I met my husband on a group mountain biking weekend in the Brecon Beacons. We spent two days, just us two, exploring the foothills with our guide Arthur, while the rest of the group threw themselves head first down almost vertical descents. Four years later, we returned to Llanwrtyd Wells, known for its Man versus Horse and Bog Snorkelling championships, for a wander down memory lane on the occasion of our first wedding anniversary. Furnished with instructions for a two hour circular walk and the innkeeper’s hand drawn map, we ventured out into the drizzle which all too often characterises Welsh weekends. We found the track into the forest and began our climb up through the trees. Wrapped up warm in our waterproofs, we tramped along in our wellies, our hoods pulled tight around our faces and reminiscing about coming this way on two wheels, albeit in the sunshine that time.

And so we walked, on and on, our white and black Lurcher trotting and sniffing, from tree to tree. Up and on we went, checking the map for landmarks, following the track past row upon row of fir trees, over flint walls, through wildflower meadows, across streams and back on into the forest. And all the while, through the drizzle.

After we’d seen only fir trees for a couple of hours, my husband began to question the map, or more accurately, my map following abilities. When we rounded the next bend, I knew we would see the track to the left we needed to take us back down. Only, round that bend came another bend, around which I knew we’d find that track. I was so sure, and I refused to deviate from the map. This lady was not for turning, so on and on we went. Another hour passed and no track appeared. Then out of the gloom came a familiar figure on two wheels, clad in lycra. It was Arthur, our guide from four years before. It seemed this lady would have to turn after all and be led out of the forest the way she came, or else continue walking for another 20 miles in the wrong direction.