Old Hills and Friendship

 

Llandovery, where we stayed the other week, is nine miles higher up the Towy valley than the village where I grew up, and seven from my OldestBestFriend’s old home.  The day after we arrived I drove over to see OBF for the first time in nineteen months.  There have been times when the gaps between seeing each other were as long; but not in this millennium.

The hills you see from the road change as you drive down the valley and suddenly, just after the turn to Llanwrda, the hills of home came into view.  Garn Goch, the red hill with its Iron Age fort, and towering above and behind, Trichrug with his Bronze Age barrows.    

They were as important a part of my childhood as some people and seeing them again brought a lump to my throat.  I had to swallow and grit my teeth as the alternative was to pull up and weep, and it would have been hard to explain why to the boys.

We opened the gate onto OBF’s property, stopped the car and got out. OldestBestFriend and I hugged each other for the longest time, and I allowed the tears to flow at last.  But the talk and laughter soon blew away all sad emotions.

The next one I needed to see was the river.

The grass was too long to walk down through the fields.

We went along the little back roads past the old farmhouse, sold sometime after Tom built Mary the bungalow on the hill. 

Past places full of memories of childhood adventures.

Through a couple of farmyards.

Across the Heart of Wales line at the Glanrhyd-y-Saeson level crossing.

And finally, there was the Towy, never changing but ever changing.

The walk must have taken a couple of hours, and we’ll have spent at least another two just hanging out.

According to Fester we only stopped talking to draw breath or drink tea, and took turns doing that.

The boys were remarkably patient, considering …