Pour Decisions

Del Hughes spills the tea (and tears) on symbols, surprises, and a fierce farewell

My grandma used to say, ‘It’s raining old women and sticks.’ And Geoff—my elderly Kangoo—is certainly under siege by what sounds like the South Wales & District W.I. doing a celebratory twmpath on the roof.

His wipers are locked in a war of attrition against the deluge, and I swear he’s groaning beneath the weight of it. Perfect day to end my six-month sofa sabbatical of navel‑gazing and inertia. Eye-roll.

After a long stint in my greatcoat of gloom (aka depression, brought on by a malfunctioning thyroid), I’m back. And with new meds coaxing the real Del out of hibernation, I’m ready for some good old-fashioned fun.

And when I say ‘old-fashioned,’ I’m not exaggerating: this practice has roots spanning centuries, originating in ancient China and the Middle East.

But it was in Victorian Britain that this curious art truly flourished—becoming both a fashionable parlour game and a ‘professional’ service offered by travelling mystics, and cunning folk keen to earn a few bob.

And today, I’m stepping into that world—teacup in hand, scepticism on standby, and my fortune? Still brewing. See, the past fortnight’s been a bittersweet tisane: sweet in places, ending with a sharp, surprising aftertaste—Tim’s retiring this Christmas (Lord have mercy!)—and with one cup I’m not quite ready to lift. Maybe, if I start with the good stuff, I’ll be brave enough to pour out the rest later.

So, kicking off with the positivi-tea (get it?), Geoff and I were heading east to Barry, for an esoteric afternoon of tasseomancy—or, for the uninitiated like me, tea leaf reading.

I knew it was going to be epic: a darkened room, a dusty aspidistra, antimacassars, and an antique tea set breathing steam into the warm, scented air. And of course, a woman draped in shadow, expertly divining the future. Eek!

Percy the Pelican

I hadn’t been back to this seaside town since the halcyon days of the ’70s, when bank holidays meant one of two things: a spin on the island’s gaudy gallopers and the gloriously named Chair-O-Planes—or a trip to Penscynor Wildlife Park, where Percy the Pelican ruled the roost, terrorising kids with unmistakable, beaky glee.

So I mostly hold fond memories of the Island. But their Bobsleigh Ride? Even then, it was a strong entry for Final Destination 3. Thus, with nostalgia nudging my navigation, I added a few detours to take in the town’s delights (Gavin & Stacey included. Lush!)

When we finally limped into town, fate seemed to cut us some slack: the rain eased, the clouds parted, and a smidgen of sun broke through. And then—unbelievably—as we pulled into The Colcot Arms (site of Smithy’s calamitous pub quiz), a Plaxton Beaver cruised by in the unmistakable livery of Dave’s Coaches.

At the wheel? Dave himself, rocking his Stetson and tan leather jacket. Crackin’.

In Trinity Street, we swung by Gwen’s, then dashed down to Marco’s, or tried to. But since Geoff’s infotainment system was a radio and tape deck, I was relying on my phone to get us there.

Even at full blast, Google Maps was no match for Geoff’s escalating grumbling (or, for that matter, mine).

Four attempts later, we’d made it. No time to stop, though. We managed a brisk drive-by of the theme park before heading to our final destination—Gulp!—in search of that most sacred Welsh observance: a cabalistic cuppa.

And the location of this augury adventure? Barry Railway Station. Sigh.

Red brick

As stations go, it’s exactly what you’d expect from a small-town hub: red brick, flat roof, and a no-nonsense canopy stretching over the platform. It has a quiet, workaday charm—weathered signs, a few benches, a timetable board. It’s not trying to impress; just quietly getting on with the job, rather like Barry itself.

But, for a celebration of sorcery, it wasn’t quite what I’d pictured. Still, there was ample parking, and the air was laced with Assam and enchantment (plus diesel), so like the Bisto Kids, I followed my nose.

