A Right Old Soak

A walking holiday in Wales proves an uphill struggle

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You join me on the side of a Welsh mountain, and I hope your jacket is a lot more waterproof than mine. If you’re a weather forecaster who happens to be reading this, well, all I can say is that you might have mentioned the words ‘heavy rain’ and ‘absolutely soaking wet’ and ‘absolutely dying for a cup of tea’.

‘Never mind,’ says Mr Dear, cheerily. ‘The sun will be out in a minute and we will soon dry out.’

Before we continue, let me first describe Mr Dear’s outfit. Starting at the top, he is sporting a rather battered and floppy white hat of the sort that amateur cricketers of great age wear when they are fielding. Moving down, he has a shirt of faded khaki that’s just visible through what he refers to as his windcheater, a word not used in common parlance since about 1956. It is green, or thereabouts.

He has long, white old-fashioned shorts that reach the knees of his long, white old-fashioned legs. On his feet, he has brown leather walking boots and green socks. On his back, he carries a vintage-style rucksack that he found a couple of years ago in a National Trust shop. He looks like a scoutmaster from an Enid Blyton book.