1 – The Long Road Home – Embracing the Fog

It was 9 years ago. The fog sucked the headlights out of the car with a ferocity I had never encountered. Going at 30mph on the A55 was unexpectedly exhilarating. The fingers on my left hand twitched on the armrest willing me to open the window a little. "Just a bit," they urged. I obeyed and cold white sleeves elbowed past the warm air inside. I breathed in the damp whiteness - loving it, owning it.

We were on our way to Holyhead and  something kept nudging the spot where intuition swirled vortex-like. Wales was proving to be unusual in a familiar sort of way. Quietly, I told P, "I'm home." My husband responded without much drama, "Huh?" I was sure I'd been here before. "I'm home", I repeated, "It's a funny thing to say, I know, but feels like I've been here before.” It was an affinity I'd never felt for any other place in the world.

We reached the end of the A-road and followed a narrow dirt track where it wanted us to go. We could not see or hear the sea through the fog but tasted it through our pores. We were forced to stop as the rolling mass reduced our universe to four doors and a steering wheel. We did not know the roads or where we were and didn't relish the thought that another yard or two along and we could be in the sea. We left the lights on and hoped no one was going to run into us.

P wondered aloud if we were going to make it back to the B&B that night. We talked about Joan, our understated hostess of Uchaf Cwmcamlais farm. I tried to pronounce the name of the farm but tripped over the numerous consonants. I thought about learning Welsh, dreamt I spoke fluent Welsh as I  drifted off with the fog.

It was almost an hour later when I was woken by P. The object that caught his attention was a huge house that sat atop a low hill on an unlikely peninsula. Its outline was fathomable by the light from the gibbous moon. Other than an orangy glow from one of many windows there was no sign of occupancy. The fog was relenting somewhat and I could make out the path that led to the house.

The temptation to go up to the house, peek through the window and risk seeing something scary was great. I hushed my imagination - seeing my own reflection in the window stare back at me at quarter to midnight would be unnerving. I stepped out of the car and fog-fingers curled around my neck as they reluctantly slipped away. What if  it wasn't my reflection but me on the other side of the window looking out at me? Who would live in so remote a location?

I loved the house already. It was calling to me like a long lost friend. I thought of making the owner an offer he couldn’t refuse. Hmmm…