However, beyond its façade, there were surprises: a cheery witch (wo)manned the ticket office, spectral streamers swathed the ceiling, and a quaint Ladies’ Waiting Room—complete with neat red pews and scrupulously spotless loos—offered sanctuary for those of a delicate disposition. Deffo more spa than station.

And then there was the coffee shop: the architectural equivalent of a bag of Skittles… with added LSD. A riot of colour, cake, and creativity, with psychedelic décor, art-adorned walls, and a bohemian vibe, it was run with the crisp efficiency only a man in a bowler hat could deliver. I’d reached Coaltrains Coffee Shop—and it was bloody glorious.

Founded in 2022 by Al Edge and his brother Brian, it breathed new life into the station’s disused space and quickly became a local favourite. Run by the brothers, it serves excellent coffee, legendary bacon baps, and a generous helping of personality.

And it’s more than a pit stop: while you can use your mobile, most people choose to sit, sip, paint, draw, or just have a chat. It’s not what you expect from a train‑station café—and that’s exactly the point.

Somewhat dazzled by this splash of joyful eccentricity (and the host of full-caff/decaf options), I ordered a ‘bog-standard coffee with milk’—and was gently told by that bowlered barista, Al, that bog-standard wasn’t on the menu. Fair play.

The coffee (beans from the Welsh Coffee Co) was rich, roasty, and ridiculously good, and when I later caved for the Biscotti Latte, I realised this was java worth missing your train for. Cowing lush!

 But today was about tea, and it wasn’t hard to spot the owner of the inspired ‘Cups and Sorceress’ moniker: Gem (sister to Al and Brian), and a woman with a gift for conjuring the perfect brew.

While other wannabe leaf readers trickled in, I stole a moment for a quick natter. Gem—a warm, welcoming, and delightfully eclectic witch—had a soft spot for tea and a passion for plants.

She discovered the esoteric early, after devouring Pratchett’s Wyrd Sisters, and had been dabbling ever since.

But tasseomancy is her anchor: from choosing the herbs to reading the cup, it’s ritual, reflection, with a hint of Olde Worlde wonder. And if you’re feeling down, her remedy’s simple: ‘Let’s have a cuppa.’ (These beverage-loving siblings certainly know that comfort starts with a kettle.)

Gem kicks things off with a brisk history of tasseomancy. The term blends the French tasse (cup) with the Greek-derived suffix -mancy, meaning divination. By the 1800s, it was so popular that scenes of ‘cup-turning’ began appearing in art.

Gossip

Recreationally, it became a favoured pastime among women across the social spectrum—a chance to gather, gossip, and spill both tea and titbits, safely out of earshot of moustachioed gentlemen.

And who could blame them? Then, blokes controlled everything from politics to property, so cuppa clairvoyance offered women a mischievous outlet—a whisper of rebellion steeped in observance and, arguably, a fragrant first stir of feminism. Well played, ladies.

For Gem, reading the leaves is a meditative process—less about fortune-telling and more about focus. The symbols offer a way to look ahead, look inward, and recognise the answers we often already hold. Sometimes, seeing them in a teacup is all it takes to sharpen our instincts and face what’s next, with intention.

Then it was time for tea. Buzzing.

It turns out there are more steps to a good reading than you’d think, and it all starts with a cup and saucer. Gem had laid out an assortment of vintage china and a handful of loose blends; our first task was to choose whatever called to us—both in crockery, and flavour.

 ‘Ideally,’ she said, ‘use a shallow bowl with a plain interior and plenty of surface area—perfect for catching whatever the tea wants to tell.’ I chose a yellow set and plumped for Builder’s Brew. As long as it’s loose leaf, the tea doesn’t need to be swanky.

We skipped the teapots and dropped a teaspoon straight into the cup. Al added hot water from the urn. Then we waited.

If you try this at home, make your space calm—turn off the telly, put your phone out of reach, take a few deep breaths, and only then begin the tea-making ceremony.

