Carmarthenshire

'An Englishman in Wales' - by Kevin Ashford

I have a fantasy. It’s not my usual sort of fantasy - they usually involve Kylie or Guinness (not together - that’s just weird). No, this fantasy is a dream dinner party.

As an Englishman who now lives in Wales (as the more observant readers might have noticed from the title of this blog), I’ve been to my fair share of culinary soirees - it seems something of a national pastime the other side of the Severn Bridge. Most dinner parties are pleasant enough affairs but on more than one occasion, I have been seated next to the dominant male of the evening (it’s inevitably a male) who is all too willing to share his views on life in general - and as it’s a dinner party - food in particular.

Let’s call him Seb. That stands for South East Bore. I’ve nothing against that part of England - it’s where I’m from - but it does seem to produce a certain sort of dinner party guest.

Now Seb is the sort of man who can pontificate for hours on how the only mushroom worth eating is a cep that’s been picked that morning by the hand of a 117 year old peasant woman in a tiny hillside forest in Tuscany or how the only way to drink decent wine is in the damp cellar of a chateau from a bottle covered in decades of dust and made from grapes that were trodden at least a century ago by the feet of local virgins in the Dordogne.

Seb’s a food snob you see. In some ways he does have a point. Food and drink does taste better when it’s local and produced with care - even love - by people who know what they’re doing. Where Seb does go wrong however, is believing that such delights can’t be found in Wales - and Carmarthenshire in particular.

And that is where my fantasy comes in - remember that? You see, I have in mind a dinner party where the food would do the talking - not Seb - and convince the man that Carmarthenshire has all the ingredients to satisfy any gastronome.

An entrée of melon and ham for example. No ordinary ham I’d point out to Seb as he feels the flavour from the wafer-thin slices cut through the sweetness of the melon. This is Carmarthen Ham - dry salt cured and then air dried by Chris and Ann Rees at their home near Carmarthen using a recipe that’s been handed down through generations. In fact, the family joke is that when the Romans came to Britain and settled in Carmarthen, they stole the recipe, returned to Italy and called it Parma Ham.

Seb’s nodding appreciatively and I notice, not saying anything. His mouth’s too busy enjoying the flavour.

Still no sound from Seb. I casually place in front of him a cheese board from Caws Cenarth and cut off a tiny piece of their cheddar that’s been matured for eighteen months. It’s a cheese that has a flavour as complex and long lasting as the journey you have to make to get to the farm that produces it. It’s worth doing though - just don’t get put off by the increasingly narrow lanes - especially the ones with the grass growing up the middle. Your reward will be a welcome that’s Welsh and warm. If you’re lucky, Betty Adams will be on duty in the visitors centre, dishing out the free tasting samples and explaining the cheese-making process in an accent that’s as creamy as the Caerphilly they make. That’s right - a Caerphilly that’s creamy and not mouth-shrinkingly dry and crumbly.

The people of Caws Cenarth love cheese. Betty’s nephew Carwyn who now runs the place would spend every day inventing new cheeses if his family didn’t make him take Sundays off. As it is, they produce a dozen varieties - all made from milk from cows that graze their land. Two of the cheeses have been named best organic cheeses in the world by the Soil Association. I can see Seb’s impressed by the roll call of awards but more impressed by the taste.

Seb is Home Counties through and through so mischeviously I wonder how he’ll react to the news that Caws Cenarth have been asked to supply their Blue Pearl Cheese as part of the catering for rugby internationals at Twickenham. Welsh domination of Home Nations rugby it seems is complete - HQ has been breached.

Strangely though, Seb doesn’t seem to mind. He’s in a foodie paradise and too busy eating. And anyway, to sweeten that bitter pill - literally - I have passed him his coffee and a Penderyn Welsh Whiskey chocolate truffle. As I hear him break through the crisp chocolate shell into the dangerously moreish soft centre, I explain these are the signature chocolates from Pemberton’s.

Now, an old hill farm is an unlikely place for a chocolate makers but that’s what they’ve been doing at Llanboidy for many years. Everything here is done by hand - and almost exclusively female hands at that - from the filling of the chocolate moulds to the tying of the presentation boxes. It’s all carried out in what has to be the best smelling factory anywhere. The aroma of melted chocolate is wonderfully all pervasive. Nothing’s hidden either as you tour Pemberton’s - every stage of the chocolate making is viewable. Best of all, children and grown ups can try their hand at making chocolates too.

I notice that Seb isn’t that interested in my real life Willy Wonka adventure. He’s still not saying anything but he is making notes though.

All this catering has left me weary and it’s time to get rid of my dinner guests. There’s no need for theatrical yawns or other subtle hints - they leave without having to be asked - this is a fantasy after all.

On his way out, Seb has started talking again. But guess what, he’s now singing the praises of food from Carmarthenshire.

Kevin Ashford has more than twenty years experience as a journalist in newspapers, radio and TV.