It was a comfortable setting in which to have the problem, sitting with Liz over coffee after an excellent meal, round a log fire much the same size as the one that crisps Edward Woodward in The Wicker Man.

Outside it was raining, as it had been for the past two days and most of the summer. The owners of the 1570 house near Llanasa, not far from Gwaenysgor – stone-flagged, sporting and military photographs, mullioned windows, temperature inside slightly higher than out, in the family since it was built – said that a Belgian couple had phoned to cancel their bed and breakfast booking.

"They said: 'We can't take any more Welsh rain, we are going home,'" said our hostess. "Ha!"

Tall, wiry ladies of Celtic descent married to ex-military men and running the sort of offbeat B&B where first expectations of an evening meal were of rook, rook or (as in the Two Ronnies sketch) rook, can put a lot into a "Ha!"

Next morning, on our way to breakfast with the aid of a guide, we saw a small tent on the back lawn. "Ann sleeps there," said her husband in an offhand way. "She likes fresh air."

Given that it had rained all night, again, Ann must be fond of a treat. Whatever her outdoor life, it didn't affect her breakfast making. Within an hour we went our separate ways, well fed for the day ahead, still wondering about trying to pronounce Welsh place names without sounding as if we were trying to cough, spit and choke simultaneously.

David, the American lawyer, had said the night before: "I'm not good with foreign languages so I prefer to go to countries where they speak English. That's what I thought when I came to Wales. I may have to rethink my strategy."

I knew what he meant, although the first half dozen people we spoke to in Wales had English – as in London and sarf-east – accents. We reached Abergele before we heard two locals speaking to each other in Welsh and got a "my lovely" with a Welsh accent from a shop assistant.

After that we heard much more. About half the population of north Wales speak Welsh as a first language and the annual eisteddfodd was being shown non-stop on television so there were opportunities to listen and learn. We did try. Leaving Rook Hall – as we now thought of it fondly – we were heading for Llanwryst and asked Ann for advice.

"Try saying Clanroost," she said, "and be thankful you're not trying to get to Llanrhychwyn or Pentre-tafarn-y-fedw."

David said goodbye, adding: "I'm playing safe. I'm heading for Conwy."

"Chicken," we said. "Where's the fun in that?"

I waited until he had gone before I set the sat-nav. Llanymawddwy I might struggle with. "After 300 yards, turn left, then bear right," I could handle.