Running through the scorching midday sun, not a cloud in the sky, nor a breath of wind, the temperature is pushing 30°C. I’ve been at this for seven hours, the air is thick and stifling. I’m alone and working hard, climbing to the summit of Diffwys. High in the Rhinogydd mountains, I don’t expect to find any water for at least another hour, but I come across a single, small, crystal clear pool. A smooth mirror amongst the rough and hostile rocks. I dip my cap into the water without breaking my stride, I place the cap back onto my head. The soaked material provides a short release from the unyielding heat, before drying up within minutes. But, somehow, due perhaps to the incline I’m climbing, or an imperceptible breeze, drips of water are consistently blowing off the rim of my cap and directly onto my face. I keep running, keep pumping my legs, but these little drips of coolness that fall and die on the furnace of my forehead, I feel them so keenly, and am so grateful to the entire universe for them, that I genuinely wonder if anything in the world has ever felt more precious and sweet.
