It is late in the afternoon and I am seated in Evans Restaurant that sits upon the banks of a river with waterfalls, swirling ponds and floral trees smelling faintly of pollen. Children play happily by the riverbank - diving fully clothed into the water they splash their comrades who retreat to the hillside where a miniature steam engine circumnavigates the town. Small stone bridges and narrow cobbled streets lined with brass lanterns lead toward its centre. There are brightly decorated shop-fronts tended by men with neat moustaches, making them look like strange fraternal brothers.

A vibrant buzz fills the town. And a melodic tune carries through its streets from a brass band playing from a central rotunda - sounds surrounding Sunday picnickers with red checked blankets and wicker baskets filled with sandwiches and treats.

High upon the hillside a horse drawn barge carries passengers along a narrow canal. Freddie Ruxpin (a seventeen hand Clydesdale) slowly tows his passengers who seem comatose, staring vacantly over the valley that is shaded with the amber hue of autumn.

I can see mire. It is in the distance and shadowed by a tall ring of mountains that are green then barren grey toward their peak. Spikes of shale protrude like pinecones, meeting thin grey clouds in the sky, forming a mountainous bowl that encloses the valley to the outside world.

Looking toward the river. I see ducks struggle with the current. Mother Duck leads a procession of yellow ducklings that tumble with the whitewash like corks in a Jacuzzi and I watch them with the interest until interrupted by a waitress with a lisp - ‘Whithky thir?… courthey of Mr. Evanth?’, who approaches my table with an apologetic smile.

Evans accent is strong and I have trouble following his words. One in five is indecipherable and he has a tendency to wink when he makes a joke which he does frequently if not effectively. I feel that I am trapped within a dream and that our conversation is surreal.

Evans face is ruddy – weather-beaten like a vagrant’s, with bright dancing eyes that sit beneath thick matted brows, reminiscent of a moth. He wears a moustache, black and waxed, like the other men in the town that he preens like a nervous cat.

‘First stranger for a while’ he says, looking me up and down.

‘My car broke down’

‘You were lost?’

‘uh-huh…my map … well … I must have been mistaken…’

‘Ha, ha ,ha…’ (he laughs introspectively). ‘Biggest secret in Wales’ he says with a brisk nod whilst rolling his eyes… ‘your car… with Evans?’

‘The mechanic?’

‘Aye’

‘He’s collecting it for me…’

My encounter with Evans was brief and occurred less than three miles from the Jaguar I’d abandoned at the roadside. The map showed no sign of settlement however smoke rose steadily from a clearing in the distance so I set out to discover its source.

The road wound steeply into the mountain, twisting and turning as it climbed toward its peak. Narrow branches overhung the road, forming a natural twisted archway that filtered the waning light except at the clearing where the sun blazed through like a beacon. At the clearing I peered perilously over the steep slope into a panoramic mountain bowl- dissected by a busy river with a quaint thatched township seemingly spawned by the mountain.

The road twisted downwards, presenting a steeply convoluted trail until it levelled suddenly as it ran toward the township where a weather beaten truck stood sentry by the roadside, it’s driver sleeping at the wheel.

‘Hello!’

The man moved slowly, pulling his cap from across his eyes.

‘H_u_l_l_o’, he said - pronouncing each consonant as though his life depended on it.

‘I need help’

He looked toward me suspiciously - raising an eyebrow.

‘Is there a mechanic about?’

‘Ya be wontin Evans’ he said, repeating the same strange dialect.

‘Evans?’

A smile curled at the corner of his mouth and he winked as he slid slowly from the truck, uncoiling to a dizzy height.

Evans handed me his card then his hand enveloped mine like a python.

‘Ya gone into town’ he said, taking the keys from my hand ‘I’ll cim n findya win I knows what’s wrung’.

I walked purposefully towards the town with heavy strides past plaster clad houses with neatly hedged gardens and brightly embroidered curtains that flickered inquisitively with my passing. Children playing ball games stopped suddenly – pointing grubby, stubby fingers until neatly dressed women ushered them silently inside. I felt whispers aimed gently at my back and watching eyes with hands cupped over mouths create a whisper that carried through the air like some cognisant breeze toward the town’s central square.

The afternoon sun shone thinly - leaking orange coloured rays onto the square. Shopkeepers packed away their wares, wrestling ‘closed’ signs with shoppers that threw watches in their faces as though it were a talisman. Serious businessmen with hats and coats walked briskly from brassy plaqued offices proclaiming ‘Evans and Evans Solicitors’, ‘Evans and Co. Accountants’ and ‘Evans Surveyors’ - toward a Central Park where they gathered, forming a large crowd.

I walked slowly about the square, stopping from window to window to examine the odd assortment of shopss. I reached ‘Evans Taxidermist’ where I cupped my brow to the window as pedestrians stared toward me like a side-show…

The shop was small, filled with all manner of animals, frozen in time. At the front a tall Clydesdale horse, wore the name ‘Max Eldridge’, upon a plaque…

‘Max Eldridge’ I said aloud - the name seemed oddly familiar…

Max stood proudly in the shop front. He wore a thick leather yolk that draped upon the floor behind and a proud expression with his hoof held in mid stride like a charger. Beside him was a fox, two birds and a dachshund, that slept curled upon the floor, frozen in time before a fireplace.

‘Max Eldridge’…it echoed… like a yesterdays headline.

I walked slowly past the shop front, spying a restaurant to my left where I entered.

Evans continued his longwinded monologue, imparting the origins and the strange history of the town as I continued my daydream. His voice monotone buzz like a mosquito that rang annoyingly through my head. From time to time he would reach across, slap me on the shoulder, laughing as he poured neat whiskey into my glass. Something troubled me deeply…Evans infact the Evans…

I turned toward him suddenly…’tell me about Max’, I said.

‘Max?’

He looked toward me with interested eyes…

‘Max’, he said

I nodded gently…

‘You know Max?’

‘Max Eldridge?’ I said…

‘Funny thit ya’d know Max!’ he said ‘Max wiz ear list vistor’