After I don't know how long of uninterrupted browsing, I approached the sales desk with a small pile of books. The woman at the behind the till looked like the stereotypical art teacher from the 70s; bet you can see her now, severely cropped salt and pepper hair, huge handmade earrings, black poloneck jumper covered in cat hair under an ankle-length stripey handknitted cardigan.

Her disapproving features rearranged themselves into a smile as she eyed my selection, and suddenly she didn't look so old and crabby.  We spent the next quarter of an hour discussing my purchases, my holiday, life in general and the decline of book reading as a  British pasttime. "People just buy books to give to other people who just use them to decorate the coffee table," she sighed. "I blame Hello magazine."

I left the shop musing her words, deciding that a book shop owner must be one of the more depressing career choices these days - it certainly wasn't something I wanted to do when I grew up.  It's sad to think books have become lifestyle accessories. For me, there's something distressing about seeing a book in pristine condition, collecting dust on a shelf. Pages should be dog-earred, spines are supposed to be cracked and creased, books are meant to be read, cherished and re-read.

Another thing I'll never be when I grow up is a dedicated follower of fashion, but today actually saw me crossing the road with the express purpose of looking in the window of a dress shop.  It was the most amazing hippy-chick store I'd seen in a long time - loads of tie-dye, velvet, lace up corsets - bringing back fond memories of my misspent youth schlepping round Camden Market (when it was cool).

Back in the car, the SD was on his back, fast asleep. There was only the briefest interest in my shopping when he realised he hadn't profited from my expedition. By now, it was already dark because of the thunderous cloud cover.  There was only one thing to do; head back to the cottage, light the fire, fix a large glass wine and settle down with my newly acquired reading material - bliss.

monthly shopping list.  I felt there was a principle to be upheld here, so despite my desperation, I decided to hold out a little and slum it.

Squeezing through the impossibly narrow doorway, I was plunged into a long, dark equally narrow room in which a viscous two foot fried breakfast hase hjung from the ceiling. What I assumed was a pile of coats in the corner banquette emitted a phlegmy cough. Giving it a wide berth, I made my way to the counter. I was, but in a weird way wasn't, surprised to see the back of the cafe was wall-to-wall fruit machines at which - this being half past nine in the morning - a handful of assorted hopefuls thumbed in coins with well-practiced deftness. The really eerie thing was the lack of noise, just the occasional ker-ching, all the machines havng their music turned off. It was like being in a silent movie.

The woman serving at the counter must have been local, her face looked like it had been carved rom the rockbed on which Ross stands. She cast the players a scornful look, probably because they were managing to make one cup of tea last over an hour. I didn't even attempt to make small talk, just placed my order and took refuge in the window seat to watch the world go by.  It would appear, however, that most of the world had stayed at home today.

Back on the street, vaguely aware that I was now sporting Eau de Greasy Joe, it was now time to go west and head for the hills. The book lovers paradise on Earth, Hay-on-Wye, to be precise.  "You smell delicious!" said the Small Dog, burying his nose into my coat.

By the time I parked up in Hay, it was brutally cold, not least because the town is perched on the top of a mountain and rather exposed to the elements; which were today Bitter, Freezing and their mates the Brass Monkeys. Not caring what I looked like, I pulled on every bit of clothing I had in the car and jammed a hat down tight over my ears.  Solved the bad hair day.

The SD showed a bit more interest in our new surroundings so, after promising to be good, accompanied me on the short walk into town. More browsing through book stores - and there are quite a few - I found a cosy looking coffee shop. I was just tying the dog's lead to the railing outside when a mumsy woman burst out the door. "You can't leave the precious thing out here in the cold!" she exclaimed. I wanted to point out that he was a gun dog and cold didn't even register to him, but instead I just said I thought it wasn't hygenic. "Nonsense," she retorted and before I knew it, the SD was smuggled in and secreted under a table.

It turned out Mags owned the cafe and what she said usually went. I ordered a a vegetable soup, homemade bread and a pot of tea. What arrived was a bowl of lamb broth. "Sorry, I think you've got the order wrong," I said. The young girl smiled at me. "Oh, that's not for you. Mags says it's for the little one. Yours is coming."

to be continued...