I was young in the age when you visited your relatives and enjoyed it.

I had twin cousins in Llanelli, both members of the 'Hywel Girls' Choir'. (This has nothing to do with my story but someone might be interested).

On one of my visits, theytook meto the 'twlc' (pigsty) in the garden where a piglet was snuffling and grunting his way through a moundof vegetable peelings.

This wasthe rescuedrunt of a litter, who had been very small but was now very porky (sorry) on the twenty four hour buffet they plied him with.

Whenthegate ofPiglet's run was openedhe raced across the grass and into the kitchen, where he appeared to be quite at home, eating the food in the cat's saucer.

After much squealing (his and ours) we shooshed him back into his temporary accommodation and made our way to the corner shop, a herbalist's.

Mr Jones sold dried nettles to make a teawhich was claimed to cleanse the blood. It was especially effective in spring time when there was a lot of weakness around ('gwendid', he used to say).

Herecommended mustard baths andsoaking the feet in a pan of hot water and mustard if suffering from a cold. The steam from hot water and mustard helped unblock sinuses if inhaled.

Ginger, infused in boiling water with a teaspoon of honey and a sliced lemon, soothed a sore throat, and tastedpretty good

He had a myriad other things on the wooden shelves but we were there for the Spanish Root, of which my cousins were much fonder than I; to me it felt like chewing old rope but the name was exotic and appealing.

I've always liked liquorice, which contains extract of the root. Recently a pharmacist told me too much liquorice can causeblood pressure to shoot up.

(I don't think the sweets contain very much liquorice but best to be careful).

I was in Carmarthen today and, like most towns, it has it's fair share of health food shops. This made me wonder why these shopsare so popular:are we convinced of the power of herbs or merely cynical about conventional medicines?

On August 24 last week, exactly at ten o'clock at night, we watched afireworks display, held to celebrate the liberation of Cannes, which occurred sixty seven years ago.

We had gatheredon the Croisette with hundreds of others, manyof whom had come fromNice by train.

In the morning,aplatoon representing the 51 Highland Division marched past, and Ffion was very taken with their mascot, a colliedog. In one of the quieter streets a tablehad a displayof gasmasks and helmets from World War 11. An elderly lady, who was helping on the stall, wore a flowered dress from the 1940's, which was accessorised by a beret, army boots and socks.

There was a large gathering atthe Memorial and 'God Save the Queen' was sung. One hundred vehicles took part, including Sherman tanksusedfrom 1942to 1945 andthe jeeps were decorated with French and American flags.

In the evening, weate early at the 'Grand Cafe', afterwards sittingdown with ice-creams on the Croisette, watchingas a few jeeps went by. Crowds began thronging the pavements, spilling over into the road then, when darkness fell, the fireworks shot into the sky, framed by the dark silhouette of palm trees. Green, red, gold and silver stars formedgreat arcs of light, which went on for half an hour.

Opera music was played and the voice of Andrea Bocelli brought proceedings to an end.

A night to remember and one to be grateful for.

Kate wanted to go to Antibes, a distance of less than fifteen minutes on the train from Cannes, to see the Picasso Museum.I'dbeen told by people renting a villa there that it wasa small place, with not much to see,but we were undeterred.

The way to the museum was through the old part of the town and, as the temperature had reached the nineties, we were glad ofthe shadynarrow streets.

We stopped to study sardine tin labels in one shop window. Littleworks of art, they showed wicker baskets brimmingwithharvests ofsilver fish and boats with names like 'Stella Maris', Star of the Sea. It waswith difficulty I resistedbuying a tin but I compensated that night by having large, herbstuffed sardines inCannes, with a bowl of my favourite 'pommes frites'. (I'll have sardines on thickly buttered toast later this week, too).

Then I popped into the Yves Rocher shopand bought a coral shade of lipstick and blusher.

Ah, the distractions for the unwary are plentiful and the next one was the market.

'Madame, tapenade?' 'Oui, Merci!'

As I made my way around the stalls, I was given an apricot, a shaving of fromage, a strawberry, an oliveand a crouton. Iused a wet wipe to tidy myself up.

