A Wrong Turn, a Horse, and a Cabin in the Rain
Our cabin in Northern Wales.
I drove an hour and a half to Alisa’s place, and we headed for CVG in the late afternoon. An overnight flight to London got us in early the next morning, running on airport coffee and not much sleep.
The plan had been to take a train to Wales. But just before we left Ohio, the rail workers went on strike, so we pivoted—rented a car and started driving west, aiming for a little cabin on a llama farm in North Wales.
It rained most of the way. A grey, steady kind of rain that made everything feel slower. We stopped at a rest area somewhere along the route, grabbed some food, and got back on the road. The farther we went, the darker it got. Alisa dozed off a few times in the passenger seat. I kept driving.
By the time we reached the town closest to the farm, we were worn out. We found a grocery store, picked up a few essentials—some food, a bottle of 19 Crimes wine with Snoop Dogg on the label—and pulled up the directions from our host.
They read more like a riddle than instructions.
Directions from your host
The What 3 Words for the lane to the property are fled.snug.events, continue down the lane, to the gate with the ‘Glanrafon Fawr’ sign on it.
If you turn off the A487 at the junction signposted for Rhostryfan, Rhosgadfan, and Fron, follow this road through Rhostryfan and Rhosgadfan villages, go over the cattle grid and before you get to Fron, turn right at the red post box where there is a black sign with a dog cut out of it.
Go down this road, Glan Dwr, until you come to a telegraph pole on your right and two houses on your left. Turn left in between the two houses (the house on the left is called Bwthyn), continue down the lane to the end when you will see the gate with the sign.
We tried to follow it carefully, but somewhere in the dark and rain, we took the wrong turn. The road narrowed, then narrowed again, until it finally ended at a gate that didn’t fit the description. And there, behind the gate, in the beam of the headlights, were a pair of glowing eyes.
We froze. For a second, I wasn’t sure what we were looking at.
Turned out it was a lone horse, standing in the rain, just watching us. We had no idea where we were, or how to get back. I couldn’t see to reverse, so Alisa climbed out, now fully awake, and stood in the rain guiding me—steady and calm—until I could back us out and turn around.
A few minutes later, we found the correct turn. Just like the riddle said: between two houses, down a narrow lane, then over a bridge that crossed a fast-moving stream. At the end of it, another gate. This one had the sign.
We called the host, and a kind woman came out of the farmhouse in a raincoat to open the gate. She greeted us warmly, pointed toward a small cabin tucked behind the house, and wished us a good night.
We parked the car, grabbed our bags and groceries, and hiked through the rain one last time.
The cabin was perfect. Warm, quiet, simple. The stream rushed nearby, louder than expected, but not unpleasant. Inside, the silence felt earned. We turned on the fireplace, opened the wine, and finally stopped moving.
Somewhere between the airport and the rain-slicked road, between the wrong turn and the glowing eyes behind a gate, it started to shift—how I think about comfort, about direction, about what it means to arrive.
We’re taught to seek efficiency. To have answers, GPS signals, smooth transitions, five-star reviews. But the best parts of this trip—of most trips—never show up on a map. They arrive when the plan doesn’t work. When you’re soaked, tired, and forced to ask for help.
We didn’t get there quickly. We didn’t get there easily. But we got there completely. And that felt like a kind of freedom no itinerary can promise.
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