Sorry, Russia.

Over the phone she told me her name was Maria and she would like to view the flat I had to let. Her foreign accent didn't surprise me - I've had a succession of tenants from all over the world - but I couldn't guess her nationality so, when we met, I asked her.

"Russian," she said. "You won't believe it but I come from a place called Red Army Town and I live on Lenin Street. Even my surname, Smirnova, sounds like a brand of vodka. I am like a joke Russian."

My perception of Russians has been formed by a superficial knowledge of their history, according to which a seemingly endless string of miseries has hammered them into stoic acceptance that there is neither justice nor fun to be had in this world. To meet a Russian with a GSOH is, therefore, a pleasant surprise. It is of course possible that her joviality stems from the fact that she has just landed a nice job in England (which would only stoke my prejudice) but I am hopeful that this young woman represents a newly-freed generation, one which values international harmony and co-operation above conflict and confrontation.

The man who delivers our packages from Amazon might be Russian: at the very least I am sure he is from eastern Europe. I would ask him, but the opportunity for conversation is restricted by the four or five seconds he is allocated per delivery. This morning he brought a book, The Wales Coast Path. A Practical Guide for Walkers. Having just returned from a few days of aimless ambling around the coast of Wales, my partner and I were inspired to make a project out of walking the path in its entirety. Having bought the book, she is looking forward to buying the stationery - a folder, coloured stickers, a notebook and so on- while I have my eye on a new pair of super-sandals for summer trekking. We were easily persuaded: our few days away were bathed in warm sunshine, the evenings were long and lazy and the sunsets over the sparkling sea were spectacular. Flicking through the book, however, I noted the paragraph warning of the unpredictable weather to which the area is prone - and the one explaining that the 1,680 mile-long coast is not a continuously picturesque vista: urban sprawl intrudes for many a mile. Foot-slogging through Swansea in horizontal rain is a real possibility.

The path does not follow the coastline unfailingly: some parts of it are diverted inland for practical reasons, others because concessions and permissions have yet to be wrung from reluctant landowners. Nevertheless, the creation of this leisure facility - the stitching together of all the various rights of way to form a continuous route - was initiated by the Welsh Government and is a positive example of what can be achieved by the devolvement of political control from Westminster. Driving back from the coast we stopped to visit Powis Castle, a powerful and symbolic reminder that land ownership in these isles was determined long ago by force of arms and subsequently upheld by feudal aristocracy. As I viewed the richly decorated interior stuffed with over-blown artefacts, it was not admiration I felt but resentment at the social inequality it represented. I overheard a curator talking about some of the porcelain on display:

"...of course, the family has kept all the best stuff. What you see here are just the items they can't accommodate or don't want. But it all belongs to Powis. Nothing has been brought in to fill the spaces."

Somehow her words brought to mind my new Russian acquaintance - and her splendidly proud address.