I set off from Cardiff with the sat-nav promising an hour and a bit, but the A465 decided to disagree and I ended up taking the scenic detour past the old steelworks. By the time I pulled into the little gravel car park outside Cabin No. 12, I was half an hour late, one shoe was soaked from an unexpected puddle, and the key safe had jammed. A cheerful woman in a bright yellow anorak appeared from the next cabin, tutting in Welsh and English at once. “You’ve picked the right day for it,” she said, handing me a hairpin she’d clearly used for the same job. Within five minutes we were laughing like old friends and my trainers were drying on her porch.

She introduced herself as Glenys and told me she’d lived in the valley since the pit closed. While I wrestled the key free, she filled me in on the local gossip: the vicar’s cat had gone missing again, the bakery was trialling sourdough pasties, and the man at the petrol station had started charging for “atmosphere” because the hills looked so lovely. Glenys’s husband, Dai, wandered over with two mugs of builder’s tea and a packet of custard creams. He asked where I was from, then immediately offered to lend me his spare fishing rod if I fancied a quiet hour by the little river behind the cabins. I said I’d think about it; he said that was code for “I’ll be round at seven with the bait.”

By late afternoon the clouds had lifted enough for a short stroll along the lane. I met Mrs. Parry from the farm at the bottom, who was walking her border collie and collecting windfall apples in a carrier bag. She asked if I’d come for the peace or the rain, then laughed when I admitted both. We stood chatting for twenty minutes while the dog chased a stick into the hedge and came back covered in burrs. Mrs. Parry told me she’d once tried to run a BandB but the guests kept asking for avocado, so she’d given up and now just sold eggs from a honesty box. She pressed three speckled brown ones into my hands and refused payment, saying the hens would only lay more if they felt appreciated.

Back at the cabin I lit the little log burner and tried to read the guest book. Every other page mentioned Glenys’s tea or Dai’s fishing stories. I was halfway through a particularly dramatic entry about a rogue sheep when there was a knock. It was Glenys again, this time carrying a Tupperware of Welsh cakes still warm from her Aga. She perched on the arm of the sofa while I made more tea, and we swapped tales about terrible first dates and even worse haircuts. She confessed she’d once dyed her hair bright orange for a dare and had to wear a bobble hat for three months. I told her about the time I’d locked myself out of a hotel in my pyjamas; she said that sounded about right for someone who couldn’t open a key safe.

That evening the valley settled into a soft, damp quiet. I sat on the little deck with the Welsh cakes and watched the lights come on in the other cabins. Every so often a neighbour waved as they walked their dog or fetched more logs. I realised I hadn’t checked my phone in hours, and the only thing I felt was a gentle tug of something like contentment. Glenys had said the valley had a way of slowing people down whether they liked it or not. Sitting there, crumbs on my jumper, trainers still damp by the door, I thought she might be right.