The old Series Land Rover rumbled to life with a familiar growl, its engine a comforting echo of simpler times. We set off just as the morning mist lifted from the hills, the sun beginning to pour golden light across the patchwork of green fields and stone walls that stretched endlessly ahead. The breeze through the open windows was scented with wild honeysuckle and the salty tang of the nearby coast, and the tyres crunched softly over gravel as we meandered along the narrow country lanes.
The road rose and fell like a lullaby, winding through sleepy hamlets where whitewashed cottages leaned under the weight of ivy and roses. We passed fields dotted with sheep, their wool glowing in the sun, and slowed often—for tractors, for curious cows, for the sheer beauty of it all. In the rear-view mirror, mountains loomed like quiet guardians, wrapped in shades of blue and green.
There was no hurry—only the hum of the engine, the occasional chirp of the radio, and the rhythm of the world passing by: a child waving from a gate, a flock of birds bursting from a hedgerow, the glint of a stream tumbling over rocks. We stopped beside a lichen-covered stone wall to brew tea on a little camping stove, mugs warm in our hands as we watched a buzzard circle lazily overhead.
By late afternoon, the light turned syrupy and golden, casting long shadows over the moors. The Land Rover rolled on, steady and faithful, as if it too was in no rush to reach the end. It was a Sunday carved out of dream and quiet joy—nothing spectacular, just a perfect drift through the heart of Wales, where time seemed to soften and every mile felt like a memory.