Julia Donaldson, the new Children's Laureate and best-selling author, has spoken out against the Government's plans for closing libraries.

The Haverfordwest Libraryopens Monday to Saturday, when it closes at 1 pm. It has two 'late' nights a week, closingat seven o'clockWhenI was a child my local libraryopened all day ona Saturday afternoon, givingthose who worked in the weektime to browse. I've wondered for years why library opening hours are not more flexible.

Wittgenstein, the philosopher, called language a 'key skill', providing access to other areas of learningand helping us to order our thoughts. We have four vocabularies:listening, speaking, writing and reading. Reading exposes us to a wider vocabularythan we might otherwise have.The more books we read, the greater our language facility becomes.

I'm fond of people's published diaries. Nella Last's 'Housewife 47' gave me hours of pleasure. Nella's writing waspart of a survey during World War 11 andshe describesthe monotonous dreariness of her life.Frustrationsin her marriagebecome apparent and she worriesabout one of her sons. The war gives Nella arolebut when it endsshe slips back into housework again and loses some of her vivacity.

'Housewife 47' comes in aDVD, too, but nothingcan replace the written word andthe feeling of solitude that being alone witha book gives.

Why don't librariesopenon a Sunday?Leisure centres do.More people might use them then.As it's a question of money, libraries are probably doomed. I suspectthat ifthey'd opened for longer hours,more people might have used them and they would not be facing closure now.

'May I introduce Lucy Walter?' asked Lady Herbert.

Lucy found herself gazing into a pair of the deepest brown eyes she had ever seen.Whilst she could not claim the man was handsome, yet his presencewas compelling.Furthermore, she had felt him watching her every move that evening.

'Robert Sydney at your sevice, Ma'am'.

'Colonel Robert Sydney', added Lady Herbert.

Lucyfelt her hand being grasped firmly, herpulse quickening and a faint flush spreading across her cheeks.

Noticing her consternation, her companion extended his arm.'It is somewhat warm in here. May I suggest we repair to the balcony?'

Casting an apologetic glance in the direction of her godmother, who smiled fondly at her, Lucy allowed her new acquaintanceto escort her through the large doors at the far end of the ballroom and outside into the cool evening air.

Candlelight from crystal chandeliers spilled out through the long windows,shining on the canal below.There was just enough light for Lucy to seesomething was amusing Robert Sydney.

'So. I am in the presence of Lucy Walter. Shame that my brother, Algernon, was forced to put duty to his country before his own pleasure'.

Lucy's heart sank. It was as she feared. 'Algernon Sydney?' she whispered.

'Aye, the very same Algernon Sydney.'

Seeing Lucy's distress, he pulled her to him, roughly.

'The Algernon Sydney who paid your father fifty broad pieces so that he could own you'.

Lucy bit her lip and lowered her head.

'Don't play the innocent with me', he warned.

Putting his finger beneath her chin, he forced her face upwards and was about to lower his mouth on hers when instinct came to her rescue. Robert Sydney was too large for her to push away. Instead, she brought her foot down firmly on his toes.

Yelping, he fell back against the wall. Lucy dare notlook for a moment, but when she did she saw that Colonel Sydney was laughing helplessly.

After a whilehe recovered himself. 'I'll say this for you, Lucy Walter, you are a spirited wench'.

Lucy Walter's father, William, was a rogue. He inherited a fortune, which should have enabled him to keep his family in some comfort, but he was a spendthrift and rumour had it that he was virtually penniless.

Because of his wifeElizabeth'sCarbery connections, Roch Castle was requisitioned by the Cavaliers and William Walter was obliged toprovidehospitality he could not afford.He sent the king a bill, which was considered bad form andmeant he would never gain preferment. Furthermore, he had fathered two illegitimate children who were cared for by Elizabeth, so the household wasnot harmonious.

The role of unmarried women during this time was difficult. Apart frombecoming companions to elderly relatives, there were few genteel occupations available. Many whiled away their timeby embroidering garments or repairing household linen.

Lucy's father had a house in Covent Garden, London, which the family visited and this was how William Walter became acquaintedwith the Percy family, whose sons were Puritan Colonels in the pay of Cromwell.

