| "They're
deee-licious, mate," Jason says as he pushes a package of blood sausage
at me. He then begins to read the ingredient list as if it were a passage
from a particularly gruesome horror story.
The ailes of this grocery store are as narrow as the streets of Brecon, and the shoppers steer their carts through them the same way they drive their tiny cars through the tiny streets: with a confidence -- no, faith -- that there will be enough space for them to pass each other without a collision. Somehow, it seems to work. We've decided to pack our lunch for today's ride so we'll be able to pause for something to eat. I quickly regret telling them I'll eat anything. We leave the store with pork pies and an assortment of other things that have the word "pork" in their names. I count my good fortune, however. The blood sausage is still back in the store, waiting to menace some other poor soul ...
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