Wales and the Welsh are no longer a dismal joke

In the hall at Aberglasney — a fine, classical country house, built in 1720, 20 miles north-west of Swansea — high up by the cornice, an elaborate chunk of plasterwork is missing. To give the full catalogue entry, it is a rococo console, carved with twirling honeysuckles, a motif dear to the ancient Greeks.

I know, to my deep and lasting shame, where to find it. In fact I can see it now, on a mahogany stand next to my desk. Its protuberant plaster leaves provide a nice perch for my keys where I don’t forget them. For all its usefulness as a key perch, the console would look better glued back to the cornice in Aberglasney’s drawing room. And so I am returning it. It was 20 years ago that I took the console — a country-house-obsessed teenager on my year off, en route to my parents’ cottage in Pembrokeshire.

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