I was driving towards Laugharne, the village of Dylan Thomas, the welsh poet, and also of R S Thomas, an unrelated welsh poet. It seems that the rules for residence there are strict. We disagreed on the pronounciation of Laugharne. "Lohhan," I said, with an arabic hh in my throat. "Lugarrrnay," said Cosimo, all'italiano.
I described the dragons of Wales to Cosimo. They're not like the evil green dragons of Germany and the North of England, symbols of avarice, no, they're small, good, red in colour, lucky. Look, Cosimo, there's one painted there on the sign that says Welcome to Wales.
We met red dragons continually in our trip, on pub signs, at the end of official documents, on sale in ceramic minature and as keyrings, on jars of local honey. Wales is infested with them.

The road passed some Norman castles. These fortresses, which today send out not arrows but a spirit of tranquility, reminded me of my childhood holidays in a Northumbrian castle. "This architecture is special for me," I told Cosimo. "For me too", he said. "It reminds me of Puglia." We lingered on the battlements to feel the centuries pass. Finally I said "We have to go, Cosimo, otherwise we won't reach Lohhan before nightfall." "Lugarrrnay," Cosimo corrected me.

Indeed, we arrived there at sunset. It's a village on the sea front, with an illuminated Norman ruin, one street, four pubs, one B+B, and a garage where Dylan Thomas wrote some of the most beautiful poems of the twentieth century. We saw everything in an hour. "It's sweet, Lohhan," I said. "Lugarrrnay," clarified Cosimo.

We un-luggaged ourselves at the B+B. Mr. and Mrs. B+B gave me lots of kind advice on how to cure the MG, which at this point was breathing smoke like a dragon. Apart from the dragon, I said to Cosimo, the symbol of Wales is a leek. What's a leek? It's a green vegetable, Cosimo. Lattuga? No, that's a lettice; a leek is long. Cetriolo? No, that's a cucumber; a leek is crunchy. Sedano? No, that's celery; a leek has a white bulb. Scalogno? No, that's a spring onion, I don't know how to describe it, let's find a leek in the Lohhan pubs for supper and you'll see. Lugarrrnay!

We found a leek in one of the pubs, cooked in a

LAMB AND LEEK PIE (for 6)
Fry 1 1/4kg of trimmed, cubed shoulder of lamb in butter, with
salt and pepper, until browned. Add 1 large chopped onion, 3
cloves garlic. Stir in 2 tbsp flour, then add 600ml stock and
2 bouquets garnis and bring to the boil. Remove from the heat,
pour into pastry cases with 120g new peas and 600g shredded
leeks. Bake the pies in a mark 6 oven. Serve with beer in a
room with red dragons on the walls.

After supper we went to the main pub of Lohhan. Or Lugarrrnay. Portraits of dragons, poets, and Rugby players on the wall. Rugby is the second national sport of Wales, I explained to Cosimo, after singing. Indeed nearly everyone in the pub was singing, some in harmony, some with experimental personal tonality. That thin chap over there, in the red jumper with the dragon on the front, who looks like a rhubarb, I whispered, he's definitely a Rugby player, you can tell by his broken nose.
We bought two beers from the barman who was fat and white as an onion. At the next table a suave cucumber chatted between songs with a lettuce; a potato told jokes; a shallot tried to catch the attention of a pea; a happy celery sat with his arm around the shoulders of another celery. Strange, said Cosimo, they're all drunk, but they're all good, nice people, you don't see that in Italy.

Suddenly a leek appeared at the door. Psst, Cosimo, him over there, he's a leek. Ah, a leek is a porro, said Cosimo.
It was clearly the second or third pub for the leek that evening; he zigzagged unstably between the tables to the bar, ordered a beer, sang a bit, wandered up to me, and recited me a poem. I swear. He declaimed it with great passion and little coherence, gave me a generous smile, finished his beer and left.
"Who was that?" I asked a garlic. "That's our Mr. Thomas." The rules for residency really are strict. "Isn't it strange," continued the garlic, "there's been no rain all day." He began to sing.

The next morning we had breakfast at the B+B. I ate a good welsh breakfast, bread and jam, bacon, sausage, fried egg, fried tomato, fried bread, more bacon, more sausage, and coffee, all excellent. Cosimo ate a croissant. Three little ornamental red dragons were playing on the dining-room windowsill. "Italy is a beautiful country" said Mrs B+B, "we spent a day there, at La Spezia". Cosimo and I looked at eachother: La Spezia is the Grimsby of Italy. We assured her that there are italian cities even more beautiful than La Spezia. And that it was worth going back to Italy, it's hard to appreciate a country in a short stay, as we're trying to do here in Lohhan, or perhaps it's pronounced Lugarrrnay? "Larn", she said, "it's pronounced Larn. Have a good journey, it's a lovely day for a drive in your MG. Two days and no rain! Amazing."

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