“Some days are enchanted, as everybody knows. Every detail of the day, even the most trivial, falls into exquisite juxtaposition with the next. Commonplace things take on significance and beauty. Perhaps it’s a matter of timing. Perhaps for once one walks in sympathetic vibration with the earth, disturbing nothing as one treads. However that may be, this was one of those days.” ~ Louise Dickinson Rich, We Took to the Woods

This passage from a dearly loved book is followed by a description of a perfect day in the author’s life, a description so vivid and rich with vibrant word pictures that I am left wildly jealous and convinced it’s time for me to give up the dream of writing and leave it to those who practice the art with true craftsmanship. But beyond my feelings of inadequacy, this short passage from “We Took to the Woods” makes me think back over some of the delightful days my husband and I have shared since we began our life together.

For many of us, modern life is a mad, headlong rush with little time allocated for reflection.  On a cold, dreary day when the milk has boiled over on the stove, the iron spit something nasty onto my silk blouse and the dog is sick on the bedroom carpet, usually all I can think about is how far behind I’m going to be due to these unexpected impediments. Days of that ilk reinforce a habitual need to hurtle through every aspect of our lives, so that even in our leisure time we feel obliged to charge full speed ahead. Perhaps that is why when we do actually slow down and disconnect ourselves from constant tweets and status updates, those times stand out in such sharp contrast. Like a squirrel burying nuts for winter, I bury these away in the storehouse of my memory to be taken out and savoured when I need to remember that there is more to life than wiping up spilled milk and cleaning the rug. It doesn’t always work. Often I grumble and seethe and plot dire actions against the spitting iron, but just occasionally I do manage to dig up one of my nuggets of memory when I need it. When that happens the beauty of it will resurface fresh in my mind, redolent of the joy and sense of wonder which are so easily forgotten when things go wrong.

One particular day stands out in my memory, not because every detail of the day fell into exquisite juxtaposition with the next, but because in spite of the fact that I missed the turn-off and we drove miles out of our way, it still managed to be a day of incredible beauty which Mr. H and I shared. In the early years of marriage such days help create a storehouse of times spent together; days which will help you weather the stormy times which are an inevitable feature in every life.

“The great benefit of slowing down is reclaiming the time and tranquility to make meaningful connections – with people, with culture, with work, with nature, with our own bodies and minds.” ~ Carl Honoré

It was the last weekend in August. For several months I had been suffering from a painful problem with my ankle, but at last the day had come when I felt sufficiently recovered to attempt a long walk. After much map consulting and trail guide reading Mr. H planned a walk in the Brecon Beacons, one suitably challenging, and yet not too difficult. He tried to phrase it delicately, as any wise husband would, but the gist of it was that after months of sitting I was woefully out of shape. As much as this rankled it was undeniably true, and I was eager to finally be outdoors in the fresh air doing more than hobbling along at a snail’s pace. I looked forward to the challenge of a real walk, and to seeing a new area of the country.

Most Americans have never heard of the Brecon Beacons – I certainly had not. The first we hear of it is usually in connection with its more notorious aspects. The day before our walk I mentioned to a friend that we were heading there the following day. His eyes widened and he immediately expressed some concern, for me in particular. “You’d better be careful. The weather there can change in an instant. It’s known for being very harsh. That’s where they train SAS soldiers, you know.” And it wasn’t just that particular friend. Over and over you hear references to it being such rugged, inhospitable territory that they train members of the SAS there. When it features on the news it is usually because someone has died, or had to be rescued, or something of a similar gloomy nature.

In spite of a reputation for changeable, often dangerous weather conditions, the Brecon Beacons National Park in southern Wales is a haven for walkers, offering the option of high, wind-swept mountains and breath-taking views, or lush forests and rushing waterfalls. On my first expedition here we opted for the challenge of the hills and the reward of the views.

The starting point for our walk was the pretty town of Crickhowell, in the Usk River valley. Situated to the south of the Black Mountains, which is the eastern range of the Brecon Beacons National Park, Crickhowell’s skyline is dominated by the relatively short, but distinctive Table Mountain, or Crug Hywel in Welsh. The 451m (1481 ft) summit of Table Mountain was the first leg in our walk, which would encompass three mountains in total – if we managed to keep to the schedule that Mr. H and his long legs had worked out. We both had doubts about my slightly shorter, less conditioned legs, but we struck out gamely to test our (my) mettle.

From the car park we walked up a tarmac road and quickly left the town behind. Table Mountain loomed straight ahead, though some distance away.To my American brain it still seemed strange that we didn’t drive right up to the base of the mountain and begin our ascent there, rather than park a mile away and do a lot of unnecessary walking at the beginning of our walk. But this is Britain, where car parks are harder to come by, and where walking is not something you do just because you’ve run out of road.

A gate gave way to a farm track, also a public footpath, and we followed that all the way up to the farmyard, right past the farmhouse, and through another gate into a lush green field where sheep posed picturesquely for me to photograph. The path quickly began to climb. Stone walls interlaced the fields, and sheep gazed warily at us as we passed. I began to breathe heavily.

“Just look at that view!” I wheezed, stopping to turn around and see how far we had come, and to catch my breath. I guzzled some water, fanned my face, and assured Mr. H that I was fine, just fine.

