For centuries, the Welsh lads had a monopoly on the letter ‘L’. Scurrying around like disreputable hobbits, they carved the letters from stone, deep in the mines of the valleys.
But they got carried away, throwing perfectly good L’s into practically every name they could fine until that day, the last letter L was mined.
If you listen carefully, on a still day, you can still hear a hobbit choir mournfully keening the loss of the letter L. I mean, you don’t want to get too close. It is Wales.
Herewith, a (probably) 1970s Colourmaster guide to the Lleyn Peninsula when L’s were L’s and men were men. Usual electronic flipbook thing.
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