From the big mountains in the north to the valleys in the south

Host: The train snaked through the Welsh valleys, its windows glimmering with the last gold of the sunset. The mountains stood like old giants, their silhouettes draped in mist. The air was wet with memory — of heather, rain, and distant laughter echoing through the fields. In a small train compartment, Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other. Between them, a thermos of coffee, a few crumbs of shortbread, and the weight of a shared quiet.

Jeeny: (gazing out the window) “Luke Evans once said — ‘From the big mountains in the north to the valleys in the south, all through my childhood and teenage years, my family would always holiday in Wales.’ Funny, isn’t it? How one place can hold so many selves — the child, the teenager, the adult — all living together in the echo of a memory.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Or maybe it’s just nostalgia, Jeeny. The mind has a way of painting the past in colors it never really wore. Wales, childhood, family holidays — they sound like warmth, but maybe they were just rain, mud, and mosquito bites.”

Host: The train lurched gently; the lights flickered. Outside, a sheep field unfolded, fences glinting like threads under the moon. Jeeny’s smile was soft, but her eyes were steady.

Jeeny: “You always try to strip the magic away, don’t you, Jack? But memory isn’t meant to be accurate. It’s meant to be true in another way — the way it feels, not the way it was. When I think of my own childhood, I don’t remember facts. I remember light, voices, the smell of grass. That’s its power — it saves us from the coldness of details.”

Jack: “Or it lies to us. You ever think of that? Memory is like a storyteller that changes the ending every time it’s told. That’s why nostalgia can be dangerous — it makes people crave a past that never really existed. Look at nationalism — half of it’s just memory, painted as glory.”

Host: The sound of rain began to soften against the train’s roof, like hands tapping a slow rhythm. The mountains outside were now shadows, the valleys filled with silver mist.

Jeeny: “Maybe so. But without memory, we’d be rootless, Jack. We’d float through life without belonging anywhere. That’s why people cling to the past — not because they want to go back, but because they want to remember who they are.”

Jack: “But what if who you are isn’t in the past, Jeeny? What if it’s what you choose to do now? The mountains don’t care what you remember — they’re still there, changing with the weather.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we return to them — again and again. Isn’t that what Evans was really saying? That home isn’t about ownership or time, but return. You don’t own a mountain; you just visit it enough that it recognizes your footsteps.”

Host: The train passed a small village, its windows glowing like candles in a dark sea. Inside, the hum of conversation mixed with the clatter of tracks, creating a kind of melancholy music. Jack’s eyes drifted to the window, his reflection faint against the night.

Jack: “You ever wonder if we invent that sense of belonging just to comfort ourselves? Maybe home isn’t a place at all — maybe it’s just a story we repeat until we believe it.”

Jeeny: (leans forward slightly) “Then what’s so wrong with that? Isn’t that what all love is, too — a story we choose to believe? The truth isn’t in whether it’s real or not; it’s in how it shapes us.”

Host: The train entered a tunnel, the sound of steel and darkness surrounding them. For a few seconds, all light was gone, and only their voices remained — disembodied, floating through the black.

Jack: “You talk like a poet, Jeeny. But poetry doesn’t keep you grounded. When I was a kid, my father used to say: ‘Don’t worship where you came from — it’ll only chain you to who you were.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe your father was afraid of remembering. Some people are. Because memory carries weight — the faces you’ve lost, the roads you didn’t take, the versions of yourself you’ll never meet again. But that weight — that’s what gives meaning to the present.”

Host: The light returned as the train emerged into moonlight. The valley stretched wide beneath them, a carpet of silver and shadow. Jeeny’s eyes shimmered with a kind of sad tenderness.

Jack: (quietly) “So you think we should hold on to every memory, even the painful ones?”

Jeeny: “Especially those. Because they teach us the language of forgiveness. The mountains don’t just stand for beauty — they endure. They hold the storms, the winds, the snow, and still they remain. Isn’t that what we try to do with our past?”

Jack: “Or maybe we just pretend we’re as strong as them. We carry our mountains instead of leaving them where they belong.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Maybe. But even if you leave a place, Jack, it never really leaves you. Wales, childhood, home — they’re not geography. They’re echoes that keep answering when the heart calls.”

Host: The whistle of the train pierced the night, long and low, as if calling to the mountains themselves. The rain had stopped, and the sky was now a clear, deep blue-black, studded with stars.

Jack: “You make it sound almost sacred. Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing — not the place, but the feeling of belonging somewhere. Of being part of something that remembers you back.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what home really is — a place that remembers you.”

Host: The train slowed, approaching a small station nestled beneath a ridge. A single lamp burned outside, casting a faint halo on the wet platform. Jack and Jeeny stood, gathered their things, and for a moment, they looked out the window — at the mountains, the valley, the dark, ancient land that breathed like a living memory.

Jeeny: (softly) “You see it now, don’t you, Jack? How a place can be both past and present, distance and return, all at once.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Yeah… and maybe that’s why people go back. Not to relive, but to relearn.”

Host: The doors opened with a soft hiss. The cool Welsh air slid in, filled with the smell of rain, earth, and something ancient — like the breath of the mountains themselves. They stepped out, the sound of their footsteps merging with the distant whisper of a stream.

And above them, the stars watched — silent, enduring, like the memories they had just unfolded.