Vicky had added a helpful footnote to her briefing, mentioning that Wales has more castles than any other country in the world but so far, Mitzi hasn’t seen any, let alone the one she wants to find. ‘Goddamned British drivers!’ She rides her horn at a giant yellow tractor crawling behind a road full of sheep. A ruddy-faced old farmer in a green Barbour gilet and flat cap turns on his high seat and glowers back. It’s another fifty minutes before she gets past and the sat-nav chirpily announces, ‘Turn left and you have reached your destination.’ ‘About freakin’ time.’ She takes the unmarked turning and finds herself driving a rutted dead-end of a dirt track. ‘In fifty metres you will have reached your destination.’ ‘Where?’ Mitzi peers in anger through the windshield. ‘You crazy piece of crap, where’s my castle?’ A black and white chequered flag pops up on the sat-nav screen and waves jubilantly as the Ford bumps in and out of potholes and stops at a hedge and fence.
