I am not saying that they were the best chips in the world. It was just that they tasted as if they were. It’s what I’ve always wanted, a pub down the road, where if push comes to shove, whatever the weather I can feast on something ‘nice’ and chips.

Now ‘nice’ is not a word I really approve of, come to think of it I’m not that keen on chips. But these chips! They were hospitality, warmth and taste all wrapped into the most divine miscellaneously sized mouthfuls of heaven.

They weren’t one length, they were not all straight, some bent and some curled. They had a colour of palest ginger with cinnamon edges. They lay there coated in a glistening coat that when seasoned with salt and vinegar exploded into a savoury taste as beautiful as a fine strawberry burgundy or fizzy dry Champagne.

The swallow left a lengthy taste that made me take another, then another.  What bliss!

What was ‘nice’?  I hear you ask.  Well anything would have been ‘nice’.  The bangers were just that ‘nice’.

But there were that night things much better than that, yes the chips of course.  There was “The kitchen’s closed, but how about something with chips?” said the smiling chef. Now that was a welcoming response that warms the cockles of both my heart and my rumbling tum.

So, here’s to chips with anything, at the Ponthir House Inn.