Dark, dark, we all go into the dark

Lately, I have had this overwhelming desire to go to some dark, brooding, remote region and stay for a while. I can see the place in my mind; a craggy, wild, windy bit of land somewhere near the sea. It is dark, with no light pollution, only the light from the tiny cabin or cottage nestled amid small trees and shrubs. I long to stand in the wind, listening to it howl and to feel the isolation; no other people (but those I chose to bring with me) no other sounds than natural.

I live in a city, by choice, in an apartment, near a pub. Every morning I hear the nerve shattering crash of empty beer, wine and liquor bottles being dumped into the recycling bin. And every evening I hear the rowdy conversation of the pubs patrons who have been forced outside to smoke because of our city's smoking ban. This is part of living in a city; you are privy to conversations and exclamations you would otherwise not hear in the country. And in the summer you can now enjoy second hand smoke delivered to your window, thanks to those souls trying to find some spot 25 feet away from any entry.
I put up with all this because I enjoy the convenience that a city offers. I enjoy the fact that just around the corner from where I live there is; a bakery, a wine shop, a drugstore, a grocery story, a Thai restaurant, a pizza place, a coffee house, a record store and a dry cleaners. And that's only what is within two blocks.
But there is something enticing about being removed from all this concrete and population. There is something deep inside me that wants to find a bit of quiet, of isolation, dare I say, solitude. This feeling is reflected in the poem The Horses by Ted Hughs.
I climbed through woods in the hour-before-dawn dark.
Evil air, a frost making stillness,
Not a leaf, not a bird-
A world cast frost.
I love his imagry. It fills me with a vision of primordial England; rolling hills and small vales, a cold stark winter where the poet is the only human, the only intrusion on ancient ground.
Then he comes upon some wild horses:
Huge in the dense grey-ten together-
Megalith-still. They breathed, making no move.
With draped manes and tilted hind-hooves
Making no sound.
I passed: not one snorted or jerked its head
Grey silent fragments
Of a grey silent world.
Hughs ends the poem in the same predicament I am in. He is back in the city, back...
In din of the crowded streets, going among the years, the faces...
But he longs for what I long for..
May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place
Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing curlews,
Hearing the horizons endure.
That is why I long for that remote, wild region. It is a dark place that endures, that prevails despite my presence there. It is eternal; full of energy, depth and although my being there will change it slightly, it will go on with out me, yet, in the same sense the knowledge of it feeds me and enraptures my imagination.