We live on the edge. One step east, the land is so empty there is no sound at all except our thoughts dropping slow. One step west and we wet our feet in the gently lapping Irish Sea, and there is nowhere we would rather be. Not everyday of course. More often the sea rages as if in a tantrum over an imagined slight, and the wind roars across the land. Then we long for escape to the remembered hurly burly of city life we left almost a decade before. At least we think we do.
Escape is not easy. Winding roads leading to and from the English/ Welsh border are too narrow for overtaking and cars stick behind lumbering farm vehicles: a joy for holidaymakers come to slow their heartbeat but a drag for those embarking on a long journey. A train potters up and down the Cambrian coast every two hours or so, so sedately it seems the train is as in love with the view as the passengers.
Then, amid the human traffic of the metropolis comes the longing for that peace. Hiraeth, perhaps.