 From my perspective, that would also mean dispatching Tim to a golf course. The man is noise incarnate; even his breathing has a backing track. And forget an internal monologue—if he thinks it, I hear it. Mind, that does mean his secrets are an open book, while mine remain mercifully private. Teehee.)

Five minutes later, we were fully infused. Milk and sugar? Perfectly fine—Gem says they won’t muddle the message. So if you don’t take your brew neat, no worries. I added a splash of semi, and we drank quietly, deliberately, letting the questions we’d come with, steep as we sipped. And crucially, we raised our cups with our non-dominant hand.

(This supposedly helps bypass logic and let intuition take the wheel; it’s a symbolic, cheeky way of saying, ‘Shh, brain—let the magic happen,’ and opening yourself to insight rather than analysis. Fingers crossed.)

Surprisingly, drinking proved the trickiest part, because you can’t sup without swallowing leaves. Gem’s solution: suck through your teeth, then dribble the debris into the cup. Silence fell, punctuated only by thick soggy plops as wet remnants hit porcelain. Tea etiquette: nailed. Lol!

Finally, don’t fully drain—leave about a centimetre of tea in the bottom, enough to cover the sediment. Given the juvenile compost heap I’d accumulated, I left rather more. But before the big finale of tossing (yep, I snickered), we had to swirl.

Swirling, you’d imagine, would be a casual affair. But in Pagan and Wiccan practice, direction matters. Most tasseomancers recommend swirling widdershins—three anticlockwise sloshes—which is curious, given that in folklore, that’s the direction of undoing, unravelling, and ill omen. Oo-er.

But here it works, because we’re not summoning, we’re letting go. The motion stirs the energy, frees the foliage, and coaxes it into movement. It’s a gentle disruption, a way of clearing the cup’s canvas so the leaves can settle into readable patterns. And then comes the toss.

Saucer atop cup, grip both like you’ve trapped a black widow, and flip in one smooth motion. The aim? Invert cleanly, keep the dregs contained, and avoid an accidental homage to Jackson Pollock—though in this café, I bet it wouldn’t cause a stir.

It’s quick and deeply satisfying, when it works. I, however, had enough leaves to mulch a garden, clammy hands, and a tremor of doubt. The crockery rattled ominously. But—bugger it—I flipped, and… success. Phew.

And just like that, your cup starts talking.

Chaos

Though my saucer was awash, what clung to the cup looked intriguing—and for ‘intriguing,’ think pure chaos. There was no way I was getting a story from that bad boy. But luckily, Gem walked us through the process of reading it like a pro.

You don’t, as I did, squint and guess—there are rules: ancient, arcane, and clearly dreamed up by people who understood the power of a well-placed leaf.

You begin at the handle, which denotes the cup’s owner, then read deosil (clockwise) around the cup, moving downward. The rim reveals hours or days ahead, the middle shows the next week or two, and the base hints at what’s coming, a tad further down the line.

It’s structured, symbolic, and vague enough to feel profound. As Gem says, it doesn’t exactly see centuries ahead, but it does give you more chances to dabble—which, frankly, is reason enough.

More than prophecy, it’s a way to make space for yourself in the present: a quiet moment, a warm cup, and a tradition that asks nothing of you but your attention. In a world that rarely pauses, that’s no small thing.

At first glance, my cup held a menagerie: rooster, dog, cougar, Komodo dragon, and possibly a pelican (Percy? Shudder).

Gem had warned us that the best cups were rarely straightforward, and mine seemed determined to prove her point. Layered on that was a witch astride her broomstick, flames licking upward, and a jagged mountain on the horizon—hardly a coherent narrative, but plenty to ponder.

Then my table neighbour, Blanche, leaned in, and together we watched the images sharpen: at the rim, a broken candle, and at the base, a woman poised to take flight. Her figure radiated gaiety, and even I, a tasseomancy novice, felt this must be a good omen.

