Some MP, pontificatingon the radio about the London rioters,got me thinking.

'There is a big difference between those with money and those without', is one reason put forward for the violence and looting.

To suggest povertyleads to violence is humiliating for people who, through illness ordisability can't work but lead blameless lives.

In Victorian times, the poor were halfstarved, living in slums, whilst the rich displayed excessive wealth.

The key to partial understanding of the minds of the looters lies in the fact that theyleft bookshops alone, but targetedplaces that sold sports trainers, mobile phones and electrical gadgets. These were not starving mobs calling for bread, but picky people, looking for luxury goods, people used to living high on the hog, eating take-aways most nights.

Bad behaviour has its roots in bad motheringbut I'll leave that for now so Ican free my mindand make a few suggestions.

We'll begin with books. (I wonder how many illiterates were on the rampage? Yes, yes, I know there were all sorts but I'd still like to know.)

I loved story time when I taught young children and so did they.

Jung said we learn through symbol and myth.A good storyalways teaches something.

I've forgotten the title of one of my favourites but I'll give you the bones. There were two sisters, aged about seven, (first rule of story telling: make sure the listenerscan identify with the subject) always moaning.

Their beds were too small, they wanted separate bedrooms, more butter on their bread, more toyson their birthdays.

What did their exasperated mother do? She put the two of them in one small bed, gave them less butter, less toys. After a few days,they were allowed toreturn to their separate beds,have their usual share of the butter and she gave them a toy each.

'And they were very happy and never moaned again. The End.'

The class gave me a good clap for that one.

'Hands up who liked it?' Everyone.

'Why?'. They were taught a lesson'.'They stopped moaning'. 'They got a toy each'. 'They got back to their own beds'.

Justice had been done, order restored. Children don't like chaos, unpredictable behaviour.

We have to teach responsibility and we can. I'll go into that next time.

Chips are one of my favourite foods. I peel the potatoes, rinse them, thendrythem in a cloth. Nextslice them, not too thinly. The fat must be quite hot when the chips goin, but not smoking. (Put one chip in to test).

Fry for about five or six minutes until they look as though they are nearly ready.Lift them out,heat the oil until really hot.Lowerthe chipsin again,just long enoughto crisp them. This will take two to three minutes. When they are goldenbrown drain them on kitchen paper. Rush them to the table: they must be hot when eaten.

We had some American friends over, years ago, and I'd made chips, or French Fries as they called them. I said I liked mayonnaise with chips, the American way. They appeared mystified and said they'd not had them like that in the States.

Later I mentioned a little girl we knew who had lived in America andsang a song for me called 'Shoo Fly Pie'.They'd not heard of this dish, either.

This wasthe early eighties, before I could Google anything. I looked through various American cookbooks and found that 'Shoo Fly Pie' was a Pennsylvanian Dutch dessert. The pies were filled with molasses and cream, sometimes apples.They were put to cool on the kitchen step and the flies had to be shooed away.

Today's 'Western Mail' said that the best chippy in Wales is 'Top Gun' in Whitchurch, Cardiff.

I don't know where the 'Gun' comes into it. 'Top Net' or 'TopLine', perhaps, but let's accept that the mind works in a mysterious way. I must drop in if I'm passing.

My favourite chippy is 'Something's Cooking' in Letterston, half way between here and Fishguard.They've won manyawards and there's alicensed restaurant as well as the takeaway. Delights such as Banoffee Pie, apple tart and cream are on the 'Sweets' menu.

Looking at the history of the chip, it seems itwas a happy accident, invented in Saratoga Springs, New York,in 1853. A diner kept sending back the potatoes he'd ordered, saying they were not thin enough. In desperation, the chef sliced them very finely, fried them until crisp, then ladled salt on them. Result: a new dish was born.

Incidentally, in school cookery classes, we had to make game chips, which were sliced very thinly.

'Sglodion' is a Welsh name used for chips, but it is only in recent years I've come across the term.

A Microwave is called a 'Popty Ping'. How the language changes to assimilate the latest developments.

Off on a tangent now, I asked Oliver, who was going to a party,how did one chat up a girl in Welsh. It's simple, really, I should have known: 'Ti'n dawnsio, bach?'

During the1940's we spent our holidays in Llansteffan, in a b@b at the end of a row of cottages which are still there. Apart from donkey rides, a walk around the castle and ice-creams there was little else to do but I don't remember being bored.

Llandrindod Wells was anotherof our destinations and Aberystwyth, too. For Aberystwyth,we caught the 'bus at Carmarthen Railway Station and changed at Aberaeron. My aunt waved usus off and we had cheese on toast at a cafe on the front as soon as we arrived.

