This was what the chart of our Welsh travels looked like now. Wait till you see the Channel Islands map.
Stop R takes us in to Rhandirmwyn, which I’ve already spelt wrong twice. The Google Maps 3D view is full on unpronounceable joy, but the only place you might recognise is Llanwrtyd Wells, a contender for the crown of “the smallest town in the UK“.
The Towy* Bridge is what we call a “destination pub”, the sort bikers and stockbrokers and gentlefolk drive out to to stare at the river (no idea what it’s called, sorry) and admire the stained glass.
Because it’s an isolated destination pub it’s only open Friday to Sunday, so our visit is well-timed, though you may find it easiest to park in Llandovery 5 miles away and walk.
My apologies to the charming man I’ve accidentally captured in the background of my photo. You know my views on taking photos with people in them.
There’s a couple of dozen folk on tables along the river, and no-one indoors.
Which makes sense. This reminds me of that Bounty Thameside pub near Cookham. Unfussy, simple, bucolic.
Mrs RM had the Bara Brith, I had the Jemima’s Pitchfork, a more convincingly cool, rich 3.5 than down the road.
The little bridge over the unidentified river gave dire warnings about crossing the river if you’re too heavy, so we both breathed in as we rumbled over and headed up towards Welshpool. Ten minutes late, completely lost, we found ourselves back in Llandovery. And it wasn’t Mrs RM’s fault.
*The Only Way is Ystradgynlais ?