And then there was the M4.
I got to the Festival site quite easily. After leaving the motorway I just had to follow the brown horse signs so that was simple. Getting back was another story.
Now, we live in the west, that is, west of most things. To get to where we live we most often have to go west (or north or south). And if I am at any place, I might be able to point in the direction I'm supposed to be going in order to get somewhere but if you were to ask me on a map, is that east or west I'd have to do that North South East West thing with my finger before I could tell you.
But I'm in the wilds of Welsh Wales where they speak Welsh and the road signs are bi-lingual. So I come to a roundabout and I have to decide, do I want M4 Gn, M4 W, or M4 Dn, M4 E. you try reading that quickly, while trying to remember which way you're going and tell me it's simple.
But suddenly I didn't have to make the decision any more: I'd lost the motorway. Apparently the day before at the festival they'd lost an author. I can understand that: authors are notoriously moveable. Motorways, I'd thought, tended to stay where they're supposed to be. A bit like Cardiff. But I lost that once too.
As it turned out, losing the motorway was a good thing; my journey home was much quicker and prettier. And it took me past M&S where I was able to buy a Two Dine for £10 meal deal that unfortunately included profiteroles - so we had to eat them.