Sparkling version of Under Milk Wood at the Ashcroft Theatre

My Dad is Welsh and my childhood included healthy doses of both Dylan Thomas and Max Boyce. In maturity (!) my interest in Max Boyce has slipped away but Dylan Thomas has stayed with me.

The star in the firmament is, obviously, Under Milk Wood and that star burns brightest in the 1963 BBC Radio version with Richard Burton as narrator. I have this version on CD and have played it many times.

When I heard that a new production was on tour the only question was when and where to see it. I chose the Ashcroft Theatre, part of the Fairfield Halls in Croydon, on the grounds that it was significantly cheaper than the closer Richmond Theatre (I was buying four tickets) and I chose the 19 June because it was a free evening. I had not added the World Cup fixtures to my calendar at that time ...

The transport was very bad to me and both trains that I caught, from Reading to Clapham Junction and then to East Croydon, were delayed and what should have been just enough time to get a beer became a few minutes late and I had to miss the first scene before being allowed in to the theatre. My seat was near the front (G10) but I had to watch the first half from the back of the front stalls, which was fine.

I was captivated from the start. This was mainly due to the narration of Owen Teale which had the same timbre and tone as Richard Burton's. He gradually introduced us to the rest of the large cast as they slept and dreamt and revealed much about themselves as they did so.

If Dylan Thomas' words were the bedrock of the production then the magnificent cast were the solid foundations and they were the people who brought the words to vivid life.

All were good but I only have space to mention a couple.

Steven Meo I recognised immediately from his leading role in BBC Three's Grownups though he was probably better known for his guest appearances in those other Welsh dramas Torchwood and Dr Who. He was the clown in the piece and even had the other cast members laughing at his antics on the toilet.

I also recognised Hedydd Dylan immediately but it took longer to work out where from and then I was embarrassed to realise that it was from the three excellent Spanish Golden Age plays that I saw at the Arcola Theatre just a few months previously. She even starred in one of them. Here she played Polly Garter whose song about a lost lover (one of many) was the most moving part of the play.

The simple stage accommodated all of the cast and gave them the space to take their turns in the limelight as the story moved through the village. Above the stage a neat model showed us the village and the passage of the sun through the day.

This production of Under Milk Wood was beautiful. It let the words shine through and the acted scenes complimented the changing moods neatly, unlike the film that did more than was necessary and so lost contact at times with its heart.

Under Milk Wood was well worth missing England v Uruguay to see.

Portmeirion is as delightful as I hoped it would be

I was in north Wales for the Sci-fi Weekender which was held in Pwllheli at Hafan y Mor Holiday Park. Guests were expected to stay at one of the on-site caravans but caravans are not my style and a quick look at the map told me that Portmeirion was nearby and that was an easy choice to make, despite not expecting to find The Village at its best in early March.

There is a hotel there but I chose to stay in one of the houses. This was in a little collection called Chantry that sat high above one side of The Village. From the house I had an unexpected and very welcome of the colourful houses ringing the town square.

Day-visitors are welcome to Portmeirion but some of the paths are for residents only and it is one of these that I took each time that I went down to the square.

Looking across the square shows the magic of The Village.

The houses on the cliffs at the back are of a familiar rustic design but there is nothing familiar or rustic about the way that they are painted.

A classic style folly sits at the far end of the square.with the garden sloping behind it.

Spots of turquoise draw the eye to the window shutters, park bench, frivolous pillars and railing that follow a steep set of steps down to the square. There are more classic style features too, such as the urns and the low barrier around the fountain.

Somehow this confusion of styles and colours works brilliantly and it is a joy rather than the mess that it could have so easily been.

A closer look at some of the houses shows the attention to detail given to the design of every single aspect of The Village.

What could have been a simple picture of pretty cottages is enhanced by the roof decorations, small square window with dark blue edging, tidy blue lamp, patterned railings, small alcove with a white twisting pillar and gold lion that sits above it all.

A road leads down the sort distance from the square to the waterfront. This is where the hotel lives. It is as grand inside as it looks outside and I had a comfortable evening in there enjoying a few beers in one of the heavily decorated lounges. This is also where I went for breakfast and the walk there and back was a welcome start to the day.

The hotel reception has two large photobooks of weddings held there and I can imagine that this is an important part of their business now. That and Prisoner fans who, like I did, can sit in Number Two's white spherical chair and spin themselves around in it.

Moored next to it is the stone boat Amis Reunis that can weather any storm but travel in none.

Moving on to the hotel and looking back inland delivers a scene of tranquillity that suggests that the canon is unnecessary.

The estuary is very tidal. When low there are the flat sands that Number Six tried to run away along only to be stopped by Rover. And when the tide comes in it covers the path in front of the white wall on the left.

There are warning signs about the tides and sands and these are necessary. I walked out on to the sands at low-tide and my feet fell a few centimetres in to the sand with every step. Even more when I jumped.

The white buildings stuck on the side of the cliff can be reached by steep narrow paths that pause at times to let you see the estuary in all of its beauty.

Moving on beyond the hotel there is a choice of paths through the hilly woods. I got lost.

Not that that matter, or was unexpected. I was happy just to stretch my legs and to see where the paths took me.

There are two main routes and a number of smaller paths running between them. All were well maintained and that made them easily passable no matter how steep or narrow they were.

The woods held a few surprises as the whimsy of The Village leaked a little in to its surroundings.This is evident in the few physical features, such as the Chinese style resting place, and also in the planting that is equally exotic. Rhododendrons abound, some of which were already in flower, and there are plenty of other plants that are clearly not indigenous but whose names escape me.

Portmeirion is successfully designed for living slowly and peacefully. In every corner of The Village there is somewhere to sit and something to see. Outside, the hills and woods give space for spurts of activity and even there seats and views conspire to make you pause for a while.

Portmeirion is ideal for a short relaxing luxurious break with a fizz of difference. I simply loved it.