The next delight wasthe salt stall with its box of Rochelle Salt. We use this every day in the hope it will help Peter's thyroid problem, as it isrichin essential minerals. First prepared in the 17th centuryby Pierre Seignette of La Rochelle, it is only in recent yearsthat I have come across it. Kate uses pink Himalayan salt, packed with eighteen different minerals and they had this, too, plus many others.

Sunflowers, lavender from Provence, apricot and raspberryconfiture, olive oils, jars of pickled squid, bunches of herbs andfreshly cookedpancakes gave a lingering pungencyto the air, but the Museum was just a few steps away and wehurried over, afraidit might close at midday.

Housed in an old building,weviewed the Picasso paintings and some of the artist's pottery.To see these works, near towherehe had a studio at one time, was poignant.

Afterwards, we walkedin the grounds of the Museum and took photographsof each other withthe coastline of Antibes in the background.

We were ready for foodnow, so found a little place where we could eat black olive bread spread withsalt butterand huge salads. Someone told us that Roman Abramovich wanted to dock his yacht, 'The Eclipse'in 'Billionaire's Quay' but theeight hundred million pounds boat was too large for the harbour and remained outat sea.

As we walked back to the train station, I saw some graffitti. From the mouth of a painted cow came a word bubble: 'ici pas de pizza ou de caviar?' I think we hadtasted both, actually.

I have a tip.If you eat 'Le Tropizienne' (sponge pastry with creme patisserie and nibs of something deliciously crackly on top (spun sugar, I think), a mille feuille stuffed with strawberries and creamand then a meringue the size of a saucer, studded with pistachio nuts,in one sitting, with no one to curb your mad, wild desires, the next day you will eat onlytwo pastries at one go, apear and frangipan tart, and coconut sponge,in my case, on my plate.

I can't help it, despite Kate telling me to go easy, we areeating a meal in a few hours, I likefeelingsatiated.

I've been away for the week. I've been to Cannes, I've tasted the food, I've seen a Bugatti Veyron slide silently by, I've felt heat so hot it's slipped under my eyelids and I've stopped examiningprice tags, realising thatmost things areastronomically priced.

Kate and family were in Monacco for the day, admiring Princess Charlene's sumptuously simple Armani wedding gown. Ffion wanted to seethe fish tank in the palace grounds again and take a boat trip to Monte Carlo and I wanted to go to the marche in Cannes, whichI did.

Before leaving home I had worked out the 'Shopper's Rough Guide'to money.A pound is worth, give or take a few cents, a euro so, first stop, a pair of yellow Italian leather sandals twenty euro, 20. A bargain.

Next,a cerise straw bag forten euros. Fantastique. I had a conversation with the seller, told himI was from 'Pays de Galle', where it was usually 'froid'. He repeated it to the manon the next stall who admired my 'chapeau'.

On to thehandbags. Oui.

'Combien le sac, si'l vous plait?', I asked the teenage vendor.

'Trente'

'Thirty?'

'Oui'.

'Can you do it for less?'

'Non, je regret, but thirty french euros are the same as thirteen pounds in British money and this bag is beautiful and at thirteen pounds it is a bargain'.

'Pardon? Tell me, how do you work that out?'

'Oh, madame, my English is not good enough'.

Really? Whenit came to creative accounting, her brain was pretty good. I decided ona fifteen euro purse and she madeno furthermention of theequivalentBritish price.

It was getting on for eleven thirty by now, the temperature was in the nineties so I returnedtothe hotel, packed away the shopping,showered for the second time that morning andchanged my clothes.

Out again,to my favourite boulangerie for a slice of aubergine tart, fruit salad and a juice, nine euros. Good value.

Apres-midi Icaught the finiculaire train that goesto the old part of Cannes, much loved by Ernest Heminway and myself. I'd changed into harem trousers for the afternoon, floral and fun and all of ten euros which I'd bought the day before - (yes, there are bargains, if you know where to look).

