Brecon Beacons, Wales & Bath, England

A million tiny stars, like pixie dust of wishes and magic, were thrown to the wind and stuck to the thick black oil paint of the sky. We stood under the Milky Way in the middle of a dark road and dared to question our role as humans on this planet, challenging the insignificance this universe laughingly plants on our teeny heads. For some time, the cold, bitter air seemed not to exist and it was only us and the stars. A million tiny stars.
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It was beautiful driving over the rollercoaster hills of the back country roads, flicking the headlights off for a second to envelope ourselves in total country darkness. There is no darkness like country darkness. But it is a safe kind of darkness, unlike the nerve-wracking sort of city darkness or back alley darkness. This was peace. And when the lights went off in those quick moments before they flashed back to help us navigate the next curve up a mountain just in time, we had our first glimpse of Welsh stars. Magic beyond words.
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It was my birthday weekend, my quarter of a century, between Christmas and New Year's. K, my boyfriend, and I were staying two nights in the Brecon Beacons in Wales. We stayed in a small village called Trecastle, the sort of place you’d smile at as while driving through, never really thinking to stop. It consists of a few houses, most of which were, surprisingly, festively decorated with Christmas lights, our hotel, an organic farm and antique shop across the road and not much else. But it was perfect. It was just what we wanted to escape the city rush. At the Castle Coaching Inn where we stayed, the owner, a middle-aged man with greying hair, a welcoming grandfather’s smile and a hint of excitement about him, upgraded our room. It has purple walls, little touch lights at the sides of the bed and a sparkling clean, white bathroom with a heated towel rack. Cosy, safe, warm. Perfect.
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We drove down on a Friday and when we woke up was a gorgeously sunny Saturday morning, though the kind of deceptive morning that chills you to the bone and leaves a layer of frost clinging to the windows of parked cars. Even the leaves were coated in a shimmering icy glaze, fragile looking, yet pliable. I didn’t have my New York birthday snow, but scraping the car gave me enough snow to whip a few friendly snowballs in K’s direction; though he proved to have some excellent Dubya-dodging skills.

During breakfast (of bacon, eggs, toast and tea – presumably from the organic farmer across the road), the owner gave us some advice on how to spend our day. He even drew us a map. By 9:30am, we were layered up and out the door.

Winding country roads spread out before us and white sheep with coloured markings on their backs grazed in fields in every direction. We were on a mission to find a waterfall. Eventually, we parked and walked uphill at least a mile and then found a trail pointing to our destination. For the next few hours, we trekked over dirt paths, up hills, over rocks, into ditches, over streams and roots, following a creek that would eventually go over the falls.

We found them and had them all to ourselves, not a single soul in sight. Thirsty, we crept close to the edge and cupped our palms under the water, scooping it into our mouths, all down the front of our coats. It was clear and cold and clean and probably the best water I have ever tasted.

Retracing our steps I thought about how wonderful it was to completely detach. Both of us left our phones off or dead all weekend and there was no internet and we didn’t turn on the TV. It was just us, some sheep and horses and the muddy, wild, wilderness. At one point, we saw a horse standing across a field. I blew on a piece of grass to whistle and it came charging over to where we were standing. When I made the noise a second time, he stuck his nose over the fence and nuzzled at us. We stroked his white nose. What a massive and beautiful animal.

The Nant Ddu Lodge was recommended to us for lunch and we found it after a bit of hunting. Sitting next to the fireplace, we ate Welsh dishes and shared a pot of drippy dark chocolate fondou with fresh fruit and sweet marshmallows for dessert.

As the sun was setting, we drove back down the narrow, nearly-deserted roads. They were one lane, meant to be for two-way traffic, round curves and down hills. Any oncoming traffic meant pulling over and hoping you do it in time in case they don’t see you while coming fast round a bend. Lucky, there were not so many cars out that night.

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We ate dinner of Welsh lamb chops on a giant wooden table in front of a burning fire in our inn.

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On the way back toward England Sunday afternoon, we flew through throse country roads, feeling the freedom of open spaces and no speed cameras. After driving through Brecon and Hay and finding not much to see there, we decided to stop over in Bath for lunch.
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Bath was as I remembered it, the sand-coloured buildings standing proud and overpriced tickets to see the ancient roman baths. K had never been so he paid our entrance and we wandered about dipping our hands in places next to “Don’t touch the water” signs. It was green and full of algae, steam rising like a cloud from the surface. We abandoned our audio tours, both of us agreeing that modern culture, the way people live today, is much more fascinating than the lives of ancients.

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When we approached the edge of London and the city lights spread out in front of us, I felt a surge of excitement rush through me. Any time I leave the city and come back, it’s always exciting. Even K, who has lived here his whole life, said he gets that feeling coming back into the city. We were both high on the glory of a perfect weekend escape, flying quickly into the city surrounded by headlights and music. I felt like I was on top of the world.
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