The lane gets steeper and narrower, the roar of the river louder. We turn to cross the old stone bridge and, two farm gates later, are bouncing up through a forest of gnarly oak and moss-swaddled boulders to emerge on a grassy belvedere by the old farm. The last rays of sun are touching the distant peaks of Cadair Idris. There is not another dwelling in sight … unless that speck on the far hillside might be a house?
Inside there is a slate floor polished by two centuries of Welsh feet. In the rooms beyond we find a pair of log-burners, two cast-iron baths and several well-worn rugs and sofas. Best of all, there’s a kitchen humming with warmth from an Aga, a guitar and many piles of books. Later, I stand outside on the sheep-cropped lawn, watching the millstream cascade into a pool and think: “I’m getting under that … probably, at some point.” And: “This is perfect.”
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