Homesickness is something I've never had; I'm different - sick at having to come home that's what I get.

I've been away in West Wales on a part bird-watching, part hiking, part general culture vulture trip. I know there's only a few of you out there grazing this blog, by now you're be dab hands at sensing just when I'm about to launch into eulogy.

Your antennae working? Good, because here I go: if you've not been to West Wales then put it high up on the list of places to visit. Specifically St Davids, the spiritual capital of the area. It's the UK's smallest city, and small cannot be over-emphasised, scarcely more than 1800 inhabitants.

It's joyous yet elusive, mysterious yet real, utterly bewitching, there's magic around every corner. St Davids sits there spinning it's beguiling web on the unwary so subtly and yet so tightly, it's almost impossible to break free. The only way I can begin to describe it is imagine a combination of a Celtic Middle Earth, the hippier quarters of Northern California, the sensibility of Hay on Wye and St Ives, and a soupcon of Portobello Road. It's the place where a Unicorn could appear fleetingly in the rolling sea fog and still seem natural. Fantastic