When Gem joined us, she confirmed the two central motifs. The candle, she said, symbolised illumination and clarity—guidance for the path ahead. Its broken form, positioned where it was, suggested I might need to seek help soon, possibly even that same day. Hmm? As for my jubilant woman, that was indeed a dazzling sign of freedom and joy to come. Boom!

Tootling home, infused with happiness, I felt buoyant—I’d had a truly fantastic time. I’d pushed myself to try something new, laughed so hard I was thanking the goddess for M&S period pants, and felt the quiet thrill of stepping into life again. For a few precious hours, I wasn’t just present—I was properly connected. And it reminded me how good it feels, simply, to belong.

However, in a stunning twist of fate, three short miles from home, there was a sudden bang, a deafening scrape, and Geoff jolted violently, roaring far louder than usual. We were (literally) in bits, immobile, and in trouble.

I mean, c’mon! Barely ninety minutes out from Gem, and Geoff’s exhaust was on the deck, and I was begging the AA for help. Coincidence? Or had the leaves actually called it? Ooh, spooky.

While we waited for a hi-vis hero, I mused that maybe the tea hadn’t predicted disaster so much as change: that even when parts fall away or fail, the journey can still continue—eventually—with the warmth of connection coaxing us back into motion, back into the flow, and back to where the real magic lies.

I only hope Geoff can be coaxed back into motion too, poor dab. Aww.

Cousin Jen

And now… deep breath… some sad news. If you’ve been with me since the start of my Nation.Cymru career (or dipped into my book—yes, you five), you’ll remember my stepsister Cath—originally introduced as ‘Cousin Jen.’

She adopted that alias as a DIY witness protection scheme—to shield herself from my storytelling and its more toe-curling tales. But after a few months, and a few bottles of wine, she happily dropped the anonymity.

Cath made her debut in Naked Attraction, my first ever article, which sprang from a mortifying (for me) life drawing class at Swansea’s Glynn Vivian. I didn’t go for the sketching. As I put it then:

‘I was there because of a tumour—Cath’s. She’s okay, for now, aside from an absent immune system and frequent brain fog. But she says, ‘Better than being dead,’ which is more than fair enough.

Cath is genuinely one of the nicest people I know; if Snow White skipped off the celluloid and into a Costa, that’s Cath. I guess that makes her sound a bit saccharine, but she’s not, and when it’s just the two of us, she ditches Disney, lets loose a dirty laugh, and even dirtier secrets.

Life has been harrowing for her, so I think she deserves as much fun as we can find, and if she feels well enough to venture out, I’m happy to take us wherever she fancies.’

Despite that disastrous first foray, we kept going, each escapade more unexpected than the last. From float tanks to ghost hunts, flying owls to psychics—she was game for anything, and we laughed. A lot.

But now she’s gone, leaving a Cath-shaped hole in all our lives.

Diagnosed at eighteen, she always knew the tumour would eventually win. Her oncologist once admitted that no other patient had lived a decade beyond that point—so reaching forty-three, though far, far too young, made her a medical marvel.

And she didn’t waste a moment, cramming her years with more living, more travel, more friendships, more stories, and more mischief than most of us could achieve in twice the time. Irrepressible and unforgettable, she was a true original.

So goodbye to a devoted pet mum, wannabe zoo owner, expert crafter, gifted artist, adventurer, troublemaker, partner in crime—and the fiercest fighter I’ve ever known.

And I can only end with a photo of a gift she once gave me…

Count me in, Sis. You sort the shenanigans, and I’ll see you on the other side.

Gem runs courses regularly, so if you fancy an afternoon of leafy magic, gentle chaos, and witchy wonder, you can find details on her Instagram: @CupsandSorceress, Facebook: Cups and Sorceress, or email Gem at [email protected].

If you’ve got a hankering for coffee, cake, and conversation, Coaltrains Café has you covered. Search Facebook or Instagram for Coaltrains Coffee Shop Gallery Barry—their website will be up and running soon. And if you do pop in, make sure you try that Biscotti Latte. Belting!