Most men would prefer to drive for miles out of the way and waste a litre of petrol rather than ask somebody for directions – wouldn’t they? My Chris is of that ilk. It happened again when we were staying at Nefyn, North Wales, last weekend.

We fancied fish and chips for dinner but our hosts couldn’t recommend any fish and chip shops in the area.

“We’re a bit funny about fish and chips these days,” said our host (also a Chris) in his Yorkshire accent.

After much head scratching, he came up with a place about thirty miles away, which is quite far when you’re in the hills, and neither of us even attempted to assign the place name to memory. In fact, all the driving about we did was simply to find the local fish and chip shop down the hill in the centre of the village.

There was no sign of any fish and chip shop on the main road, or on the beach road, or any of the side roads we took.

“Let’s ask them,” I suggested as we sped past a group of tattooed and chained bikers walking on the pavement.

“What about these girls?” I asked ten minutes later as we passed three tattooed teenagers with prams on the same pavement, but facing the opposite way.

“Why don’t we just go back to the Spar store we keep seeing on the main drag and buy some bread, butter and jam for tea?” Chris said wearily (he must have been sick of driving).

So we went into the Spar store and, whilst Chris ran around picking up the items for our simple tea, I made a bee-line for a sensible-looking lady member of staff and asked for directions to the local fish and chip shop.

Now I like to think that I have a “good ear” but I have to admit that I’m unaccustomed to the North Wales accent. The lady replied, not with a pretty lilt (as expected) but with funny sounds from the back of her mouth suggesting a great deal of spittle – as if she wore ill-fitting dentures:

“Go up to the crushed toads…”

“Pardon?” I interjected.

“Go to the crushed toads…” the lady said a little more slowly but with even more spit.

“Hold on a moment,” I looked around for Chris and called out, “Chris..?”

At last he joined us and she was relieved to be able to get her sentence out:

“Go up to the crushed toads, turn right and it’s on the right.”

“What did she say?” I asked when we were on our own walking back to the car.

“Go to the cross roads…”

“Ah, well you would understand as you’re a quarter Welsh I suppose,” I laughed.

Up at “Gwendoline’s Chippy” a few minutes later we encountered those tattooed bikers, some tattooed older ladies and The Illustrated Man. (I thought there must be a very busy tattooist in Nefyn but Chris thought the customers were tourists from England.)

Chris and I are a bit funny about fish and chips nowadays. We thought our hosts’ chickens might enjoy our fish and chips that tasted like crushed toads but Pamela eyed the package suspiciously and placed it in her bin. Perhaps she, too, had an idea of what crushed toads tasted like. We had toast and jam for tea, which was delicious.

“I wish I’d brought a sexy nightie with me…” I said to my husband. 

“Oh, haven’t you?” Chris asked with mock disappointment (at least I think he was feigning).

Well, we have been married for over twenty years so my night attire wasn’t exactly my first priority (oh dear – what am I saying?). Perhaps it was the novelty of being away together in a foreign country that made me think of it.

Actually, North Wales is not foreign to Chris as he is one quarter Welsh and spent nearly all the summers of his childhood in Nevin (now Nefyn, since the return to Welsh language on all the signs); however, this was only my second visit to the place held so dear in my husband’s memory. And to make it even more exciting for me this time Chris took me first to the fantastic village of Portmeirion, which I had seen on television when I was child, for it was the location of the strange series called “The Prisoner”, the brainchild of Patrick McGoohan who devised the series and played the leading role of “Number 6”; but the most amazing thing about Portmeirion is that you would think you were in Italy. We were walking through the beautiful cliff-side village when the thought about sexy nighties (or the lack of one) hit me.

Much later on, after a wonderful night’s sleep in an “Air B’n’B” on the other side of Llyn Peninsula, I awoke and sat on the side of the bed to have a stretch; I was wearing a white vest with a navy blue stripe running through it and blue and white pyjama shorts. I could hear Chris laughing behind me.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“You look like a Breton fisherman!” he chuckled. “All you need are some onions around your neck!”

I laughed too. Not quite a sexy nightie!

“But I love this Breton fisher-woman,” Chris said, putting his arms around my waist and kissing my shoulder.

Turning around to kiss him back I noticed he was wearing a white t-shirt and blue and white striped pyjama shorts.

“Hey, you’re a Breton fisherman like me,” I observed with a giggle.

Pah to sexy nighties!

Below are some of my photos taken at Portmeirion last weekend .