The hour long trip was another ten euros. We passed the Carlton, where we were staying in the Clint Eastwood suite. Through the earphones we learnt the hotelwas dedicated to someone's mistress, who was called 'La Grande Horizontale' for fairly obvious reasons.

Half way through the journey,the train stopped for ten minutesand we got out. I likegoing into 'Our Lady of Hope' church at the top of the old town but it was closedfor some reason so I wandered down a side street instead.

I won't bore you with how I showered four times that day and room servicechanged the towels each time.

Later that evening, as we went for a meal, Ffion andI walked together.In front of us was a man of about twenty with his girlfriend. He was around six feet four inches, with light blond hair and pale skin and was wearinga white shirtwith grass green silk knotted cuff links andcanvas trousers in the same shade, with a yellow belt and black suede shoes. I whispered to Ffion that perhaps he was a model.

Later, when wesat in the dusk overlooking the bay, a tall woman went by. Her hair and skin were dark and she was dressed in a short black frock but with a long lace train. As we watched her, the breeze swirled the lace above her head, as though she was some fabulous creature from the sea. Catching our admiring glances, she turned to smile.

I knew then I'd spottedthe god and goddess of the Croisette that night.

We were fond of 'Ladybird' books in our house, forty and more years ago. We've still got most of them, too. Peter, Emma and I are obssessive-compulsivewith books but Kate, more into the 'Good Stable Management Guide' type of thing, is ruthless. Once read, it'sstraight out-the-door-the-book's- gotta-go.

Shetellsme she'sread only three books she can rememeber in any detail. The one about mucking out the stables, 'Lucy Walter' and 'Salt Blue'.

'But you read "Colette" for 'O' levels', Iprotested. 'Her mother stood on the back step at night, when she'd not seen the children all day, wailing, "Where are the children, where are the children".

Colettehad acupof hotchocolate and dipped a pain aux raisininto itevery morning'.

(I remember thatclearly because Kate refused anything but a cup ofcoffee made with milk and two chocolate biscuits before school, when therest of us had fried egg and fried bread every day for twentyyears or so. (Nothing unhealthy about that inthose days. I still like it).

'No Mum', she said. 'That was Emma's book. Mine was Laurie Lee.'

'But Emma read that, too', I protested.

And I read what the girls read, becausesome of the books were new to me butalso, if I was askeda question,I could answer it fairly quickly. (Peter's replies went into too much detail, so he was by-passed).

Kate studied art, so she didn't read so many novels, but Emma specialised in'Welsh Studies'and the literature of Wales. (Ed Thomas's 'House of America' was new to me and I liked it) and F. Scott Fitzgerald's 'Tender is the Night' and 'The Great Gatsby' were wonderful.

But, I will let all that go for now,because I am thinking of myholiday, and no, I'm not taking books. I want to be free of the written word as much as possible, apart from asmall pocketFrench Dictionary.

Verily,I havepacked, but should some essential item have been overlooked, there is the deux-euro shop we have discovered. Yes, the Croisette has some of the best shopping in the world but, should you be caught in a heavy shower why, for 2 or so, you can be covered in a plastic poncho.

The deux-euro boutiquesmells of plastic. Plastic circles withpegs attached dangle about the place. Plastic doilies, plastic tablecloths,plastic hair-rollers, nylon hairpieces, plastic bin-bags abound but, after a walk around the designer shops, curiously, this comes as a delighful surprise, though I'm not planning on giving anyone a clothesline as a present or a sponge mop for washing the windows.

Bluebell Bunny? I nearly forgot her. She went on holiday and got blown out to sea clutching her brolly. It could just happen to us.

Llanelli House was built in 1714 by Thomas Stepney, MP for Carmarthenshire. Occupyinga central position, opposite the parish church and close to the library, it is a vast town house.

John Wesleywas a guest here on one of his journeys through Wales spreading the gospels.

For many years the houselanguished in a state of decay but, in1998, local personalities decided something should be done about it.

By a stroke of good fortune, Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen, interiors guru and connoisseur of old buildings, presented a programme about Llanelli House, giving it tremendous publicity.

This led to 3.4 million of Lottery Heritage Funding.

