Sometimes you have to travel far to understand what you’ve left behind. Fifteen years ago, on a granite slab in the Rockies, a local climbing guide turned to me and said, “Ever heard of a place called Anglesey?”
We’d ascended to a pinnacle under an azure sky. The soaring rock giants of the American west stood sentinel all around. I was a beginner in rock climbing, but this looked about as good as it could get. He sighed. “Anglesey. I’ll go before I die.” He looked away with a thousand-yard stare, and added, gnomically, “A Dream of White Horses.”
