It's not true to say that I've never been to Wales in the dry. I remember a day on the Gower Penninsula that was distinctly, well, not wet. And I've been up Snowdon on a hot day.
Nonetheless recent Welsh trips have been distinctly aquatic. On Weds (our plans torn up due to unforeseen) we headed out, aimlessly in the direction of Hay. But Hay is no fun in the wet, and with Fergus and Jonathan both asleep (or at leats approximately asleep) in the car, we headed on to Brecon, more or less by default.
Lunch was pefectly acceptable (the all-day breakfast did the trick) and then we hit on the mother-lode. A play-barn. Goodness knows what our parents did, in the days before play-barns. I guess they drugged us. Or forced us to walk along the seafront in the rain as some form of character building exercise. My parents never took us to Wales as children, probably because there's bugger all to do if it rains.
Fell down the stairs in our holiday cottage in Herefordshire. As I went down (a single flight made up of three sections of sequential right angles) it was the noise, more than anything else, that was the most frightening. It sounded rather like the sound of someone throwing a heavy object down a flight of wooden stairs.
There's no way of telling a colleague who you only know vaguely that they featured in a dream you had last night, without coming across as really weird. So, despite the temptation to say to X when X sat down to me at lunchtime "You were in my dream last night. But not in a weird way or anything like that. I mean, no sex or nudity." I kept my mouth shut.