The Wild Rover: A Blistering Journey Along Britain’s Footpaths - Plot & Excerpts
The source of the smell, a proper Borth grande dame wrapped in a shabby kimono, gazed blearily at Mary and me. ‘Ah, good morning,’ she slurred. ‘You have company today, I see. And good morning to you too.’ She nodded to the film crew standing behind us, as if this kind of thing happened every day. We all stayed frozen in our positions for a good ten minutes, as Mary and the kimono lady chatted animatedly, even though her pickled logic made no discernible sense. I was fascinated by the movement of her dressing gown, which kept slipping down to reveal acres of leathery embonpoint, before she’d haul it back into place with a rattle of her many bangles and a throaty cough. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Emyr flick the switch on the camera; the ramblings of a drunken madam, while potentially worthy of the Christmas out-takes tape, were not going to make the final cut. As we walked away, I asked Mary why she made such an effort with someone who’d been practically incoherent and had most likely already forgotten that we’d called.
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