The Welsh part of the bike ride was brutal.
Lots of hill climbs.
Growing doubt that I would arrive at the next Youth hostel into which I was booked.
Could I find my way after dark? was the question uppermost on my mind.
I was thirsty so stopped at a grocery store in a small Welsh village. “Do you have a pint of milk please?” I asked. “A pint of milk?” the young woman behind the counter asked me.
It slowly dawned on me, as my eyes became accustomed to the light, that the word milk was code for alcohol that could be bought in the private room at the rear of the store.
A room where the local men gathered to drink and smoke and play cards.
I must have looked like a naive unworldly Englishman.
Never mind. I drank my milk, said my thank you and got back into the saddle.