The hidden cost of cheap flights

It has been a horrible winter up here on my hilltop.
Not cold, crisp and snowy like the previous two winters. I don't mind those at all. Given sufficient stocks of firewood and red wine, a full freezer and no particular place to go, I can simply wait them out.
This one was a real Welsh winter though. All leaden skies, fog and constant rain from the West. For days on end. The sort of winter for which the term SAD was invented.

By the start of February we were both desperate for some sunlight. Added heat would be a bonus, but just light would do.
A quick scan of t'Interweb for cheap flights led to 10 days in Portugal, the Algarve to be specific. Never having been there before, I had imagined it was all golf courses and expat Brit retirement villages. Well yes, those are there, but there are also orange groves, cork oak forests, neat terraced smallholdings clinging onto hillsides, a wealth of birdlife, azure seas and dramatic offshore rock formations, glorious seafood and char-grilled dishes, and a whole wealth of other camera-friendly sights and experiences.

Sadly, though, the most memorable thing we brought back with us was a really nasty bout of 'flu. Caught, I am absolutely certain, from the Ryanair pilot sitting next to Robert who coughed and spluttered for the entire flight back.
Which is the really strange thing. You certainly don't get anything else for free on a budget, no-frills airline!

Plygain

Plygain, pronounced plug-ine (as in wine), is a Welsh tradition and something very, very special.

Imagine a minuscule chapel nestled on a hillside in the middle of nowhere or at the centre of a tiny village. Imagine it packed to the gunwales, with standing room only. The vicar welcomes everyone to the evening (in Welsh), announces Y Cylch Cyntaf (the first round). and then sits down. The room is full of silent anticipation, punctuated only by a little coughing and shuffling of paper.

Then a man gets up, walks to the front and starts to sing - unaccompanied - an old Welsh carol. When he finishes, he returns to his seat and all is silent again. After a few moments a family group walks to the front and sings in four-part harmony. They are followed by a father and his two sons. And so the singing progresses.

Eventually all those who wish to sing have taken their turn, filling the space with their voices. Nothing has been planned in advance, there is no set running order. They just take their place at the front as the muse seizes them. Then the vicar declares the start of Yr Ail Cylch (the second round), and the man who started off the singing returns to the front. And so on to the end, each in the order of their first appearance.

Tradition demands that no carol should be repeated, so each parti (or group of singers) will rehearse three or four. As there is no planning of either content or running order, if an earlier singer performs the carol that another participant or group intended to sing, there will be a rapid turning of pages to find another suitable song. Everything is unaccompanied, the quality is variable - many of the singers are getting on in years and their voices are not as strong and true as they once were - but the effect of the whole is utterly spellbinding. The singing rises to the rafters of the tiny church and continues for as long as there are people to sing.

This is no traditional church service. It is more like competitive carol singing, but without prizes or applause. The word plygain apparently derives from the Latin for cock crow - originally the services were held on Christmas morning, with people leaving home in the dark. They would then sing to welcome the dawn and the coming of the Christ child. Now plygains are held over a period of weeks through Advent and up to Twelfth Night. The one we went to last night was the last for this season. I have never been to one before - mainly because they are never advertised. Those who normally go know when they are, the order of the churches being repeated year after year. But having been to one, I fully intend to go to as many as possible next year. There is absolutely nothing like it.

The evening ends with the carol y swper, in which those who have taken part (the men only) literally sing for their supper. A beautiful end to an enthralling evening.