Dusk and dust

Blaentillery Drift Mine

Above the town of Blaenavon at the head of the Afon Llwyd valley is a disused drift mine on the flank of Coity Mountain. The road which once serviced it remains a conspicuous contour on the hillside - though not in the way of a scar, for it has blended well into the moorland, offering the prospect of a gentle if longish climb to the now dilapidated works.

I went there the other week, my third visit in as many months. It's a melancholy place - occupying those seductive edges of past and present, industry and nature, that tempt us to attribute it with meaning, when in fact, there is only what is there. 

It's beautiful nonetheless. The skeleton of the old shed silhouettes against the sky, rusted beams tone with the autumn bracken and violet horizon of the Black Mountains to the north. Even the graffiti seems apposite - adding a kingfisher flash to an otherwise limited palette. 

When I showed some photos to a friend, he asked me, 'Have you ever seen Hinterland?' referring to the noir detective series that's filmed in Mid Wales. It's set in a landscape that evokes something of a cross between the old testament and frontier homesteads. The original Welsh language version was titled Y Gwyll, which means 'the dusk' - that time between twilight and darkness; the opposite of dawn.  

I had to look the translation up, and at first misread it, thinking - until checking a few days later - that 'gwyll' meant 'dust'.  How pertinent for writerly purposes that link would have been: nature reclaiming its own, steel leaching rust to the earth, the walls of the pithead crumbling... and the coal in the lungs of the miners...

You see, how easy it is to impute meaning.

I guess I could do the same with dusk - weave a narrative about the twilight of mining, reference the Big Pit Museum, the shadows of the men who worked these seams...  It turns out that the drift on Coity Mountain - known as Blaentillery - was actually the last in the area to close, opening in the Sixties and struggling on till early this century. 

I often wonder about the prospects for the South Wales Valleys. Ultimately, these are communities whose purpose has gone. Years ago they would have decayed like the mine; today we won't -  can't bring ourselves - to allow that to happen. And so they struggle on too, occupying an indeterminate ground, lacking the skills and infrastructure to remodel their future, yet too rent by the past for a transition to tourism. 

And hence the melancholy - which it's all too easy for outsiders like me to romanticise when that gift (if that's the right word) is hardly mine to bestow. If there's any meaning in place it lies not in the landscape in and of itself,  but in our relationships to it. Those who lived and worked here would no doubt have a different - and truer - perspective than three visits in as many months can hope to conjure. 

But that's as it should be. For whenever I walk the tops of these hills I sense that despite knowing them for half my life, their valleys will always be something apart. I look down to the ribbon rows of houses not so much with sadness, as curiosity - even a little envy. And ironically, I remember that the reason I first came here, was they reminded me of home.

The last light of summer

Evening light.

Beneath me as I write is the sweep of the sea on the western tip of Wales. I’m sitting in the van, my whippet curled beside me, the sky paling to the thinner evening light. It’s been a bright day; the beach was busy with trippers, the campsites fuller than usual. But soon, the sun will arc to the horizon, and the last light of summer will be gone.   

My grandfather used to insist that autumn proper began with the equinox – I have his sundial still in my garden. At junior school, we marked the turning of the season with a harvest festival later in September. And I suppose horologically at least, British Summer Time will be with us till October.

But for me, the rituals that mark the transition are more secular and less scientific. The other week I put away the garden furniture and somehow knew it wouldn’t come out again. Then there’s the buying of school uniform, the ordering of an academic wall chart, the sense that September – not January - is when the year should begin. 

This summer has passed too quickly. 

My grandfather would point out that such a notion is nonsense; that the world turns at a constant speed regardless of our desires. Yet, when I saw small copper butterflies on the Coast Path today, it seemed only weeks since the first brood in spring.  And according to a birder I met, the linnets are departing, and an osprey has arrived on the Daugleddau. 

Jane says she likes the autumn and in theory, I do too: the prospect of crisp leaves under steel skies, of sloes and hips and haws, of turnip lanterns and penny for the guy…  In Northumberland, where I grew up, the season is typically dry and cold – crisp, we’d call it. Here, it brings September swells, a greyer light if warmer sea, and for me, an intangible sense of days that can never come again.

