Cwmystwyth, Winter 1985

It’s 1985. It’s winter. I am 21 years old and living in a small cottage that I share with my brother and two friends. The cottage is nestled within the beautiful hamlet of Cwmystwyth, West Wales.

We have been living in this remote part of the world for just over a year. We are known locally (for obvious spiky-hair–related reasons) as the Punks from Cwmystwyth. We stand out like sore thumbs. The locals are friendly, often staring, but always saying hello. I guess they think of us as misplaced oddities.

We are approximately seventeen miles away from the nearest town, Aberystwyth. There is nothing but mountains, valleys, and beautiful Welsh countryside for as far as the eye can see.

It’s about 8 p.m.; it has started to snow, not just a light dusting, we are talking heavy snow… real Welsh snow. The cottage is warm. We have a roaring fire and plenty of dry logs to keep us going well into the wee hours. We spend the evening cooking, chatting, and observing the increasingly blizzard-like conditions.

At around 2 a.m., we notice that the snow has stopped. The moon is full, and the thick blanket of reflecting snow creates an illusion of daylight. We decide to take a walk along the small road that runs the length of the Rhayader valley.

After donning our army-issue power-trooper boots (standard kit for young punk rockers of the time), heavy jackets, and scarves, we make our way out into our new fairytale world.

The recently fallen snow is deep—at least six inches. Some of the snow has drifted along the high banks of the road. The night is very quiet; the only sound is the crunch, crunch, crunch of compressed snow underfoot. We march along the snow-covered road, occasionally talking, sometimes laughing; our voices seem to have an unusual resonance and quality.

After a short time, the road narrows, and we find ourselves standing in the mouth of the valley. It’s an incredible sight. Everything seems pin-sharp. Normally, it would be pitch black and unsafe to walk without a torch, but tonight the world seems bright and vibrant.

We stand in silence for a while near the ruins of the old lead mines and listen to the sound of the River Ystwyth running alongside the road.

Eventually, the cold gets too much for us, and we decide to follow our own footprints in the snow back to the warmth of our cottage.

As we make our way back along the snow-covered road, I can’t help but think… we have just shared a set of wonderful moments, a unique, collective experience unlikely ever to be repeated again in our lifetimes.