him.â
âItâs as good a place as any, I suppose. But
where
in Cardigan?â said Sir Kay.
âPerhaps, in this matter, we should do what everybody else does,â I said.
â
The Tourist Information kiosk was part of a motorway service station, which also provided fuel for the petrol-hungry bike. Sir Lancelot steered into the petrol station on the lower forecourt, while I parked the Jaguar on the upper level. The Master immediately made for the conveniences and I followed at a discreet distance, lest he remain inside too long and lapse into another reverie. Sir Kay began a grudging search for a guidebook to Cardigan, and Sir Perceval was entrusted with Sir Pellinore in case he awoke from his enforced sleep.
My hunch proved its worth. Sir Kay was not long in finding exactly what we needed, and read aloud from the appropriate page of
Warrenâs Guide to West Wales Wanderings
as the Master and I rejoined him in the glass-fronted kiosk.
â âThe landscape of Cardigan Bay is rife with myth and mystery, and is rumoured to be one of the locations of the legendary court ofâ â well, I donât need to read that bit, er, let me see now⦠ah yes. âThe cliffs of Merlinâs Bay (pictured) are said to be the last resting place of the famous wizard, imprisoned in the rock by Viviane, the Lady of the Lake. If they listen carefully, visitors to the cave known as Merlinâs Tomb (below, inset) might be able to hear the magician snoring in his eternal sleep.â â Sir Kay snapped the book shut. âHackwork of the deepest dye. I say we check Carmarthen first, just to be on the safe side.â
âI feel it prudent that we make for Cardigan immediately. We have been blessed thus far with a relatively uneventful journey. It would not do to tempt fate, Sir Kay. Sir Kay? What is it? What is wrong?â
I followed the direction of his appalled gaze; a look I had previously only ever seen him use in bookshops, when witnessing a purchase he did not approve of.
The scene that presented itself through the window of the Tourist Information kiosk was, indeed, stupefying in the extreme. It ran as follows. Sir Percevalâs stomach hadoverruled my request to stay in the car with Sir Pellinore. He was queuing at a nearby burger stand, and so absorbed in the menu that he failed to see what we did â a bleary-eyed Sir Pellinore stepping out of the car and walking the life back into his legs, wobbling like a fawn.
At the same time, in the parking space directly opposite the Jaguar, an elderly couple had returned to their vehicle and were placing their pet poodle into the caravan hitched behind it. The animal was voicing loud protests at the travel arrangement, struggling wildly under the old womanâs arm. To Sir Pellinoreâs befuddled senses, an innocent canine was being sacrificed to appease the caravanâs blood lust and buy the humansâ safe passage in its interior. We were standing well out of earshot, but I suspect the gist of his resultant cry involved a pledge to rescue the pup from its pagan captors, or die in the trying. To that end, he drew his knife and made a successful running jump at the back of the departing caravan, which then sped away with Sir Pellinore dangling from its rear roof ladder.
Sir Pellinoreâs exodus did not go unnoticed by Sir Gawain on the lower forecourt. Sir Lancelot had refuelled the bike and was waiting to pay for his petrol inside the shop. Sir Gawain, conducting his own refuelling
via
his ever-present hipflask, quickly transferred himself from the sidecar and onto the saddle. He kick-started the bike, and zig-zagged off towards the dual carriageway roundabout in hot pursuit of the caravan.
Sir Lancelot returned to the empty space where the bike had been only moments before. His response was as immediate as it was awe-inspiring. Scrambling up the grassy bank separating the service station from the carriageway, he
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