Walter struck a bargain with Algernon Percy, agreeing to sell his daughter, Lucy,for fifty broad pieces of gold, effectively making the eighteen year old girl Percy's mistress. However, before Algernon claimed his share of the bargain, his regiment called him away and she was passed to his brother Robert.

By now, Charles Stuart wasin The Hague, where he had taken refuge form the Civil War. Lucy, too, travelled to The Hague soon after, under the assumed name of Mistress Barlow. (I am unsure if she was under the protection of Colonel Robert Percy ormerely a camp follower.) However, she renewed her frienship with Charles and soon they were lovers.They settled into a comfortable relationship, Charles delighting in Lucy and his infant son and Lucy calling him her 'Black Boy', for he was darkly handsome in a swarthy way.

Charles had grave matters to attend to and was often away andLucy found it difficult to be faithful andtook other lovers.We'll talk about some of them tomorrow.

When I published my novelabout Lucy Walter, my husband asked, 'Do you think anyone is going to be interested in her?' As it happened, many people were.

Lucyis believedto be the ancestress of Diana, Princess of Wales. Lucy's portrait is in Althrop, the ancestral home of the Spencer family andanother portrait of Lucy hangs in Scolton Manor, now a museum, ten miles outof Haverfordwest.

When the book came out, the local bookshop was crowded with people purporting to be related to Lucy. Many of them came from Rosemarket, a village a few miles out of Haverfordwest, where the Walter familyspent some time in the 'Great House'.

I'm sometimes asked how closely haveI kept to Lucy's lifestory. I have researched in the Record Office, Haverfordwest and in the National Library of Wales andI have readcontemporary accounts of her life. My novel followsLucy'sstory in chronological order, tying it in with Charles's life as far as I can trace it. Therefore, I call my work 'faction': fiction based on fact. (I have made upintimate conversations, but I follow Lucy and the Court to The Hague, keeping the dates correct, for example).

I have atheory, and facts of a sort, to support my belief that Lucy and Charles were married in Saint Thomas a Beckett Church, Haverfordwest. Why was the Marriage Register for that particular year requisitioned by Parliament and returned with the relevant page missing?

But problems arise: When Lucy was eighteen, her rogue of a father sold her to the PuritanColonel, Algernon Sydney, for fifty broad pieces of gold. Before Algernon could claim Lucyhe was calledaway by his regiment and she was passed to his brother, Colonel Robert Sydney. It could now be argued that Charles and Lucy met andfell in love inThe Hague. Later, she gave birth to their son.

Charles acknowledged James as his son and supported Lucy, James and her daughter, Mary, whom she had by another man.

I wanted to write about Lucy.I felt her presence strongly when working on the book.Lucy died in her late twenties, a prostitute, destitute,on the streets of Paris and Charles paid for her funeral.He had many loves and mistresses, the most famous of whom was Nell Gwynn, the orange seller, but His first love was his Welsh mistress, Lucy Walter, and I wanted itacknowledged.

I've been telling you about Saint Thomas's Green in Haverfordwest, where the May and October fairs were held. Vagrants, hobboes, knife grinders, horse dealers and all manner of hobble de hoi made their way here twice a year in times gone by and we did, too, until it was moved.

Nearby is the Norman Church of Saint Thomas a Beckett where Emma, my elder daughter, was married twenty five years ago. My twin grandsons were also Christened here.

Itis in this Church that Lucy Walter and Charles Stuart, the future Charles 11, were said to have been married, when both were sixteen. This fact may seeminconsequential, but ifit is true, Lucy's descendants, the Buccleuchs, are the rightful heirs to the throne of England, through the bloodline of her son, James, Duke of Monmouth.

Let's go back.Lucy Walter wasbrought up in Roch Castle, eight miles from Haverfordwest, on theSaint David's road.John Evelyn, the diarist, described her as a 'beautiful, browne, bolde creature', after he had once shared a carriage with her. Apparently, hegave her the eye and sheheld his gaze, which unsettled him somewhat.