Wesuppliedour own food, because this was wartime and it was cooked by the guest house owner. Knowingmy fondnessfor donkeys, I'd begiven acarrot from the gardentoreward the donkey I'd ridden.

On a Sundaymorning, we went to Chapel in Aberystwyth. To keep me quiet, my mother told me to listen to the minister because he'd bewelcoming the holiday makers and I wouldn't want to miss it.(She understood a bit about child psychology.)

Maudie and Ffion were studing Pompeii in school recently, as part ofan 'ancient civilisation' module.

Ffion showed a picture of herself, standing by a petrified figure, her face registering her shocked expression.

Maudie, being younger,was fascinatedby arealdog sleeping in one of the buildings.The girls tooktheir photo album, withpictures of the preserved mosaic floor and variousbuildings.

We sailed to Capri and went to Amalfi on another day. Their teacher asked which picture they would they like on the wall. They chose the one of themselves tacklinggiant ice-creams in Sophia Loren's favourite ice-cream parlour in Sorrento. (Nothing to do with Pompeii, but that's how the mind works, or as Falstaff said, 'Why should death rob life of fourpence?')

Experiences enrich our mind, anchor information.Not allparents areable to take their leave entitlement during school holidays andmany schools,understand this and see holidays asopportunities for further education.

School terms are too long for junior children.Ten week terms aretiring for them, the work suffering. Shorter but more frequentbreaks could be the answer, for tour operators and for pupils alike.

The Preseli Mountainsare beautiful all year round. Last winter snow fell and the sun shone creating a Rupert Bear sky. (Know whatI mean?Pinks, mingled with gold and blues). Harry, Oliver and Maudietoboganned down the slopesone afternoon. There were other families there, plus a few sheep.

In 1944 a B-24 Liberator plane crashed near one of the summits. Six people were killed, including the Canadian pilot.On Remembrance Dayapoppy wreath isfixed to a wooden post.

A professional photographer went up the Preselis very early one day last winter. He wanted to capture thestrains of dawn breaking through the night, the moodiness of the sky.

I thought the pictures wereatmospheric. 'Atmospheric? What do you mean?' he quizzed.

'They have intensity', I replied.

'Mmmh. I shan't be going there again, alone, early in the morning.'

He'd been spooked. He felt as though he was not alone, and kept looking around him.

I would not want to be in Carn Ingli, in Newport,at night time,near to an ancient burial place, but then, I would not want to be on the Steynton to Milford Haven road, either.

This week's'Western Telegraph'reports another sighting of a mystery woman spotted on the A4076. Drivers have encountered 'near misses' with this phantom. A woman was killed on this stretch of road

about forty years ago and aspectre appears between ten thirty at night and three o'clock in the morning.

A paranormal investigation groupis looking into the evidence and says Pembrokeshire is a 'hot spot' for paranormal activity.

Interested? Why not come down for a 'mystery' weekend and have yourself a good old fright?

One of my sons-in-law ranfrom Poppit Sands down to Amrothtwenty five years ago. It took him three days, instead of the usual two weeks walking trek.Ihave the 'Western Telegrah' picture of him andEmma and Kate before he set off. The girls had arranged tomeet him at various places on the way with food and drink.

On thefirst day he burnt his legs badly andsprayed embrocation on them, thinking his muscles were cramping.

Whenhe returned, theevening of the second day, hehad stepped on a grass snake, not seeing it under some leaves.

On the third night hewas weak and wobbly but had completed the run. They lived in Tunbridge Wells at the time and this was the highlight of the summer for him.

Years later, a columnist in the 'Sunday Times' wrote that he was attempting the Path. He'd heard the previous evening, in his guest house in St David's, of the chap (my son-in-law) who had run the Path in three days.

To celebrate his fortieth birthday a few years ago,my son-in law trekked from Lukla to Everest Base Camp.We heardquite a bit about thelentil stew withfried onion on top, plus lemon tea for afters.

Helosta stone in weight. Friends said it looked like a good diet- (ha ha ha). Maudie took the prayer wheels to school for 'comparative religions' studies.

Today's 'Western Mail' says that the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path attracts walkers from around the world and has been named one of the greatest hiking trails in the world. It compares with Peru's Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, Mount Kilimanjaro and others, including the trail to Santiago de Compostella. (I'm keen on that one, but I'm not telling my son-in-law before I warn my daughter, otherwise we'll all be on it.)

