Fond Memories of Wales

On Thursday morning, Abbie and I woke up at the ungodly time of 5.45 because Abbie had very kindly offered to drive me to the next farm. It was raining and dark when started driving: we drove out of Bristol, over the Severn Bridge (no toll! On one hand: great, on the other: it's one less thing to blame the Welsh for), through the Brecons and into deepest, darkest Wales.

   On some remote road overshadowed by hills red with bracken and cleft by streams, Abbie wondered aloud what we would do if we broke down here, with no phone signal, miles from the nearest town.
   "We'd just have to walk," I said, "it would only take a couple of hours. At least we aren't in Australia."
   The tyre went flat just 3 minutes from Pont-rhyd-y-groes (our destination). We'd spent hours driving remote roads and broke down 3 minutes from a garage.
   Abbie pulled over and called the RAC but they wouldn't help: we were sat between 2 blind bends so we had to ask the police to tow us somewhere safer. Although at first the police said they would send someone asap, they called again to say that it would take longer than expected, what with the bad weather, lots of breakdowns, and could we move the car to safety ourselves? The answer was no: it would be dangerously stupid. But the officer on the end of the phone didn't trust our judgement, wouldn't compromise. We didn't even have a jack to change the tyre. It looked like we had run out of options and were stuck indefinitely.
   But before we even had a chance to panic a forklift appeared at the entrance to a drive on the blind bend. Abbie flagged him down and he helpfully blocked the bend so that she could pull onto the drive without being mowed down by another car. Gwyn and his mates (Chris and Adam) used the forklift to lift the car and put the spare tyre on for us, then lead us to Chris' house which had a sort of workshop/garage/junkyard full of tyres. It was tyre heaven, tyre Mecca, but none of them fitted Abbies car.
   And this turned out to be another bizarre piece of luck, as you will soon see. Chris made some calls (in a combination of Welsh and swearwords) to several people and managed to order a tyre which would arrive in several hours time.

   So Abbie drove me just over the hill to my Wwoof hosts (their land backed onto Chris'). Part way up the ridiculously steep hill there was a scary moment when the spare tyre slipped but we made it (hearts pounding, fortunately Abbie kept calm). When we reached the top of my hosts drive (also ridiculously steep) we decided not to risk going driving any further, parked, and walked the final 300m or so to the house.
   We stepped inside and immediately got a bad vibe which Abbie noticed far quicker than me: there was nothing obviously wrong, just a slight air of neglect, of half finished-ness and uncared-for-ness. Helen and her husband seemed friendly, and told me I needed to make a decision about my room. I could either share with Kevin, a 50 year old Wwoofer who had been there for 2 years (but dont worry theres a wardrobe dividing the room in two and he's romantically.involved with a woman in the village), or they could put a mattress on the floor in the garden room.
   Abbie raised her eyebrows at me and very obviously mouthed the word "no!" We looked at the rooms. The wardrobe turned out to be a chest of drawers. To fit a mattress on the floor of the garden room we would need to shift several years worth of clutter.
   "I'm not sure you've actually prepared for me to come and stay here," I said.
   "Well go then," replied Helen's husband cramming bread in his mouth.
   Helen tried to repair the damage and persuade me to stay. But we told them we would go for a walk, think about it and come back.
   Once we got outside Abbie said, "obviously we aren't going back." Our walk took us all the way back to the car which was far enough from the house that we could leave unobserved.
   Probably it wasn't the right thing to do, just leave without telling them. But then it wasn't right to offer me a room with a 50 year old man I'd never met.

   We spent the next few hours in the village cafe (Cwtch), drank tea, ate undercooked chips and greasy beans. I tried to come to terms with the fact that I now had nothing to do for the next 5 weeks.
   At 3pm we returned to Chris' workshop for the tyre. We told him I wasn't staying at Helen's after all. He said it was probably a good move: they were an odd pair, and didn't bother to look after their land. Chris said he would send his bank details to Abbie so she could pay him for the tyre. He didn't charge us for his time, or the favours he called in. We began the long drive home.

   What if Abbie had decided to wait for the RAC and Helen came to pick me up? There was no phone signal I would have been stuck at the farm. What if we had driven all the way to the house? What if Abbie hadn't given me a lift at all? There was a bus stop but it was a very remote place.

   All in all it was a very long, weird day. But Chris, Gwyn and Adam were so kind to us that it was almost worth it.