Napoleon said an army marches on its stomach. I perambulated Abergavenny on mine. It started innocently enough. My wife asked me whether I was hungry. I hadn’t especially thought of it until the question was asked, but with the thought came hunger. My stomach reacts to prompts like that like a small dog eager for scraps. If it had a tail it would wag every time we passed a pie shop.
On this occasion, we were walking past the Angel Bakery.
The smell was irresistible and my stomach growled. And then it spoke, using my mouth as its own. “If we buy freshly baked bread we need cheese.”
So off we went through some interesting side streets in search of a cheese shop. We could have gone to a supermarket, Tescos or Sainsburys, but we were buying artisan bread, and my stomach was adamant. It had to be artisan cheese.
And then we found it. And what cheeses there were! The vendor welcomed us with a smile. My dog smiled back unnoticed. We talked cheeses, me studying the Welsh Cheese map behind him.
Occasionally he left us browsing as customers drifted in and out buying mysterious, over-priced condiments, slivers of ham, and very small pots of jam. Eventually we decided, a 100g each of Caerphilly, Little Hereford, and Rhydydelyn. The price shocked me £13. The dog was ecstatic. My wife less so, but I was already eying up ‘Mouldy Mabel’ and ‘Rachel’.