Of course, the seasons are not as rigid as our calendars or meteorologists would have them. Nor would nature regard autumn as either beginning or end. The last light of summer is no more than a poetic metaphor, resonant to a darkening sky and the lamentations of a writer no longer in the flush of his youth.

My friend, the author Jim Perrin, described the west as the landscape of loss; as where the light dies. He was drawn to the Atlantic coast in unspeakable grief at the deaths of his son and wife. As a child, my school overlooked an eastern sea; a pink sky in the morning was a fisherman’s warning, we were told. Here, all is reversed.

So as I sit and watch the clouds redden over Ramsey, I’m mindful that fair weather will follow. That the troubles of this year, its fears and fall outs, its sunshine and showers… as they say, this too will pass. I hope so, and not before long.

For in truth, I have loathed the lockdown, and all that came with it: the shrinking of our lives, the sub-surface tensions, the fibs we tell each other and ourselves to hold it all in check. If ever a summer was craved, it was this one, and yet at times, I would gladly have slept through it all. That’s somewhat dark, but it’s also truth to power of how I’ve felt and in so being, a little lighter to bear.

Tomorrow my youngest son returns to school. The world will no doubt spin as always, and the geese and fieldfares will follow it in their turn. I have builders at my house, a new study to construct. Somewhere, if I can find them, a book or two to write.

In Welsh, the word cynheaf means both autumn and harvest. That we reap what we sow has been an aphoristic earworm to my year. I worry that our pickings will be thin, that in focusing our minds, we’ve narrowed our perspectives; in our terror of the dark, we've ironically dimmed the light. 

It’s cold now. The sea is nearing and the glow from the laptop is all that remains. I should move on. My little whippet is restless, unnerved by our evening sojourn in the van. He too misses the warmth of the sun.

The last light of summer?

Coronavirus - Wales and the five mile rule

Social distancing this week above Pontypool

Today I was quoted in a piece by Jude Rogers in the Guardian looking at the different approaches of Wales and England to the Coronavirus crisis.  The impact of devolution has been greater than most of us expected and is perhaps the subject of another post, but for now, I want to expand on my concerns over continued 'stay local' message in Wales, its impact on health, wellbeing and our civil liberties.

The rule and its impact.

Unlike in England, the Welsh Assembly Government has allowed only limited relaxation of the restriction on travel for non-essential purposes.  As a consequence, after thirteen weeks of lockdown and some of the lowest rates of infection in the UK, the people of Wales are still required to limit any travel to a radius of five miles from home. The so-called five-mile rule has been widely criticised by many in rural communities and indeed some informal concession has been made along the lines of  'use common sense', but despite increasingly urgent pleas from the tourist industry the Welsh Assembly Government remains stubbornly resistant to changing its 'stay local' message.

The impact of the rule is far reaching - not only does it discriminate against those who have relatives outside their immediate community, it continues to minimise access to the countryside despite all the evidence that the outdoors is the safest environment for us all.  Aside from the detriments to our health and wellbeing, it is also an immense restriction on our civil liberties. That policymakers seem increasingly oblivious or unconcerned about this speaks loudly - and worryingly so - of the extent to which we and our freedoms are being psychologically manipulated by this crisis.

Why the rule is absurd

It is quite clear that travel does not transmit the virus, nor does it magically increase in strength the further we get from home.  Staying local, in and of itself, does not reduce transmission - if anything quite the opposite.  That is why we have food delivered safely to our stores and yet suffered an epidemic in care homes. What matters is not the distance we travel but our behaviour when we arrive - it is staying APART which keeps us safe, and any rule should ultimately be a means to this end.

Currently, however, we have the situation where the 330,000 residents of Cardiff are free - and supposedly safe - to socially distance in their virtual cage, but a family there cannot travel to the empty hills above Pontypridd for a walk in the fresh air.  Yesterday a friend of mine wrote to moan that over the last 13 weeks he had walked every combination of the five-mile radius from his house in Newport - the canal he complained was rammed even in the early morning and the few parks nearby were the same. And yet by driving ten miles up the valley he - and his neighbours - could walk that same canal in much greater safety - or perhaps visit Wentwood forest which opened its car parks yesterday but under the rules is only accessible to a tiny number of people.

