David Jones stood atop Cefn Bryn, one of the higher points on the Gower Peninsula. It was early spring, or late winter, depending on how you wanted to look at it, and the air was unusually clear for the season. The twenty-or-so houses and pastures that made up Nicholaston spread out at the bottom of the hill, about a hundred feet down, and pressed up against the small cliffs overlooking the bay. Out beyond the bay, ghosting over the dark green Atlantic waters, he could make out a bit of Cornwall. The first time he'd seen that low, black stretch of land, he'd imagined he was seeing Ireland, but an hour that same night in the hostel with his maps spread out over the floor convinced him otherwise. He turned 180 degrees, to look back on the Gower. A nippish breeze picked up a tuft of his hair and tried to reach its fingers down the neck of his coat.
The Gower was considered one of Glamorgan's areas of beauty, but the winter had turned most of the land brown. Down toward the end of the peninsula he could make out a spattering of new growth in the otherwise bare small forests, and the tough grass along the coastal cliffs was always green, but up here there was nothing much beside scrubgrass and bracken, and they were brown. Even still, there was a beauty to the place, especially for someone who had grown up in the flat concrete expanses of a city. The sky was as blue as he'd ever seen it; not just blue, but a radiant, shocking, -alive- blue. The clouds looked clean, and bright, and crisp. Gulls hung over the beaches, turning in the updrafts; he'd heard that there were even wild ponies living up here between the hollows, too -- apparently they were a protected species.
David went a few feet down the leeward side of the hill and unfolded his map on the ground. The map was far too big to be useful completely open, so he folded it back on itself until it showed just the part he needed. There were standing stones near here, and a cairn, according to the markings, but he had seen enough of those to satisfy him in the last two days. He scanned with his finger across the map until he came on 'Arthur's Stone'. Glancing up to fix the direction in his mind, he refolded the map and stowed it in his coat pocket and began gallumping down the hill.
Arthur's Stone turned out to be not too difficult to find -- it seemed to be a tourist attraction of sorts, and there was a well-worn foot path leading to it in a roundabout fashion. It was both cairn and standing stones combined: a half-dozen stones about a foot-and-a-half high sat in a circle, completely supporting a much larger rock that must have weighed as much as a small truck, from the size of it. There was room to squirm between the short stones and lay under the rock if you were one for dares; it looked like someone had done that recently. Someone else had laid a bouquet of flowers on the rock. That took him somewhat by surprise.
Another rock about the same size as the first stood on end a few feet away. David sat down by its sunny side and leaned against it, enjoying its warmth, then pulled an apple from his pocket and ate it as he contemplated the stones. There were two main stories that explained how they had taken their name: the first claimed that the Gower was actually Avalon, and Arthur's Stone was the great king's final resting place. The second said that after Mount Badon, where the Saxons were defeated, Arthur plucked the stone from his boot and flung it back over his shoulder, sending it all the way to Southern Wales. David doubted them both, especially the second. The first he had found many Gower residents liked to believe. Historians said it was the grave of an unknown local chieftain, and of little real significance.
After a while, David lifted himself up and continued on over the Gower, away from Nicholaston. He picked his way between the heath and bracken, and made his way down the hill toward River Loughor's mud flats. On the far side of the river lay Llanelli, a moderately-sized city as far as they went in Wales, and definitely larger than anything on the Gower. He found the worn-dirt trail that was the public footpath and followed it as it led between several homes and set him out on a paved road. He was in a small town about half the size of Nicholaston. Overhead the clouds had begun to fade away, slowly disappearing into the blank grey that would soon be a thick fog. A bit down the road to his right, a two-storied stone and wood building sported a sign naming it the Greyhound Inn. Most of the 'inns' he had stayed in had been little more than a bed-and-breakfast home with a sign out front, but this place had more of an 'establishment' look to it. However, he knew Welsh hospitality did not lack in home or business, and he had no preference. Since it would be dark soon, what with the fog rolling in, he decided not look up the local hostel. He turned up the road and walked up to the front door of the inn, stopping to wipe his boots on the mat outside.
Just inside the door a hallway branched off to separate dining rooms on the right and left side, and to a dark staircase a bit further back. A copy of the same Ordinance Survey map of the Gower that David had in his pocket hung on the wall in a frame, with the Greyhound Inn marked by a red dot. David poked his head into the room on the right and glanced around. A half-dozen or so round tables arranged in no particular order were circled by four dark-wood chairs each. Booths with high backs lined two walls; the other two were taken up by a curved bar that fenced off their shared corner. Between the shelves of glasses and framed photos hanging on the walls behind the bar, a door led back to the kitchen. A large man with long, grey mustaches stood just outside that door, drying out pint glasses with a rag. He looked to be in his fifties, and had an English face. When David stepped into the room he glanced up and smiled. "Hiya."
"Hiya," David said. "Am I too late for lunch?"
"Close, but you made it in time." The man nodded toward one of the tables. "There are menus there on the tables, if you'd like."
David smiled and thanked the man, and picked a table to sit at. He skimmed over the menu and ordered one of the specials, he didn't pay too much attention to what it was. After the man had taken the order and relayed it back to the kitchen, he returned to continue drying out glasses. He seemed a pleasant enough sort, and introduced himself as Andrew Williams, so David gave him his name in return.
"David Jones -- that's a good Welsh name," said the man.
"My parents were both Welsh. Well, not them exactly; I mean, neither of them were born here. I think their ancestors came over a pretty long time ago. But they were both of Welsh blood, if you know what I mean."
The man nodded. "Are you from the States, then?"
"No, Canada. Vancouver." David lifted his backpack to show the flag patch he had sewn onto the front pocket.
The man grinned. His teeth were uneven. "Even better. Americans are nice enough, see, but sometimes they get a bit rude, particularly when they're pissed. Then they act like they own the place, and should be waited on hand and foot. Canadians, though..."
