by Mark Reep

In those days we kept wanderers' hours.  The night we broke into Bron-yr-Aur it was too cold to make love.  I said I wasn't horny anyway.  You put your hand on my forehead: Are you ill?  We warmed ourselves with chocolaty hashish and blackberry brandy and strained to hear echoes of Page and Plant working up That's The Way.  A trainwhistle somewhere made me happy.  You cut the fingers from your gloves so you could play a song you'd written for me but you broke a string.  You were out of spares.   You said we should have brought roadies like they did.  I said what?  You laughed.  Sure, to carry water.  I said that's a buzzkiller.  Those were good gloves.  You looked at me funny.  I'd drunk too much brandy.  When I stumbled outside to throw up it was snowing.