Thirty years ago this week, I sat down in a classroom in an abandoned quarrying village to learn the Welsh language. I couldn’t have chosen a more idyllic spot: the National Language Centre, Canolfan yr Iaith Genedlaethol at Nant Gwrtheyrn on the Llŷn peninsula in North Wales.

My journey to the Nant was a long one, literally and metaphorically. When I went to Cardiff High School in 1975, I gave up Welsh in favour of Latin. I didn’t enjoy Welsh at Lakeside primary school, and was not a fan of the teacher, who rightly gave me B- in my final report, yet described my work as very good. I regretted the decision immediately. Welsh teaching at Cardiff High was in a different league, and I’d have learned my national language far more quickly. But life is about making up for regrets rather than mourning them for ever.

I was living in Gloucestershire (Swydd Gaerloyw in Welsh) in May 1994, and found the long drive to Llŷn magical. I smiled at the name Woofferton as I drove through that village near Ludlow. Much later, long after crossing the border, I fell in love with the spectacular scenery as the A470 road carved its way from Mallwyd through Dinas Mawddwy before sweeping down to the handsome town of Dolgellau. I would come to know this route very well in the years to come.

The final stage of the route to the Nant was sublime, crossing Llŷn with constant views of the mountains of Eryri (Snowdonia) and the whole of Llŷn before me, with the Irish sea cwtching the peninsula. After passing through the village of Llithfaen, I was soon navigating the twisting lane down the hillside to the Nant, with the hills called Yr Eifl dominating the view. As you can see, the descent is not for the faint hearted. Since my visits the road has been improved and coaches can now visit the site.