I worked for the Pembrokeshire National Park at one time. I saw puffins, seals, urchin shells washed up on the beach, rock pools, seagulls galore, had chips in Tenby (smallest order: beans and chips), saw the mist rising over Strumble Head, got caught in traffic in Saundersfoot, was the only one on the beach in Newport, where I had fish fingers and chips in a little cafe near the beach and a pickled onion, too. (Food somehow anchors my brain). No wonder Pembrokeshire has been calledthe new 'hotspot'.

Come whenever the fancy takes you. Come in autumn and you can see golden beech leaves in the Gwaun Valley and there'll be more room on the roads, too, but you should come if you want a treat.

I love poetry. 'O, Western Wind' is one of my favourite poems. Thought to originate in Tudor times, it has been variously interpreted. Some claim it is aboutan awareness of death, others think it is a poem of passionate yearning.

Let's read it together.

O Western Wind

'O, Western wind, when wilt thou blow

That the small rain down can rain?

Christ, that my love was in my arms

And I in my bed again'.

The poem is brief, occupying no more than four lines on the page, yet it is powerful. Why?

Let's take a glance at how it works, how it is structured.

The alliterative 'w' sounds occur four times at the start of words in the first line, echoed by the 'w'ending the word 'blow'. Now, we've identified the sounds but what effect do they have? Why are they there?

I hear a keening sound in them, a whine, almost a sense of despair.

After a time of drought, there is a need for 'small rain', soft and nourishing to the soul.

The use of the word 'Christ'in the third line revealsadeep need,not only for a real lover but a universal one, to satisfy unfulfilled longings, to bring redemption and healing.

The poem endswith the desire to be in one's own bed, a place of love and security, but also of birth and death.

The 'speaking voice' of the poet creates a timeless dimenson. Read 'O Western Wind' andlet it lingerin your mind untilyou findyour own conclusion.

There's notmuch on television that I like, not eventhe news.

I look outfor gardening programmes, which featurewildish gardens, like mine. Iwatch 'Dechrau Canu, Dechrau Canmol' now and thenand home makeovers.

Tonight there was an enjoyable programme called'Restoration Home', coming from Landshipping, Pembroke.

A brave soul called Alun Lewis bought the shell of what was once a grand home, 'Ty Mawr', or 'Big House', for275,000 tenyears ago. It hasfour acres of grounds and some derelict cottages. Across the estuary, stands Picton Castle, the design of whichinspired Ty Mawr.

Two historians, carrying out resesarch at the Pembrokeshire Record Office, discovered Ty Mawr had been built in the early nineteenth centuryby MP Sir John Owen. Sir John owned coal mines but he was reckless with money, borrowing more than he could afford to repay comfortably.The fight to win a seat in Parliament in 1831 was bitterly fought and he spent thousands of pounds on drinks in the 'Mariners' Hotel' Haverfordwest, courting voters.

Tragedy struck on Valentine's Day, 1842, when a mine under the River Cleddau flooded, killing forty people, including women and children as young as ten.Financial ruin ensued and Ty Mawr was auctioned in London. By 1907 records show the 'Big House' was crumbling away.

Alun Lewisworks in the port of Milford Haven to finance his dream. Window sills have been installed from slabs of slatebought for 160. There'sa stove consistingof metal drums welded together, 20,000 worth of windows, and floor boardsthat camefrom a village hall.

When the programme ended, part of the house was habitable and Alun has taken up residence.

He's following his dream and I wish him luck.

With all this talk about the money markets being shaky, I've just read an article about women and money.

Yes, we expect men to take care of us. Time to grow up, girls and fill our own piggy bank, it seems.

Married women let their husbands do the financial thinking for them and 'Cinderella Singletons' don't think much further than their next pair of shoes, either. (I'm not being nasty, it's based on a survey).

Seventy per cent of women will end up providing for themselves. Only forty seven per cent of women are saving enough for retirement, compared to fifty nine per cent of men.

Women are not lessresponsible.Manytake part-time workto fit in with their children'sschool time-tables and holidays.These jobs tend to be less well paid than jobs carrying good pensions.

Part-time work means not only a smaller cheque butless to save as well as spend. In times of cut-backs, the part-timers are the first to face redundancy.

Manywomen with children maynotbe able to save until the children are independent. Perhaps then they should work full-time put all their earnings into some form of investment.

I've been writing about the fisherwomen of Llangwm for a book I'm working on. Llangwm is a small village eight miles away from Haverfordwest. These women were the feminists of their day, the men being knownby the wife's name.

On market day, the women sold mussels, herring, shrimp and oysters and other sea-foods outside St Mary's Church, Haverfordwest.

After the day's trading, they stopped fora jug of porter and a pipe of 'baccy in 'The Lamb' in Dew Street, before setting off for home. Idon't think they'd allow the men to sort their pensions out, somehow.