Helo, Cariad

So. Easter holidays. Why do I feel like I should be DOING SOMETHING GLAMOROUS? Competitive holidaying is something that many people at my place of work seem to go in for. I always find myself succumbing to the pressure during staff room chit-chat and trying to make a week with my parents in North Wales sound like a boutique mini-break in a country house hotel. Never mind that now I'm actually here chez parentals I've spent most of the week in my pyjamas, trying to get over a particularly nasty flu/cold type thing. Never mind that the most glamorous thing I will do all week will be hang out with my little brother and his friends at 'The Farmer's Arms'. No one needs to know that, do they?

Lots of people at work are, this Easter, popping off to various far-flung areas of the globe and will no doubt return looking brown and serene. I will return looking brown, but only because I've just had a spray tan at the local beauticians. I've also got a feeling that I will return chubby rather than serene owing to the change of diet and the fact that my Mum is a very good cook. She still makes dumplings from scratch and they're hard to resist. Also, her welsh cakes are to die for. My excuse is that it's cold up North, and I need the carbs. Or something.

Being back in North Wales after living in the South for so long takes some adjusting to. I've really started to notice the difference in accent. Up here, it's slower, more deliberate and more musical than the posh 'Middle English' manner of speaking that I've becoming so accustomed to (for example, barth, parth, grarss) Growing up in a culture where people switch effortlessly between English and Welsh as a matter of course has really stood me in good stead. Many of my peers who hail from this corner of the world are quick witted, articulate and easily able to play with language - an ability we gained very quickly when it transpired in the second week of secondary school that our French teacher would be teaching us in Welsh. Nowadays, my Welsh is pretty rusty but I am proud to say that I can still catch up with my all-time favourite soap opera 'Pobl y Cwm' (roughly translated meaning People of the Valley) and understand most of what's going on.

Another thing that I've noticed since migrating south is that people up here are generally much friendlier and will start calling you 'cariad' (the Welsh word for darling) 'love' and 'chick' at the slightest provocation. I'm really not used to that any more. They are also, generally, much more willing to engage in conversation and tell you all about their lives. A simple interaction in a shop can easily turn into a long conversation about, well, anything. My friend N was astounded at the friendliness of the general public when she visited last summer, and that was when we were on a day out to Chester, which is, of course, in England and where people are considered to be snootier than those on this side of the border.

However, my favourite part of coming home is the excuse to read the Free Press, the local newspaper. Apart from containing many amusing spelling and punctuation mistakes ('Judge's Daeth') the type of news it contains is always extremely entertaining. From ploughing competitions and sheep dog trials, from piano recitals and petty crime (eg Mr Jones's tractor has been stolen) to my favourite story of all, the story of the 'Crossbow Robber' who, I kid you not, held up the Morrisons' service station in the next town and then, after taking £4,136 from the till (along with vouchers and postage stamps, the paper was quick to note, he'd obviously forgotten to mail his birthday thank you letters) he ran home throwing away the coppers, his balaclava, gloves and the drawers of the cash register, thus leaving a trail right to his front door. A tricky puzzle for the North Wales Police to crack indeed! Actually, they were probably astounded to be faced with real life violent crime ("But Dafydd, I thought that only happened on The Bill!")

I actually have a couple of friends arriving later today who, I'm sure, will be slightly taken aback by the change of pace, difference in language and beauty of the countryside. A few years ago, I had a friend visiting from London, who, on walking through the town exclaimed, “But Siani, it's like a different country!” This was the same friend who was astounded at how dark it was at night (I'm really not joking) My idea of a tour of North Wales involves not climbing Snowdon but taking my guests out on a Saturday night to the local pub where there is karaoke until 1 am, where the smell of sheep dung is not quite hidden by the aroma of Lynx Africa and the drink of choice is a 'Lager Top.' Farmer watching is just as much fun as visiting castles and climbing mountains, in my opinion. Another bonus associated with a night out in North Wales is the price of drinks. Last summer, at 'The Farmer's Arms' I bought a round of three alcoholic drinks and it came to about six pounds fifity. Score!

So, am I jealous that I'm not lying on a beach, under a waving palm tree, cocktail in hand? No. Of course not. Where else in the world can I drink a cup of tea made with Welsh water, watch lambs jumping happily in the field across the river, enjoy the ever present view of the Clwydian range in the distance and be thoroughly entertained by the exploits of the most stupid criminal ever? Only in North Wales. Although I am absolutely bloody freezing.