West Wales has a surprisingly large Italian community. Surprising because it's hard to associate a country in which fashion, gourmet cuisine and fiery temperaments reign supreme, with one famed for its love affair with the leek, primitive attitudes and continuous rainfall.

I don't know why the Italians chose to settle in a place with more sheep than people, but the influx adapted well to their new climate. In fact, they seem to fit right in. They are mostly farmers. They disregard fashion in favour of country casuals (bind-a-twine for belts and wellington boots). They are insular, and ill-at-ease with even the slightest change. Perhaps the decision to emigrate in the first place had something to do with these similarities in character and outlook. Perhaps these outcasts deliberately sought out a part of the world that wouldn't insist on congregating in pavement cafes or sipping wine on yachts from beneath the brims of their sun hats.

A few people in our village could lay claim to a Mediterranean heritage. One such family were the...urm, I probably shouldn't use real names. We'll call them the Goodfellas. There was definitely an element of Mafia mindset about them. Their main priority in life was land, and keeping other people off it. They lived on the outskirts of the village, up a long track. They didn't like neighbours. They didn't really like people. They used to bring the kiddies down to catch the school bus in a manure splattered 4x4, and I clearly remember one rainy day, where they sat in the vehicle and watched an unfortunate fellow pupil shiver and cough for a full ten minutes, without even considering inviting him inside.

The kiddies were difficult to tell apart. They all had regulation short back and sides. I imagine father would line them up with the sheep and shear them to create this effect. I think the daughter got the worst deal in this respect. It was incredibly easy to confuse her with her brothers. We used to call them Elvis, Elvis and Elvis. The youngest one suffered from a weight problem, if he fell over in the playground, it was impossible for any of the other children to help him up without popping an arm out of its socket. The oldest one suffered from rage. He came across a group of us hanging around the end of their drive once (I think somebody may have had their big toe resting on it) and when we refused to meet his demand that we get off at once, he threw his bike at us. So the following night, we drove up to their house, and knocked their gate off its hinges. A small victory, but for a family who thought the purpose of electric fencing was not to keep animals in, but to keep people out, it couldn't have caused more outrage if we'd sent them a dog turd in the post.