Some will say it’s turning into a foodie destination, but there’s enough unpretension to burst any inflated egos
What’s going for it? Just back from the Abergavenny Food Festival, where I fell in love with a tomato. As you do. It’s that kind of place. Food festivals are 10 a penny these days, but this one benefits from a distinct scarcity of anyone who once appeared on MasterChef. It’s more like an overgrown village fete, full of people plying their prize marrows or my tomato woman, people who love things and just want to spread the love. I tell you, it was the tomato-ey-est tomato I’ve ever tasted north of Marseille. Abergavenny is a neat and tidy town, seemingly doing quite all right for itself, shopping streets quietly bustling with wool shops and opticians, its cottages and houses freshly whitewashed or grey with stone against a backdrop of green from the three hills that loom over the streets. Some will say Abergavenny is turning into a f***ie destination (I refuse to use the F-word) on account of the festival, and the local cultures of cheesemakers and mountain-lamb suppliers, bakers and yoghurt. Not quite. They are not yet selling yuzu at the Spar (you have to go to Waitrose), and the town has more than enough unpretension to burst any inflated egos.
The case against Precious little. I’m thinking hard and scratching my head. Nope. Nothing.
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