Machynlethh

In the town of Mach people don't run, they walk wherever it is they're headed. I'm not sure where they live, but they appear from around the corner and find their way to the warmth of other human bodies. Young mothers with children and prams, older women who look like they have soldiered both wars stroll through the streets their wind beaten rosy faces peering out of scarves. Their bodies speak of patience. There are no tense knots in their limbs except from arthritis and it's a reminder of the infrequency with which I cross paths with this same lot in London during rush hour. And where are the brethren? They seem to be working either in garages or as carpenters with one eye on the job and one eye on the mountains. How can you resist reaching back in time on on the foothills of Snowdonia.