Bordering England to its east, and the Atlantic to its west. O sweet, sweet Wales. The candy of Caerdydd. Holding hands near Bryn Celli Ddu we exhaled into cupped hands on after dinner hooded sweatshirt walks. Cigarette in one hand like an old Chanel ad. Black and white and high on love rolling down the lowlands. Green grass and gray skies. Just like dad loved. Now she soars over Dolwyddelan's Castle like mother hawk watching over one of the valley routes into Gwynedd. I rip open her blouse and her heart reads "Remember Tryweryn". She buries her cold nose into my neck and says I remind her of St. David's Cathedral.
"I can honestly say I've never been", I squint. I smell rain.
"Let's listen to some Gwyn and take a nap", she purrs.She's talking about Gwyneth Jones, the soprano. But before the nap we've gotta get back to the flat. We're in the middle of nowhere, for goddsake. But fuck, a nap sounds great right now. I'll make a nest out of her earlobes and burrow.
Next thing you know we're on the motorway. Just me, her and the trusty M4. We're in an old BMW. It'll do. She's all Tudor colours: green and white. Like Benetton. A classic. Few can still pull it off, but she, she wears her cashmere like she's riding on the back of a Vespa near the coast of Treviso sans helmet. Silk scarf. Waves foam like soap. Classic smells like leather, smoke, fire and rope.
"Charlemagne!", she shouts in my ear.
"Fastradaaaaaa!!!", I scream as we roar down the M4 and it starts to pour.