It was a wonderful wedding on the island of Anglesey, marred only by the hotel staff the following morning. They seemed to believe that at these prices, it was ok to produce a toaster that didn’t work, and then ask those who’d ordered scrambled eggs on toast to use the toaster provided. By the side of the toaster was a leaning Piza-tower of jet-black toast, standing as architectural evidence of the machine’s malfunction. But we were merely guests getting in the way of the staff’s Sunday routine – and that would never do.

The day before, we had witnessed a young couple setting off on married life’s winding road with – as is the fashion these days – two delightful kids already in tow. A simple ceremony with the bride in a stylish pearl dress and the groom immaculately tailored. Lots of photos and variously-flavoured Champagnes. Anecdotes from the bride’s Dad along with an inpromptu speech and tears from the groom’s Dad. It was terrific stuff, and a very special day.

It was a long, long way in time and space from Stalingrad in December 1941. There, a Jewish baby was born at entirely the wrong time and place. Called Aron, he survived a weaning with almost no food as the German invaders lay siege to the city in temperatures of -40 degrees. Outside the city walls was a young man – an anti-Nazi, but fighting for his country – with a younger half-brother called Karl.

Last weekend – almost seventy years on – the Israeli Aron’s daughter Einat married Karl’s eldest son, the Welshman Steve. And without being too soppy about it, there is something marvellous about that.

“I’d like to take a souvenir home that’s uniquely Welsh” said my wife as we headed back towards England, and a plane bound for France.

“How about Neil Kinnock?” I suggested. Jan wrinkled her nose.

“Nah” she said, “we’re already over the baggage-weight limit”.