301. Wwyyyyllwtchgblyn

The drive along the motorway is boring. We chat over the engine noise.

'Do you know C is up for it?'

'Up for what?'

'Driving across Africa.'

'Really?'

'Really. He's up for it. And it's better if there are two vehicles.'

This reminds me that this is not just a holiday but a practice run for the great 'proper' adventure. 

'Stop next service station. Let's buy a paper old-fashioned map.'

I have my doubts. Do they still sell paper maps like they used to? We stop at the next services. I walk around the small shopping precinct already packed with people buying coffee and doughnuts looking for a paper shop. Much to my surprise at the end of the magazine rack there is a huge display of A to Z paper maps. Pocket book size, giant size, A4 size, medium size. We choose a note-book-size map of Wales and one of Ireland. Are they back in fashion or are we in a time-warp already?

'Right. Phones off. Electronic devices abandoned. I am now a proper map-reader navigator.'

It is a wonderful feeling. I know exactly where we are, I know exactly where to go and I see with great delight all the little details on the map: steep hill ahead, bridge, railway, castle, view-point ... I am the only voice in the car telling the driver where to go.

'Next junction, turn right onto A40 and head towards Cwrt-y-Gollen.'

'Sorry? What was that?' My husband asks. 

I haven't got the faintest idea how to pronounce that. But it says so on the map.

'Cwrt-y-Gollen.'

I say it in a tone of voice that implies it is just a plain normal name for a small town.

'OK.'

I am not sure if he got that or if he is just pretending. Maybe I am just reading it right after all. The cross-road is just ahead.

'Cross-road. 500 yards.'

The whole situation is really confusing. The road-signs are huge. There are so many word on them. Some in a slightly more meaningful language that the other. It takes me a while to work out that Welsh is at the top and then English just below. The two seem awfully similar yet so different, Welsh just weirder, with not enough vowels and too many double consonants, too many w's and too many y's. 

'There! Turn right! Head to Brecon.'

'Brecon.' My husband repeats and turns right. 'Here we go.' 

I picked Brecon because I could read and pronounce it but before reaching Brecon we have to go through Wblch and Cwrt-y-Gllen and Llansantffraed ...

'Wlyyychesn-y-bwwwchlwbtyytw.'

'Blywhyychewxlkdlewefftrm.'

After a while I have to admit the navigator is having trouble.

'I've got a sore-head.' I say.

'Me too. Let's find a pub.

Brecon is a lovely little town full of shops that sell hiking gear. There is even a small tourist office where we can find out about the best route to take.

'I'm not sure this is the best itinerary.' The lady behind the counter says when she sees me tracing my chosen route on the huge map on the wall.

'It's just full of miserable-looking sheep and yellow grass for miles and miles on end.'

'Sounds perfect!' I say. The young assistant laughs. 

The road will take us through desolate landscapes, dotted with sheep that do no look that miserable to me, until we reach a zone with red flags and threatening warning signs.

'Shooting going on. Military grounds. Do not proceed.'

The landscape reminds me of the description of the moors in Wuthering Heights: we are the only humans in a desolate land stretching for miles, dirty white sheep dotted on the yellow and brown grass that sways in the wind as if trying to escape its devilish grasp, grey leaden skies with menacing clouds, the road a tiny black ribbon twisting and turning for no-reason, as if it had lost its mind ...

'Red flags.' My husband says. We'll have to do a U-turn.