I was packing my dry clothes away into the rucksack, and chatting to a chap who was waiting for his washing to finish - he was glad to be out of the house, as he'd been stuck at the top of Clyro hill during the snow.
While we were chatting, an old farmer came in, carrying a pair of large vases. They were a sort of deep pink, with a picture on each side, and obviously quite old. He said that he'd been trying to get rid of them at one of the Hay antique shops, because his wife had threatened to smash them.
"Ah, those are seconds," the man from Clyro said, in a knowledgeable tone of voice. "See there, where the glaze isn't even? The fairground people used to buy them up by the truckload and use them as prizes - the makers would smash them otherwise." He said they were worth fifty quid of anyone's money. The old farmer said he hadn't even been offered a tenner for them.
"Well, I'll offer you a tenner now," said the man from Clyro, and did the deal right there and then.
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