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Mountain lambs are sweetest

Eight years ago I told a new friend I didn't want a good camera - I just wanted a better memory and the eloquence to share those memories.

Emma moves to Reading next weekend so this is my last ever drive from east to west across the middle of our island. Today I'm camera-less so my eyes are wide open, burning familiar landmarks onto the film of my retinas, hoping the images will stay.

There's Paul's Malt near Bury, the travellers' site at Cambridge, the turning for Deene Park and the new windfarm on the A14. The landmarks on the middle third are all roads: the nasty A14/M6 interchange, the new M6 Toll, the roundabouts at Shrewsbury.

When the road drops to single carriageway I know I'm nearly in Wales. The snow-topped Breidden hills watch me cross the border at Middletown and a couple of miles later I cross Offa's Dyke. The canal and the Severn guide me for a dozen miles or so before handing me over to the Wye. This is my favourite part of the drive. The snaking mountain road below Plynlimon, the Sweet Lamb sign, the Elvis stone before finally tipping over the pass to see in the distance Aberystwyth and beyond it the Irish Sea.

I won't miss the time it takes to drive to Emma's but I will miss these moments.