Rain. And some more rain.

Ah, Wales. Well, Wales in a bit anyway, we're in Hereford trying to figure out how the hell we're going to get to A Rum Do's base at Baskerville Hall. Aloud's ex-Hereford accomplice is less than enthusiastic about returning to his old turf. "There's three things to do here," he said, eyeing up the new taxi companies suspiciously. "Be old, drink, smoke draw and do heroin. Oh wait, that's four." Clyro, where we're actually heading, doesn't even have that. The only bus from Hereford goes there twice a day, and we've missed the morning slot. Our taxi driver does a double take and makes that whistling noise through his teeth that indicates something very expensive is about to happen. "Nobody really goes to Clyro except for evening functions when they drive in," he says. Oh god. We're in genteel redneck country. To cheer us up we go to Morrison's and buy a mug with a dog in a tam o' shanter on to drink vodka out of. It's hideous. Despite the rain we're happier already.