This is the book I should have read on holiday, and took it with me but couldn't face a doorstop. I regret it now as the easy style, romantic just-about-believable tales and evocation of Wales were delightful to read. Lots of celtic hyperbole and tall stories, and dated in places (it was originally written in 1984 and slightly updated in the 90s). If I'd read it on holiday I would have had the family corralled into driving miles into the hills to see where Owain Glyndwr is rumoured to have picked his nose and used it to ford a crevasse, or the lone stone in a graveyard that St David tripped over and killed the last snake in Wales, or whatever
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