The path followed a line of trees and continued to climb until we emerged onto the lower, bracken-covered slopes of the mountain. We curved around, following the contours of the hills, through bracken higher than my waist, along paths obviously frequented by sheep. I took another opportunity to catch my breath by stopping to observe some dung beetles hard at work. It was the first time I’d ever seen dung beetles in real life, and they were fascinating to watch; kind of disgusting if you think about it, but fascinating nonetheless.

It was a beautiful day. The Brecons may have dangerously unpredictable weather, but that day it was sunny and mild, with a slight breeze. We could see for miles. Even at the relatively modest elevation of the lower slopes of Table Mountain the views were such that I was in danger of tripping over my own feet, so drawn were my eyes to look down on the green checkerboard valleys and rolling hills below us. As we climbed we seemed to leave the modern world behind and were enveloped in rural silence – silence punctuated by the distant bleating of sheep and the sweet melodies of birdsong. The breeze blew across the wild grasses, shuddering around our ears. No airplanes passed over, no ear buds streamed music directly at our ear drums. It was just the wind, the sheep, the birds, and my heavy breathing.

As we neared the top of Crug Hywel the bracken gave way to sweeping grassland. Crug Hywel means Hywel’s fort in Welsh, and the entire flat summit used to be an Iron Age fort. After having climbed it myself I can understand how difficult it would have been to try to attack such a strategically located fortress.

After a short rest break we continued on. The trail dipped down into more sheltering bracken with clear tracks cutting through in various directions, then climbed back up to wild, open moorland. The grass swayed and bowed in the stiff breeze, but the sun was warm and kept us comfortable in spite of our exposed position.  After being there and seeing it for myself I began to understand how these hills could be so dangerous. As we climbed higher the wind became more insistent, and we gradually added layers over our t-shirts: hats, gloves, fleece jackets. The mountains can create their own weather, and a slight shift in the wind might herald a dangerous change within minutes. The path was often difficult to see – just more rocks and boulders in a sea of other rocks and boulders, so if fog or mist rolled in while you were up on one of the peaks you could easily become disoriented and stray from the path. A slight misstep in some areas could spell disaster and send you tumbling over the edge.

I won’t recount every detail of that walk; any walking guide can do a better, more accurate job describing the route from Table Mountain up to Pen Cerrig-calch and beyond to Pen Allt-mawr (720m, 2326ft). What I will share with you are those features which stand out sharply in my mind, those which make this day one I look back on when life starts to feel too rushed and out of control and I need to regain a proper perspective.

I remember walking through great, sweeping swathes of heather in full bloom. Bees and butterflies hovered and fluttered over the blossoms, and the breeze teased us with an incredibly sweet, elusive fragrance. I had read descriptions of stark mountainsides transformed by heather in full flower, but nothing had prepared me for the reality. Standing on the high slopes with the hillside below me carpeted in mauve, sweeping down to far-away vistas of the green valleys below us, I was filled with a sense of wonder and awe at the incredible beauty. Perhaps the changeability and harshness of the weather helps us to appreciate even more those times when the sun shines benignly.

I was fascinated by a small herd of Welsh mountain ponies grazing on the steep mountainside a short distance from the path. They lifted their heads as we passed and watched us with intelligent dark eyes, their ears turning in our direction. Seeing them standing wild and free on the moors, their manes blowing in the wind, they seemed as much an integral part of the landscape as the heather and the scrubby grass. I have since learned that these rugged native ponies provide a useful purpose in maintaining the upland habitat. Hardy enough to withstand even the harsh mountain winters, and less fussy than sheep, they are able to graze year-round. Being able to observe these wild ponies in their natural setting was one of the highlights of the walk for me.

The lush green valleys dropped away as Mr. H and I climbed ever higher, until at last we were walking along the ridge between Pen Cerrig-calch and Pen Allt-mawr. Sheep grazed on hillsides so steep it was a mystery how they managed to keep their footing. Red kites soared magnificently aloft on thermal updrafts. We felt tiny and insignificant in such a majestic landscape, and we revelled in our solitude. Britain is such a crowded country that sometimes when you attempt to escape to the country you discover that half the population has escaped with you, and you find yourself marching up some trails like ants in a swarm. Not so on this day. We passed a few other hikers, but for the most part we were alone, sometimes conversing as we walked, sometimes in companionable silence.

For so many years I was a single woman and had to use sensible caution when planning where I traveled to on my own. There are just some things you can’t safely do alone, especially when you’re a woman, and hiking up a mountain with no one as co-map reader, sturdy security presence and companion was one of them. Most of my friends had husbands and children and busy lives to tend to. The last thing they had time for was going out on a hike with me on a weekend. So at last to be able to get out into the wild, to walk for hours, to explore and discover new scenery is, for me, one of the greatest things I have enjoyed about being married to Mr. H. Somehow, an ocean away, I found a man who shares my enthusiasm for the simple pleasures of going outdoors and seeing how far our legs can carry us. And this, for me, is the thing that shines most brightly in my memory when I look back on that day. After so many years on our own, we found each other. At long last, when we stand on a mountain summit gazing out across a glorious view, we have someone to turn to, smile at, and say, “We made it.”

“Now, shall I walk or shall I ride?

‘Ride,’ Pleasure said;

‘Walk,’ Joy replied.” ~ W.H. Davies