It was four years ago in the town of Abergavenny – gateway to Wales, proud host of the National Eisteddfod in 2016 and home of cricketer Malcolm Nash, whose claim to fame was allowing Gary Sobers to hit six sixes off just one over. Abergavenny is not to be confused with nearby towns like Felinfach, Llanvihangel Gobion, Cwmbran, Pontnedfecchan or Cefn-coed-y-cymmer Dowlais. (Down a couple of dark ales tonight and twist your tonsils around one of those).

Abergavenny is also noted for being the place where Nazi Rudolf Hess was held in an historic hospital through World War II after fleeing Germany in 1941 in an ill-fated attempt to negotiate peace. 

He was convicted of war crimes and committed suicide in 1987, but I don’t think we can blame Abergavenny for that. I found it a charming place.

But back to the lecture about eggs. The miffed Welshman owned the B&B where I stayed for a night on my way to the glorious Brecon Beacon mountains.

He seemed to be in his early 60s with a rich lilting voice and an obvious pride in his lodgings.

I got the tour of the place – a living area with fire, dining room and kitchen downstairs, and bedrooms upstairs with ensuites. First impression was like walking through an oversized doll’s house owned by a hoarder with a beard.

Cushions were layered in multiples of 10 or more on every quilted, crocheted or appliqued surface, be it bed, lounge or chair. Why have two pillows on a double bed when you can have 28? seemed to be the style “story”.

No table surface was clear of vases, doilies, framed photographs, prayers and exhortations to “Make every day worthwhile” or “Always believe something wonderful is about to happen”, statues, ornaments, fluffy toys, souvenirs of grand trips to Brighton or Liverpool and lamps. Lots of lamps.

No wall was safe from “art” – landscape prints of rolling hills dotted with sheep or cows; safe abstracts in pastel hues and pretty renditions of tables and chairs or fruit in bowls. And then there were the ornate mirrors with tiny tables flush to the walls beneath them. Covered in fussy little things, of course. 

The bedroom and bathroom were stuffed full of goods. The bed was somewhere beneath a small hill of cushions and pillows, many tasselled or bearing more positive philosophy – “You’ve got one life to live. Make this one count”, “The best way to predict the future is to make it”, “Tough times never last but tough people do”.

I couldn’t find the one that said “The first step towards sanity is ditching the cushions.”

Every facility or item came in multiples. Instead of one soap in the bathroom there were about a dozen, with multiple packets in the dresser. Multiple shampoos, razors, towels, floor towels, shower curtains, and toilet rolls. Multiple stands of multiple toilet rolls. Was there something about Welsh food that noone had warned me about, because my B&B owner seemed to have provisioned me for a digestive system meltdown of epic proportions.

I spent three or four minutes clearing the cushions off the bed into a small mountain beside it, used one of the soaps and toyed with using two to justify their existence, and wandered downstairs for a walk through town.

It was downstairs near the door that my B&B owner mate handed over a piece of paper about the kind of eggs available for breakfast in the morning.

“If you could just tick off if you want scrambled, poached, fried or boiled, and we can organise that for you. But it will have to be in by 3pm today or we won’t be able to do it,” he said.

I took the paper, said thanks and wandered off to enjoy Abergavenny.

I’ve stayed in a few B&Bs in my day, both at home and overseas. The owners seem to fall into two categories. There’s the ones who’ve travelled themselves and know what people really want in such a place, like a really comfortable bed and pillow, cleanliness, a decent shower, even more cleanliness, a decent kitchen, and even more cleanliness.

Then there’s people who see their B&Bs as a reflection of their worth. They cram items into a place where strangers drift in and out. So they’re anxious about what might happen. And some get a bit… how can I put this carefully? Bloody annoying.

I forgot all about next morning’s breakfast as I wandered around delightful Abergavenny and crossed the threshold of my Welsh mate’s establishment just after dark.

He wasn’t happy.

Him: “I’m afraid we won’t be able to do eggs for you in the morning.”

Me: “Um, that’s okay. I usually only have muesli for breakfast anyway.”

Him: “Well, I did make it clear that we have to have the eggs order in by 3. After that I’m afraid it’s off the menu.”

Me: “Um, well, there will be cereal, won’t there? And a cup of tea?”

Him: “Yes, but not eggs. We have to have the order in by 3. House rules.”

Me: “Um, okay, thanks.”

In the morning I walked down to the dining room, which was empty but for a bird in a birdcage. There was nothing said about eggs, but my Welsh mate made a point of lowering his arm to show the boiled egg and two fried eggs he was delivering to the only other diners in the room who arrived after I did, to show what I was missing.

Maybe his hens downed tools by 3pm and wouldn’t produce after that time. Maybe he employed a chef based on how many eggs were on order. Maybe he was just weird about eggs after a traumatic childhood incident with a chicken. I don’t know.

But the bed was comfortable, the shower was hot and when I left with a smile he wasn’t to know I was picturing Basil Fawlty.