Although not of the aristocracy, Lucywas well connected. Elizabeth, her mother, was a cousinof Richard Vaughan, second Earl of Carbery, who lived in Golden Grove (Gelli Aur), Llandeilo. And it was here, in Golden Grove, that Lucy and the young Charles were said to have met when both were fourteen. Undoubtedly theymust have made a big impression on each other if they married two years later. (People married much younger then because theaverage lifespan was about forty years.)

Lucy and Charles's story begins during the 1640's whenCivil War ravished the country. This occurred because Charles 1, the young Charles's father, believed in the Divine Right of Kings. To him thismeant that he could rule without reference toParliament. Specifically, he did not need Parliaments's permission to raise taxes.

The country was divided. Whole families were split.Those who supported the the king were known as Royalists. Those who opposed him, led by Oliver Cromwell, were Parlamentarians or Roundheads.

Asad, bloody time arose. OnJuly, 1644 the Parliamentarians won a decisivevictory at Marston Moor and Oliver Cromwell took this victoryas a sign that he was justified inopposingthe King.

We'll carry on with the story tomorrow (it'll be a bit racier) but lest we get too bogged down in history, here is the type of dish Lucy's cook might have prepared. (It comes from an eighteenth century handwritten cookbook I own, which originated in the Stratford, Worcestershire area (Shakespeare country, in fact).

'A Pretty Dish Of Eggs': Crack some eggs into a small dish, being careful not to break the yolks. Lay one on another. Drop on them some warm butter. Season. Strew some breadcrumbs over. Put in hot oven till the whites are firm. Serve with a wreath of parsley around them.

I was going to write aboutLucy Walter today.At a recentart viewing in Picton Castlesomeone enquiredif I was Lucy Walter. 'No, I'm not',I replied. (Unlike George Bush Junior, asked about the cancerous lesion removedfrom his face, I did not say, 'Thank you for asking').I also refrained from saying, 'Actually, no'.

I've got this niggleabout people who insert 'Actually' before giving anegative answer.I know why they do it, actually.

For instance, in answer to, 'Were you invited to the Royal wedding? or 'Didyour horse win the Derby yesterday?' they'll say, 'Actually, no',as though 'actually' impartsa dignity that saves them from looking likelosers.

So, no, I'm not Lucy Walter butwe dohave a fewthings in common. We were both married at sixteen and my husband is vaguely related to her and to Diana, Princess of Wales.

(He didn't know the last two factsuntil I unearthed them, butstill remembersour wedding anniversary, asking me to buy my own presents because he's run out of ideas- it is fifty one years, after all).

l'll talk about the 'bold, brown, beautiful' Lucy later in the weekandI can talk, because I've written a novel about her but, for now, I'll leave aside one of the the world's most alluring Welsh mistresses andcome toMum and Menna, instead.

Well, it was last Saturday afternoon. They'd both had their hair blow dried and wore their new outfits from Max Evans, Carmarthen. Bowls of chips, a plate of chicken Mayo sandwiches (no salad), tea and raisin muffins in the Ivy Bush and they were off tovisit a friend who lived ona farm two miles away. Menna, seventy five wasat the wheel ofherRenault Clio, Mum, eight eight,in her Calvin Klein sunglasses sitting by her.

They had gifts ofchocolates, a magazine and flowers.Kisses allroundand then they satin the garden. Bighugsand then it was time to go.It had been lovely. Theywere told not to leave it so long before calling again.

Driving down the narrow country laneon the way back to the mainroad, awhite van zoomed up behind them, tooting. Menna pulled into the next layby, so did the van. Menna's throat tightened. Mumthought of the Letterston maniac who shot at random. (He wasjailed for life last week).Mum usedthe side window to take down the van number. They sat there, uneasily, for a couple of minutes.

Menna pulled out again, so did the van. They tookthe Roman road back to Carmarthen,in an attempt to shake him off, but he followed. Menna's stomach lurched (newly widowed and recovering from an operation, she felt fragile) but there was only one thing for it. Shedrove straight to the local police station and gave the full details.They're investigating and I'll let you know.

PS Mum loves her mobile but did not want to over re-act. I've told them to never pull in again.

When I was a child, salad meant summertime. It's scorching June in Haverfordwest, hay making is in full swing, the tractors are slow as beetles on the road, but we're not eating cucumbers, lettuce or tomatoes.E-coli strains in imported vegetables have made it dangerous.