This is not only absurd and damaging to our mental health and wellbeing, it is also an opportunity missed in promoting the countryside of Wales as a resource for safe recreation. As we open up non-essential retail where do we think is the safest for a family to spend their leisure - St David's Centre or St David's Head; Roath Park or the Rhinogs - at Cardiff Ikea or Cadair Idris?  The answer is plain as a pikestaff.

So why does the government persist?

The Welsh government's refusal to explain its reasoning in scientific terms is telling -  the reality must, therefore, be that the rule is a proxy for managing other concerns. Here we get into the shady world of politics and its inevitable withholds, but my own conclusion is that the real reasons for maintaining the stay local message are threefold.

The first is a fear of what we might call geo-spread - the notion that visitors to the countryside will somehow bring the virus to rural areas and that local facilities would be overrun.  These fears have been exacerbated by a widely publicised letter earlier in the crisis from doctors, the whole public hysteria over the NHS and some sensationalist press reporting of gatherings at hot spots in England - frankly, the good weather hasn't helped. The logic for this fear diminishes daily and yet the concern persists with ever more desperate attempts by some communities to justify why it's not safe to come here quite yet.

This plays to the second concern - a political fear of those few loud voices in rural communities who take a fortress view to the crisis, regarding city folk as an invading plague who cannot be trusted to socially distance - as if this virus and the higher infection rates in urban areas were somehow their fault!  The recently introduced concept of 'community consent' is effectively a stealth addition to the tests set for the easing of lockdown and is clearly not relevant to the science - nor is it a justifiable reason for restricting our civil liberties, but that's for another time too.

And lastly - the really big unspoken - there is a fear of people coming in from England. Ultimately, I believe the 5-mile rule is now primarily a proxy for closing the border! I say this because we can't seriously be so concerned about the level of infection in Wales alone or indeed the adequacy of our preparations for a second wave - if so, we really do have a warped view of the importance of our freedoms and the needs of our economy.

How should we go forward?

Ideally, the government should remove the five-mile rule immediately. More realistically they should prepare for its removal at the end of the next three week review period.  In parallel, we should take two further actions.

First - despite my view that the attitudes of some in the 'stay away' lobby are somewhat shabby and ungenerous, there is clearly work to be done in reassuring local communities that a return to free movement is not to be feared.  The government should help in the provision of Covid -Secure facilities and work to promote best practice guidelines for those who would visit the countryside.  There has been much good work in areas such as the Lake District and we should take the lessons from this and apply them to Wales.

Second - there is a massive opportunity to launch a 'Get Outdoors' campaign that would have long term benefits for health, wellbeing and the tourist economy of Wales.  Rather than restricting people to their urban environments, we should promote our vast natural resources as among the safest environments to spend leisure time.  Our national parks should open as soon as possible and we should encourage people to visit less known areas rather than the traditional hot spots. This isn't about satisfying mountaineers and kayakers like me, it's about encouraging families and people of limited outdoor experience to see the opportunities and benefits of their own countryside - it's about pride and thanksgiving for the resources we have on our doorsteps and actively sharing those as widely as possible.

Conclusions

We all of us have concerns and fears in relation to this crisis - and each of us will stack and collate those in different order.  I actually have much sympathy for the difficulties politicians and advisors face - this is not easy and it's important that we try to be objective rather than simply pursuing our own interests.

But when it is clear to any intelligent person that the rules are not logical; when we have a tourist industry that is screaming to be heard - and when we have such a divide between England and Wales that it undermines our sense of nationhood - then we must think again.  And although throughout this piece I have been relatively light on the impact to our freedoms and human rights, I  suggest we should not regard their curtailment so lightly or be so trusting that they will return anytime soon  - at the very least they deserve more explanation than slogans which do not stand scrutiny.


