"Our visit has religious overtones from the start. Floundering on a darkening Welsh hillside, staring at an impenetrable set of directions that give a vintage postbox and cattle grid as waypoints, hysteria is beginning to set in. “I can’t do this any more!” my mother wails, as we slide down a muddy track into the deepening black, the satellite navigation cheerily (and erroneously) announcing that we have reached our destination.
Some clueless crawling of country roads and melodramatic bickering later, we round a bend and are suddenly confronted with a curious, angular shape squatting against the sky. As if the hand of God has scooped us up and placed us there, we’ve somehow stumbled upon the Life House. Swinging open the gate and walking into the driveway, I feel much as I imagine the monks who once inhabited the monasteries that dotted these valleys did: in awe of the quiet, stone chamber that welcomed them. (Unlike the monks, I also feel in dire need of a stiff drink.)"