The quay in the old two town in Lower Fishguard is lined with holiday cottages but there are a handful where local people live all year round. Two of the houses, semi -detached, have square gardens on the side and I was particularly taken with one of them this afternoon.It hadrows of shallots ('shibwns' that I like dipping in sugar and eat between slices of thin bread and butter), lettuce andglaucus blue cabbages - abeautiful deep bluey purple colour.In between the rows of vegetables, clumps ofpink aquilegia (grannies' bonnets) and forget- me-nots grew and there were cream tea-roses in the corner, climbing up a wall.

If you can grow your own salad ingredients fine, but if you can't or don't?

I like half myplate to be filled with vegetables, whether we eat salad or not. (Did I mention that when Peter's thyroid troubles resulted in a swift loss ofa stone in weight, I gave him snacks and joined him? He put on ten pounds and stabilised and I put on a stone?)

To make up for the loss of salad this week at teatime,we have had asparagus with poached eggs (since the Eggwina Curry egg scare Peter will not eat 'runny' eggs). We've also hadhot boiled beetroot, squirted with lemon juice, ground pepper and a teaspoon of horseradish sauce beaten into a spoonful of mayonnaise, with dry-fried Halloumi cheese, Peter first checking that the milk was pasteurised.

A bowl of of peas (frozen can taste better than fresh) or broad beans with salty Sir Gar, Carmarthenshire, butter, with crispy fried coutons ofbacon scattered on top,takes your mind off salad. Don't cook the broad beans for longer than ten minutes because they lose the flavour and turn brownish.

Peppers, including the sweet ones that look like long fingers, can be roasted with onions andmushrooms. Scatter with thyme and rosemary,sea salt and brush with olive oil before puttingthem in the oven.Tear fresh basil leaves over the vegetables when ready to eat. I have borage in the garden and, apart from floating the blue flowers inlong drinks, they look good on roasted vegetables.Salads need mayonnaise and it's good with cooked vegetables, too. I'll talk about it nexttime.

The Great Fair of Saint Thomas Ye Martyre is heldin May and October in Haverfordwest. Untilrecentlyit was situatedon the Green, (loads of complaints in the local paper), close to St Thomas a Beckett's Church, beforemoving to the edge of the town.

Fourteen years ago Itook my twin grandsons to the opening of the May Fair, when they were four years old.Suspendedabove the crowds, they watchedas the Town crier rang his bell, the vicar said a prayer and arichly caparisoned Mayordeclared the revelry could begin. Harry and Oliver twirled round and around, unaware they were taking part in an ancient custom.

There were hot dogs and candy floss,but nobear baiting or cock fights and no slabs of sticky gingerbread either, which were a feature of the medieval fairs.

To provide sweetness and moistness, iron rich molasses or golden syrup was used in the gingerbread.Nita does not have a gingerbread recipe in her book but she does have one for Ginger Cake.

Aswell as ginger, cinnamon is used. Spices, highly prized and priced in the Middle Ageswere introducedto this country by the Knights Templars when they returned from their foreign travels. (No Gift Shoppesthen).

Nita's recipe is undated, but the inclusion of powdered egg suggests it was wartime. I've substituted a fresh egg.

Method:

Take 12 ounces of Self Raising flour, half a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda, 1 ounce of powdered ginger, 1 ounce of cinnamon, half a pint of hot water, 1 egg, 2 tablespoonfuls of treacle or syrup, quarter pound oflard (butter for me,darlings), quarter pound of brown sugar. (I would add a good spoonful of marmalade for the flavour andthe chewy piecesof peel).

The next part is simplicity itself, which is whatI like. Put butter, sugar, treacle in a bowl and pour over the hot water. Mix and allow to cool. Add beaten egg and the rest of the ingredients. Mix again. Bake in a moderate oven for about 45 minutes. (Molasses burns easily, so be careful). I have made this with honey insteadof treacle and it's good. I mix the juice and grated rind of an orange with icing sugarand pour it over the cooled cake. This is not Atkins, so don't worry about the carbs girls.