My friends Malcolm and Claire run a conference business that goes by the name of Dynamic Events. They work incredibly hard and are very successful. But they have one rule. On Sundays they stay in bed the whole morning. Wo betide anyone who knocks on their door before one o'clock! They are not at home to foreigners. My nation is the circle of my friends. And the only friend they have on Sunday mornings is each other.

Heidi and I had just such a Sunday morning. Neither of us had done such a thing for years. We decided it was a wonderful way to bring in the New Year after spending New Years Night at the Angel Inn in Cardigan with mini-skirted young things a quarter our age all around us...though strangely none of them danced to the live music and the boys and girls stayed together in their segregated groups.

In bed we read our horoscopes, talked about making New Year Resolutions (but then forgot to do so), had interesting conversations prompted by articles we read in the previous day's Guardian, drank coffee, made love, kissed and cuddled, listened to the radio, played some CDs...and decided we should expand the concept and declare (with Bob Geldorf who also entered into our discussions) that we too hate Mondays...and Tuesdays...and so it was agreed that we should do this on the other days of the week as well. How I wished!

In fact Heidi was visiting for ten days over the Christmas and New Year and the next day was taking the train back home to England (and almost to France for she would be stopping just thirty miles short on the English side of the Channel). This was our last day together for some while. We took a walk in the afternoon...at least we started off along a footpath heading out for the local Spar store to top up Heidi's mobile phone...but we ended up turning back and taking the car.

Welsh footpaths are interesting...they start out boldly signposting the unsuspecting rambler through woods, across tumbling brooks and high on narrow bridges over the rushing waters beneath. Over stiles and into the fields you go, led on by the little yellow arrows proclaiming footpaths in two languages. Then all of a sudden the signs peter out...and explore as you may...you will find no welcoming little yellow sign to guide you out of the field, over another stile and on to your destination.

In Sussex the footpaths are nowadays a source of some pride to the county councils who have laboured long and hard over the past decade to put up their signs and maintain the trails and bridal paths for man and horse. Arrows point somewhere. Paths join up...and destinations arrive. Not so in Wales.

Linda McCartney gave us dinner...two of her vegetarian dinners for £2.50 did us proud over the New Year...another bottle of wine found its way onto our dining table, into our glasses and then strangely disappeared to goodness knows where...leaving us in mellow mood for watching Gregory Peck in Moby Dick on DVD...my household does not believe in televisions and has figured out that a lot of DVDs can be loaned and watched on my Apple Mac Mini before costs come even close to the annual TV licence fee. But we had expected better.

The film was terrible...on that we both agreed. Strange. Malcolm Bradbury and John Huston had written the script and John Huston had directed the film. Unwilling to end a happy day on a sad note, we dusted off my Cardigan Library copy of Captain Corelli's Mandolin...Nicholas Cage is one of my Hollywood heroes...Lord of War is his most recent triumph...and we had watched The Family Man over Christmas...made in 2000...we knew because the New York skyline still had the twin towers that were blown up in September 2001.

We had both seen the film before but the difference was that I love watching good films again whereas Heidi has yet to acquire the habit. One of the nice things about doing things together is talking about it afterwards. So watching a film by yourself is different to watching it with someone else. Besides I experience a film differently the first time...when my attention is riveted on the 'what next, what next' of it all.

J.B. Priestley wrote a wonderful little book called Delights...he managed to find well over a hundred of them and included fountains and fireworks...his Festival at Farbridge is one of my favourite novels. Happiness comes in many guises but I agree with Jack Priestley that delights certainly lie at the root of one of them.

My day had been filled to overflowing with delights...and as a special New Year bonus I had also lived lightly on the land...although I could hardly claim to have ended the year in credit...this became only too clear to me the next day when I took my half a dozen plastic bags of holiday waste to the recycling centre in Cardigan.