Chapter 52
FIFTY-TWO
LAUREL
As we rounded a bend in the trail, a gust of wind caught my bike, and I had to brace my arms to stay on course as I felt the rain buffet the side of my face.
It was no longer coming directly into my eyes, though, so at least I could see the view ahead – the trail climbing steeply upwards before it curved again beyond a fairytale stone castle perched on the top of the hill we had been toiling up for the past twenty minutes.
The relative calm of the bay, the Airbnb apartment where I was staying and my faithful little car all felt a long way away – and so they were, about twenty miles by now.
But they didn’t feel as far away as London, where I knew the streets would be crammed with Christmas shoppers, lights twinkling in windows, everything urban and safe.
There was nothing cosy about this landscape. It was pure wilderness: the granite boulders that studded the sides of the track, the distant glint of a lake like a sheet of stainless steel under the grey sky, the fury of the wind in my ears almost drowning out the cry of a bird.
‘What was that?’ I called, sure my voice would be carried away before it could be heard.
But at the same moment, next to me, I heard Joel call out, ‘Kestrel,’ his arm briefly leaving the handlebars of his bike to point skywards.
I raised my streaming eyes and caught a glimpse of the bird, soaring in an effortless arc overhead, its trajectory apparently independent of the wind. Then I looked down again, my thighs burning as I powered on up the hill.
We reached the summit side by side. There’d been no competitiveness between us – no racing to see who could reach the top first. I didn’t know the way, and he did, so at first I’d followed him, but later he’d slowed down and gestured for me to come alongside so he could more easily point out the sights as we passed them.
‘That’s Castell Coch over there.’
‘We’re just passing Aberfan now.’
‘Sometimes I see otters in the river here.’
We hadn’t seen any otters today, and before long the steepness of the ascent had made much more conversation than that impossible.
But I was captivated by the beauty of the landscape surrounding us and exhilarated by the challenge of this long ride.
If anything, the terrible weather created a sense of companionability – camaraderie, even – when a particularly fierce blast of wind brought us almost to a standstill and we fought to keep going up the ever-steepening slopes, catching each other’s eyes and laughing as much as our breath would allow us to.
Now, cresting the hill where the ruined castle stood, we stopped, as if this was what we had agreed to do.
I got off my bike, my leggings soaked through and my thighs feeling like jelly.
The rain had eased but the wind was still fierce: I could see the dark clouds roiling above me, parting briefly to reveal a glimpse of blue then snapping closed again.
Below us, the valley stretched away in rough waves like a choppy green sea.
‘How far have we come?’ I asked, when I’d got my breath back enough to say anything.
‘About fifty kilometres.’ He grinned. ‘It gets harder after this. Coffee?’
‘Oh my God, yes please.’
He took a thermos flask out of his bag and poured coffee into two plastic beakers, handing one to me. I stripped off my wet glove, wrapping my fingers around the cup for warmth, and took a sip. It was strong, sweet and scalding hot.
‘KitKat?’ I offered, rummaging in my own bag.
He grinned. ‘My kind of performance nutrition.’
I handed him a bar and took one for myself, and we both stripped off the wrapping, simultaneously dunking the chocolate in our coffee before taking enormous bites.
‘Hits the spot, right?’ I asked, smiling.
‘It does. Thank you.’
‘Thank you for being such a great guide,’ I said. ‘This is spectacular.’
‘I’d say December isn’t the best time of year to experience it – but then again…’
‘I can imagine it on a sunny day,’ I mused. ‘Blue sky, no wind…’
‘You’re in Wales,’ he reminded me. ‘Nothing’s guaranteed.’
‘True.’ I laughed. ‘But still – today… this – it’s magical.’
‘It’s pretty special,’ he agreed. ‘When I come up here, it’s like nothing else exists. Just me and the mountains.’
‘I get that. It makes you feel—’
‘Alive,’ he said, at the same moment I did. Then he asked, ‘What else makes you feel like this?’
‘I guess,’ I replied around the last of my KitKat, ‘work. When I’ve had a long, knackering day but I know I’ve really made a difference. Seeing my friends – when we laugh so much we almost puke. You?’
‘Music, obviously. Bertha, my dog.’ He looked at me sideways and smiled. ‘Sex.’
I laughed. ‘Same. Can’t knock it. But when you feel like this – I guess it must make you think of Gray.’
‘It does.’ His face turned sombre. ‘Every time something happens and I think, God, this is wonderful, I know I’ve got him to thank for it.’
‘Is it…’ I began, then I tried again. ‘Does it feel like a burden?’
He looked surprised. ‘God, no. Not ever. There are a lot of people like me out there who’ve had a second chance of life, but not so many that it’s common, you know? So when I think about it, I think how fucking lucky I am to be one of them. It’s cheesy, but it makes me feel blessed.’
He held out his hand and I passed him my empty coffee cup, our cold fingers just touching.
‘Do you want to go on, or go back?’ he asked. ‘It’s almost two.’
‘Maybe best to go back. Not sure I fancy this in the dark.’
‘And besides’ – he smiled – ‘there’s a great pub I know that has an open fire and does killer shepherd’s pie.’
‘Sold.’
We shouldered our bags again and mounted our bikes, turning back the way we had come.
The wind was mostly behind us now, and the trail mostly downhill, so it took way less time to return than it had going out.
Still, getting into a hot shower and then into clean, dry clothes in my Airbnb felt like heaven.
I met Joel just before seven at the pub, as we’d arranged.
He’d showered and changed too; his dark hair was still damp, and he was wearing a navy-blue wool jumper the same colour as his eyes.
He’d bought a bottle of wine and found a table right by the blazing fire.
I joined him there, feeling the heat of the flames soak into me from the outside and the warmth of the wine from the inside.
There was another kind of warmth too. I looked at him, wondering if he was feeling it as well.
Then he said, ‘You know, there’s another thing I’m grateful to Nigel – to Gray – for.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Meeting you,’ he said.