We sat down to our 'cinio dydd Sul' promptly at twelve. (Peter is a man who likes everything operating like clockwork and I am usually hungry.) It turned out to be an expensive meal and I'm not talking about the new potatoes, either.

My husbandis a man of refined tastes. When presented with a meal, he scrutinises it carefully. (No. It doesn't irritate me. I'm used to him).Before he hadthyroid problems andlosta stone in weight, his meal-time mantra was: 'Not much for me', but now he sets to without prevarication.

Today, we had pork wrapped in pancetta with sage stuffing, courtesy of Marks and Spencer's. Icooked it in the oven in a broth of apple juice with fresh thyme leaves, so it had a roasted crust on topand the main part of the joint was tenderised by the juice. With thiswe hadcabbage, (it must be finely sliced for him and, really, he does not know how fortunate he is thatI like cooking), parsnips, carrots, the gold platedpotatoes, apple sauce (bottled), and gravy.Vegetables must be well cooked (don't mention al dente, or he'll snort.)

We were going along nicely whena gurglynoise came from his direction. He opened his mouth and out popped a mercury filling the size of a small boulder.(The irony was thathe'd only had the filling put in three weeks ago). This was placed on a side plate which he contemplated silently for a few seconds before saying: 'The dentist said if it did not hold I'd needa crown.' (I was relieved the food wasof a mushy consistency, so no blame there).

Beinga man who hates waste, he recovered sufficiently to finish the meal. When we'dhad yoghurt and a cup of tea, my thoughts went back to the solanum tuberosum (potatoes) and Fishguard.

Peter's favourite foods are bread and potatoes. His preference isflavourless food. Keiller's Ginger marmalade, for instance, which I love,is eschewed by him soI have learnt to cook what he likes. Looking at Nita Sybil Evans's cook book, she has very few savoury dishes, apart from a meat and potato pie.

When wemarried, my husband was twenty five and a teacher in one of the Fishguard schools. There were few jobs in that areaso, for almost a year, I was a housewife. Althoughwe livedjust a five minute walk from the school he came home at lunch time only once a week. (There was an expectation in the school that you waited on the premises during the mid-day recess).

Once aweek avan came from Milford Haven with fresh fish. On this particular day, Imade a cod- fish pie. (Nothing complicated, poach the fish inmilk, adda bay leaf if you have it, and pepper and salt. The fish is cooked when the flakes fall apart. Drain the fish and put it in a pie dish. Make half a pint of parsley sauce with butter, flour, a pinch of salt,milk and a bunch of chopped parsley. Simmer until it thickens and pour over the fish. Top withbuttery mashed potato, grated cheese and decorate with a thinly sliced tomato.Brown under the grill for five minutes.

Now the point of this storyis not the pie, but what happened while I was preparing it. We had a 'Rediffusion' radio (we were givenlots of pointless wedding presentslike grapefruit spoons, EPNS cake stands, but no one had given us a radio).

Over the radio came the news that U2 pilot, Gary Powers, had been shot down over the Ural Mountains of Russia. I'd never heard of him before. I had no interest in Russia, the Cold War, pilots or anything like that but, somehow, immediately, I connected with his plight. He was only twenty two. I decided he'd made a mistake; 'strayed over' was the phrase that stuck in my mind. How could it have happened?

Now, I can't eat cod fish pie without remembering that day, May 1, 1960.The fire burning in the grate, the table laid for our meal and Gary Powers on his way to a Russian Jail.