On a drearily dull evening, in heavy gales and drizzly weather, we found ourselves in Britain's smallest city, St Davids in Pembrokeshire. A choir was singing beautifully from within the tungsten lit cathedral, whilst outside the mood was sombre, damp and lonely. It was one of those times where it would have been handy to be religious, to join the warm congregation inside, to open your lungs and hear the beauty - yet there was beauty still, in the rustling leaves in the trees, in the perfect curve of the distant hill, of the faint sound of the sea and of the ever reliable advance of dusk
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