The house is said to be haunted by the ghost of a young girl who killed herself after being falsely accused of a liaison with the married butler.

This week the internet has been full of spoof pictures of the 'ghost'.

Apparently, the genuineapparition was last seen in the sixties by two young girls, one of whom's mother was a cleaner there.

My next news item today concerns the skua birds I mentioned last week.

Not them, actually, but only in as much as the Great Skua originates in the Faroes and the knitters there are experiencing a boom. This is to do with a television seriescalled 'The Killing', first shown in Denmark in 2007.Sarah Lund, detective, has turned a knitted woolly into a fashion item, a jumper sprinkledwith snowflakes.

Thousands of these garments have been sold, knitted from Faroese wool treated with lanolin.

At 240 each, they sound like heirlooms to meand buyers await them eagerly. Thirty Faroese women knit in their island homesand the really quick ones can finisha jumper in a day.

In the 1900's it was the custom for boys from the age of fourteen and men to spend six months at sea, clad in thesejumpers.

Ican't wear wool, it's too itchy for me, though it looks lovely.

The Llanelli Railway Strike of 1911 began on Thursday, 17th August.

It took place against a background of great social unrest. The immediate causes of the strike were the low wages received by railway workers. At 1 a week they were about twenty per cent lower than the average manual wage.

Things came to a head onSaturday, 19 August, when the train to Fishguardwas stoppedby strikers.Boats sailed from Fishguard toIreland, wherethere were the 'troubles'and politicians becameuneasy.

Eighty soldiers of the Worcestershire Regiment were sent toprotect the train and the Riot Act was read. The protesters were given sixty seconds (an insufficient time) to disperse, before shots were fired.

John 'Jac' John, twenty one,was sitting on his garden wallwhen he was shot dead. Leonard Worsell, twenty, in Llanelli recovering from TB, was also shot dead

Violence erupted when the crowd heard what had happened.Later, an explosion at the station resulted in the death of four more rioters.

The riotingcame to an end whenan agreementwas reached with the Great Western Railway Company afterthe workers threatened wider action.

On the following Monday, Harold Spiers, twenty two, a deserting soldier, was arrested in New Radnor. He had been put under arrest forrefusing to shoot a man sitting on a wall, but escaped. Spiers was due for court martial but there was a public outcry and he became a national hero.

A verse was added to 'Sospan Fach' in 1911 about 'Dai Bach y Soldiwr' and it is believed to be based on Spiers.

Thirty thousand people lined the streets of the town for the funerals of John John and Leonard Worsell.

Llanelli became a labour stronghold and Tom Mann and Ben Tillett addressed rallies and mass demonstrations in the town in the weeks ahead.

A school is a microcosm of society. If we want to change the behaviour of the London rioters weshould study what happens in well-run schools.

Forchildren in their first term,the playgroundcan be afrightening experience. Teachers know this and keep a close eye on them.

Schools operate a policy of positive encouragement. Those who make an extra effort get a star,water the plants, feed the hamster, have a clap in morning assembly. Pride in oneself is the key here, knowing you can succeed if you try. (It is important to ensure everyone is good at something, even if it's not academic).

A school is a community, everyoneknows each other's name, and interacts.Ifa dosbarth (class) performs in theUrdd, the whole schoolbasks in the achievement of a win.A sense of pride in each other and team-building comes into play.

When young people leave school, a first job can benerve wracking, like going into the playground. Some offices operatea mentor policy,someone available to talkthings through with thenew employee. This is also a way of absorbing the work ethos, understanding what is expected of you.

There is no simple answer to the problem of what to dowith the rioters.

Behaviouralpsychologists say it is difficult to change ingrained behaviour and the riotershave been brought up in a culture of expectation, a 'pennies from heaven' mentality.

I would take away their mobile phones, get them off the internet, make them do somework (animal charities,perhaps) know that if they want to spend money they must first earn it.

Then a mentoring policy for the whole family might be another way of assistance. Active,retired people with experience of bringing up their own families couldbring a stability that issadly lackingat the moment.