Leaving, I toy three clauses in my mind as if they're a charm bracelet. They describe Wales:

'little grey cottages... covered in roses... in the rain.'

The middle clause sets the outer two in a light they usually lack. With the addition of the roses, two humble images suddenly shine like precious stones. 
If the cottages were whitewashed, the description would encapsulate the home of a dear friend of mine,  buddleia and roses surrounding it, and its chimney whisping smoke into the dapple of rain. 
Our house used once to be whitewashed, long before my time. But I like its present granite greyness, making it a continuation of the mountain behind, and of the rain. As for the roses, I think our soil is too acidic. Instead, sheep bloom white, dun, and charcoal where they've rubbed themselves against burnt gorse-bushes.