“Where’s the bus heading?” Moth was shouting to be heard above the roaring wind. “St. Ives. It’s not bad there. Bloody awful here though.” “Really awful.” Over two hundred and fifty miles of pain, exhaustion, hunger, wild nights and wild weather were behind us. We could get on the bus and head away, back to the familiarity of Wales, to put ourselves on the waiting list for a council house and find a cheap campsite for the winter. Moth held my hand as the bus doors closed.
