I'm in a notional hotel in Harlech. Pan-fried mullet with beurre noisette and pommes de terre fondants nestling in my tummy, washed down with several pints of sauvignon blanc. There is a gentle breeze trickling through the volet windows as I settle into a warm bath, resting my toes on the gold taps.Thinking about all you suckers, struggling back over Snowdonia barely fuelled by powdered soup and cheap rice-pudding, all pale and sweaty and kidding yourselves with the false bonhommie with whatever pungent weirdo you picked up on the road to share your misery.Choose life. Choose tactical abandon.
