It's a wintry night and I'm perched on a Welsh mountaintop, about 500 metres above sea level, somewhere near Llanidloes. Darkness fell some time ago, and it took the last remnants of the day's limited warmth with it: the temperature has now dropped to the wrong side of zero.
I walked a few miles to find this spot, trudging through the Cambrians to find a vantage point that looks just right. In the day, the view was amazing: I could see all the way down a wide valley of bogs. But now I can't even see my thickly gloved hand in front of my face.
This might sound like a less than ideal way to spend an evening, but I'm happy. Ecstatic, in fact. And it's all because I've just heard the first echoes of a high-revving engine make their way over the distant hills, announcing the arrival of what can only be a Lancia Stratos.
Beams of yellow from the headlights appear not long after, dancing across the valley as the car navigates the technical gravel track. The shrill scream of that Ferrari V6 is catching on the wind now, filling the air with one of the greatest noises of all time. The sound is ragged, reflecting the bursts of acceleration needed to keep the car pointing the right way as it traverses a twisty but steep downhill section.
I hear the revs hold a steady note as it negotiates a sweeping right-hander, followed by a sharp burst as it rounds an acute left-hand hairpin. A short burst on the limiter signals that the car has briefly become an airborne object; a rush of water tells me the driver has made it through a short flooded trough; and then it passes a metre or so under the steep bank atop which I'm shivering.
The course is fast and straight from here, so the car screams past at full chat, making a noise that's simply unholy as the driver keeps his foot firmly pinned to the floor. All I can see are the beams of light turning the pitch-black valley ahead of it into daylight and the pinpricks of red from the rear lights as it speeds away.
It's a sight and a sound I will simply never forget. That said, the ranks of Ford Escorts that followed were almost as impressive, and it's why my memories of the Roger Albert Clark Rally are still vivid several years later.
This is rallying, good and proper, and it's possibly the best spectator motorsport in the world. There's something so special about being left almost to your own devices, being trusted to find somewhere safe, far away from civilisation, to watch some of the most skilled drivers in the world slide their way along impossibly tight forest tracks.
The typical lack of phone signal means you're cut off from the stress and worries of day-to-day life and you end up forming a nice camaraderie with your fellow spectators. No other motorsport allows you to create your own little world in quite the same way.
But it's the sound that really makes it. Head into a forest and you get the wonderful effect of highly tuned engine notes bouncing off hundreds of trees at once, creating an all-encompassing shriek that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up like nothing else.
Even off the stages, back in the bustling paddocks, it's still a wonderfully open motorsport. Paddocks aren't off limits; drivers and mechanics are happy to chat once they've fulfilled their service obligations; and there's typically an almost carnival-like atmosphere in the air, because everyone is there simply for a good time.