Sir,

In a weekend that witnessed Gaddafi's murderous rule come to a stuttering halt, a weekend when hurricane Irene sashayed across the Atlantic and then slammed into the east coast of America like a runaway Amtrack stoked with LSD, on a weekend that saw gold prices soar to new heights and markets quiver in anticipation of a double dip, Tenby in south Wales held its annual... Paella Festival.

Amongst the tinkling halyards of the moored yachts, alongside the fishing smacks, in the evening shadow of the gaily painted pastel coloured buildings, the Tenby Lions organised a festival to celebrate the Spanish national dish, and what a wonderful occasion it was.

Amid the detritus of a failing world economy there is something, and I risk getting an awful lot of flak about this, something decently British about the whole event. Tenby is not deepest Wales, it is not the valleys, it's vacation land, therefore there was a decent sprinkling of foreigners, English, French, even Swedish, most of the visitors attracted by the astonishing beauty of this wild coastline, with its vertiginous cliffs, battered castles and blue waters.

The event, held in the bowl of the harbour, as if in the maw of a mighty Welsh giant, protected on three sides by the high ground, topped with the pastel coloured houses and hotels, like giant uneven teeth splitting the skyline. Neoprene clad teenagers screamed and shouted as they plunged and swam the chill waters of the harbour, children huddled in groups on the breakwaters dipping crab lines with tempting bacon lures, the encircling harbour paths studded with the grey tufts of the oldies that could be seen bobbing along, their white faces occasionally flashed in the gloom as they peered over the wall to gain a better view of the festivities.

As the globe spun away from the light, the high white cloud was tinged pink with shades of orange, as if nature was competing with man to see who could paint a more beautiful painting in the fading light. The harbour pastels eventually giving way in the encroaching dusk, the church spire was the last of the manmade edifices to succumb to the twilight.

In the melee of the event, men in chefs hats circulated, telling tales of past events and how they had been cooking all day; one particular gent had a tissue for a lens in his glasses, not lost in the paella one hopes.

Beer and cider cans from cold water buckets were handed out, the stage on the quayside provided a back drop and cover for the bands, whilst a bare-chested, heavily-tattooed man and equally tattooed partner jigged and swayed to the music.

Children, adults and teens watched, cheered and danced to the bands, from folk to western. The final act was a four-piece band, the lead guitarist and vocalist was outrageous, his guitar work mesmeric, the female vocalist was a sensation, her clear voice cut through the electronic fog like one of the seashore rocks splitting the tide. Despite demands for an encore, they had to refuse, no doubt some council rule about noise after 10 o'clock.

You can keep your holidays in Turkey, forget New York, forget the Leeds festival and put time in Spain on hold. For genuine character, friendly people, and an unbelievable atmosphere, give me the Tenby Paella Festival in August.... and who was that last band, you were sensational.

Pete Fisher,

25 Central Drive,

Penwortham,

Preston,

Lancs.