It all seemed so simple on the phone; take the A55, join the A5, turn left at the sign for Caernarfon and in four miles take the turning to ... except that what I'd written down bore no resemblance to any place name in the locality, which all seemed to be a long string of strangely juxtaposed consonants, full of "l"s and "g"s with the occasional "y" functioning as a vowel. I didn't really want to stop and ask for directions, as my desired destination, the Pant-Y-Down Very Private Hotel might mark me out as an unwanted pervert in these austere chapel-going communities where such places had to be Very Private for a good reason. But I couldn't trundle up and down this bloody road all evening.

I stopped outside a house where an elderly lady was pottering in the garden; she'd know everyone in the district and with a bit of luck would be too unworldly to have an inkling of what some of them get up to.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for a hotel ... maybe a guest house ... run by Miss Myfanwy Jones ... I forget the name, but I'm sure it's very close to here..." I put on my normal-clean-living-tourist look and was rewarded that rarity, a beaming Welsh smile.

"Yes, second-left and it's the third house along. Might I ask, what are you down here for?"

Oh shit, she knows, she'll be noting my car registration and telling the police, or maybe the minister...

"Just a bit of sight-seeing," I blustered.

"Can I give you a tip?" she asked.

I nodded, blushing furiously, and thinking, if this is anything to do with whips, I reckon I'll die on the spot.

"If you've got an afternoon free, get up to South Stack cliffs and see the puffins. They'll only be here another couple of weeks."

Relieved, I mumbled thanks and moved on.

I soon pulled up outside the hotel, unsigned except for a tourist board logo; it was certainly small and discreet. I was late, and being late is a discourtesy which, when visiting a domme, can cost you dear. If she's cross, you'll probably get extra punishment and if she's very cross you'll probably go away with no punishment at all ... not for the first time, I wondered just how I'd got into such a weird and crazy scene.

As I walked up the path the kitchen door opened and there stood the bulky figure of Miss Myfanwy Jones. I had half expected to find her dressed in a black PVC corset and steepling Welsh hat but she was clearly in vanilla today, though my practised eye could discern the contours of a corset beneath. She was well into middle-age and it clearly showed, but anyone who chooses a domme on the basis of looks alone is a fool and doubtless has the scars to show for it - age and experience are what matter in this field, together with the ability to present a realistic scenario. She grunted hello but at least didn't drag me inside by my ear, nor did she offer to help with my luggage. I gave my name but merely received another grunt for my efforts.

"Dinner's at seven-thirty, you're in room 4," was all she said before waddling off through a door marked "Private".

I made myself at home. The bed was lumpy, but at least had an iron framework for handcuff play. The view was disappointing too; the advert had promised a glorious vista of the Menai straits on the one side and the sun-dappled rugged peaks of Snowdonia on the other, but all I could see was a yard, an access lane and a copse which probably hid the rugged peaks from view. An hour to go before dinner. I lay on the uncomfortable bed and read a chapter or two from "The Story Of O" to get myself in the mood for the evening session, then ambled downstairs at around quarter past.

There was another guest in the lounge, a rather school-marmish young woman with small, puckered red lips, scraped-back hair and surprisingly tight clothes, probably a size twelve dress on a size fourteen body. Not too bad, probably a bit suppressed by her day job, which in all likelihood meant that her fantasies would run riot once she got in the dungeon. Time to get acquainted.

"Excuse me, do you just bottom or do you sometimes switch?" I asked.

"I beg your pardon?" she replied, rather curtly.

A novice then, not used to the jargon:

"What I mean is, does your boyfriend always beat you, or do you, like, take it in turns?"

Her hands suddenly began to tremble passionately, then she rose and dashed out of the room. A minute later there was the sound of pattering heels and the clunking of a case bashing the vestibule walls before the front door slammed.

A large head peered out of the kitchen door, reminding me of the velociraptors in "Jurassic Park".

"Where's Miss Hardacre?" asked the proprietrix.

"I think she went for a little stroll before dinner," I explained, hoping that Myfanwy hadn't heard the additional sounds which I had; the grinding of hastily-selected gears followed by a crunching, tinkling noise as the young lady attempted to speedily rejoin the main road.

Myfanwy grunted yet again and retreated into the kitchen and I was left to ponder my indiscretion. Miss Hardacre had clearly been upset by my mention of a boyfriend; I had forgotten that fetishism attracts lipstick lesbians like wasps to a picnic.

Dinner was, I supposed, a mini-punishment in itself. The leek and potato soup was watery and tasteless, and the organic Welsh lamb was in all probability organic to the point of having staggered down from the hills in a state of advanced senility to become roadkill on a Caernarfon roundabout. The vegetables came from the same aqueous stable as the soup, except for the roast potatoes which were burnt. The dessert was a bowl of blackberries in gloopy custard; I had to admit that the blackberries weren't at all bad, but then they'd probably been picked for free from local hedgerows. I feared that the coffee would be some powdered monstrosity full of chicory, so I settled for the value-label tea.

"You can watch TV in the lounge," suggested Myfanwy as she took my plates away, and I decamped to watch a soap opera in Welsh on S4C. One thing was beginning to worry me, namely that I appeared to now be the only guest for the weekend's entertainment, and I can only take so much of a bad thing; I was hoping for a carload of giggling women in oversized Japanese schoolgirl outfits to turn up, but they never did. Timidly I went and knocked on the door marked "Private"; Myfanwy opened it and I tried to peer beyond the expanse of her shoulder to see what equipment she'd later be using.

"I was just wondering ... what time does the first session start?" I asked. Her eyes suddenly gleamed, and she informed me that she'd be with me shortly.

Ten minutes later she strode into the TV lounge and stood before me. She wasn't wearing fetish gear, in fact she was now wearing nothing at all, but her body still bore the indentations of her hastily-discarded corset.

"I expect you're waiting for Miss Myfanwy Jones, alias Iffy Miffy, the Gwynedd Lash Queen?" she asked.

"Yes ... please," I gulped.

"Well, I'm not her, see. It's a very common name around here, you know. That pervy place is half a mile up the road. You're not the first English gentleman to make that mistake but, since you're here ..."

Then she clutched me in arms which were horribly strong, and thrust her lipstick-smeared, hair-fringed mouth suggestively towards mine. Now I know that in BDSM, fear is your best friend, the one who holds your hand when you're bound and vulnerable, waiting for the first lash, making sure you're respectful and promising you such a sweet endorphin high when it's all over. But this wasn't fear I was feeling; it was a sudden sheer, mindless, gut-churning terror.

The door marked "Private" closed behind us, and I beheld my nemesis. On a trestle table lay a sinister collection of leeks, rows and rows of them, some squat and stubby, others supple and whippy, pale white stalks crowned by sharp, dark green leaves. I stood transfixed as Miffy tore at my clothes like a dragon.

"Croeso y Cymru," was all she said.