I had been driving for less than a year when I started work with Post Office Telecommunications in 1974.

It was the practice of the firm to send those new starters with driving licenses out in a 3-ton vehicle for assessment. So, one bright January morning I was seated in the cab of a Bedford TK with another new starter and a Post Office driving instructor.

Viv, the other newbie, drove us out of the depot through the early morning traffic of Cardiff. It was obvious he was an experienced and accomplished driver. We stopped at the Post Office Main Sorting Office (I was told they did the cheapest breakfasts in Cardiff) and the other two proceeded to order and then demolish ‘The Full Monty’ of a breakfast. I had a cup of tea. (I never got used to the civvy way of having breakfast after getting to work).

After breakfast it was my turn to drive. The only other vehicle I had ever driven, other than the driving school’s car, was my Citroen Ami 8, (the model up from a 2CV) with a powerful 602cc engine and a dash-mounted gear lever. Not surprisingly, I felt somewhat uneasy sat high up in the cab behind the large steering wheel and floor-mounted gear stick of the Bedford.

I drove carefully out of the Sorting Office car park. Thankfully, the streets were quiet, and as we proceeded --slowly – along the main thoroughfare out of Cardiff, I gained a measure of confidence. We headed north, towards the Rhondda Valley. Further into the hinterland the road narrowed as it threaded its way through the linear Valley towns. It was then I became aware of traffic hazards not encountered when learning to drive around Reading: to wit, Valley folk and Valley sheep!

Valley folk are the salt of the earth but they were/are prone to spend a lot of time gossiping when out shopping in the high street. That was the hazard; the talking was usually conducted in the middle of the high street. I had to take much anti-collision avoiding action, the locals unconcerned as traffic swirled around them. Another hazard was when following a delivery vehicle it would suddenly stop with no indication, just the sudden flash of brake lights if working. If you remonstrated with the driver for his lack of road sense you would receive the following response.

‘I’m Davis the Dairy/ Phil the Fish/Jones the Meat (etc.). All the Valley knows I stops by here on a Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday (etc.). You must be from Cardiff, or some other foreign place, if you don’t know that, butty!’

Sheep to most people are white, fluffy, rather vapid creatures who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and spend their time running away from things, anything.

Not Valley sheep, who are big, rangy and mean. They have long, greasy, matted wool, malevolent eyes, and a belligerent attitude. They are the Hells Angels of Woolly Back World. A gang of them --flock is not a word to use for the breed -- would come swaggering into town, kicking over dustbins and terrorising the local dogs. They roam where they like and like where they roam. Nothing vaguely edible is left in garden or dustbin after they pass through a village. Put a mob of these sheep on ‘One Man and His Dog’ and they would drive off the Border collies, round up the contestants, Phil Drabble et al, and pen the lot of them up in that gatey thing.