Shattering the peace of the valley

The major cities of Europe are full of people who have fled the small towns and provincial conurbations, drawn either by the bright lights or driven by the claustrophobia of a non-metropolitan upbringing.

They throw themselves with gusto into the diversity and open-mindedness of their new lives, and memories of childhood are pushed to the margins, surfacing late at night, when the façade cracks.

But for one group of exiles, all that is about to change. If you’ve been trying to forget you come from the valleys, then you should avoid any city whose airport is served by bmi. For if it wasn’t bad enough thirsting constantly for a pint of Skull Attack, and having your dreams invaded by rampaging Clarpies, your daylight hours are about to be descended upon by the Wales Tourist Board, which has splashed images of the land of your fathers all over the side of a bmi plane.

So keep away from runways, or before you know it you’ll be slavering for laver bread. And, like Captain Ahab, you shall be haunted by Wales.

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