Better to travel than arrive?
That's not how I remember it.
I recall though that wondrous summer.
Shouting out the pinnacle of our youth to the world.
Arriving in those black mountains
We stared wide-eyed at the wilderness
Though acknowledged that these hills of Wales
Could never replace Sussex pastures in our hearts.
So here we stayed in a whitewashed cottage,
Almost squashed between those dark mist-capped summits,
Gaurdians of those cloistered valleys.
Having fish and chips at some secluded pub
Washed down with too much stout,
We raced to the top of the nearest mountain
And told the blustering wind
That our lives had just begun,
That the world was literally at our feet.
We should have listened though
To the roaring wind and noted its mirth,
Amused by the naivity of young men
Who thought they'd stay on top of the world forever.
We did not realise that even then
Real life was tugging at our heels
In readiness for the coming years
That waited patiently in line
To slap our faces with common sense
And scrub our dreams away.