I would like to acknowledge the influence of Nick Kemp and his excellent website Parkswatch Scotland in my forming these views - in particular, the Stay Apart slogan came from his suggestions and I would encourage those interested in these issues to follow his blog - in most part it is easy to substitute the word Scotland for Wales as the issues are much the same.

Politics and Philosophy - a lesson in two parts

Just over forty years ago I went to university to study politics - it was around the time when Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan were first elected; unemployment was high, the Soviet Union remained a threat, and in my final year, reports from Afghanistan and the Falklands glued us to the TV in the Student's Union bar.

Academic politics is primarily the study of power: the ways it's structured in a world of nation-states and how they interact on the international stage. Whereas most of my fellow students preferred the classes on government and international relations I was drawn to the philosophical side, which looks not so much of how things 'are', as to how they 'ought' to be.

This distinction between the 'is' and the 'ought' is bread and butter stuff to philosophers - it's precisely the point of the exercise in areas such as ethics and justice which became my subsidiary subjects.  By the time I graduated, these were my chief interest and though many friends and family asked if I'd thought of going into public affairs, I understood by then that the two sides of the political coin have very little in common.

In the years since leaving university, I've cultivated a certain disdain for politics and it's proponents. Ironically, given my career in newspapers, I hold much the same view of the media too. For several years I actively stopped reading or viewing any news reports and still today I'm deeply sceptical of the stories that are served up as fact. The prospect of being involved in the political merry-go-round,  even on a minor campaigning basis, has remained about as attractive as the warm milk we were forced to drink at junior school - the removal of which I regard as Margaret Thatcher's best ever decision!

Or at least that was the case until the coronavirus crisis and the monstrous restriction of our civil liberties that continues to be imposed under the guise of public safety.  My use of the word 'monstrous' will make clear how I regard the extended lockdown here in Wales. It's a visceral thing, a sense that just 'is' within me, as much as something I 'ought 'logically to feel - and although I could set out all the arguments here, that's not the point of this piece.

What's relevant is that for the first time in my adult life, I've become a letter writer, a tweeter, a commentator of Facebook. I've followed every welsh politician that matters (to be fair that's not many) and bombarded them with questions; I've signed petitions, written to newspapers, sought out data and read the legislation and scientific advice in full. The National Parks have governance websites that allow you to read their policies - and like me, complain at their closure of huge areas of the countryside and general kowtowing to the wishes of their paymasters.

In part, I've done this by way of experiment. I wanted to see what difference - however small - I might make. If I campaigned hard enough, might anybody actually listen? Along the way, I've learned some of what works and what doesn't - when to challenge and when to stop - which posts get the most likes, and which are more likely to fall on deaf ears. At times it's almost exhilarating and I can see how some might find a purpose in this as a profession.

But most of all I've learned that the process is exhausting.  In fact, it feels like the intellectual equivalent of banging your head against a wall in the hope that someone takes pity on your cries. The reason for which, is that success has absolutely nothing to do with winning the intellectual argument.  Indeed, I should remove 'winning' from that last sentence - for it's now clear to me that political campaigning has almost nothing to do with intellectual rigour at all.

The historian Michael Ignatieff made this point in an interview, reflecting on his time as leader of the Liberal Party of Canada.  Ignatieff is a formidable thinker and yet he described how all the skills he had acquired - and had thought would be helpful - were of little or no use in the political arena.  In politics, the protagonists have an agenda which they pursue regardless of consistency or intellectual merit - those are the niceties of losers.  What matters to lobbyists and politicians is simply to prevail -  and if that means you need to pivot your reasoning or ignore some inconvenient truths, then so be it.

Dominic Cummings wouldn't be concerned - from 'Taking Back Control' to 'Get Brexit Done' he's become the embodiment of a political method that's based on little more than the repetition of populist messages - ideally wrapped in slogans which capture the sentiment but suppresses any critical thought. The recent calls to Stay Home, Save Lives and Protect the NHS are more benign but little different in their veracity.  In a distressing reversal of the academic distinction we began with, politics in practice would has evolved to the art of promoting a partisan view of what 'ought' regardless of the truth of what actually 'is'.

But was it ever any different?

Forty years ago the slogan on billboards across the UK was 'Labour isn't Working'.  It's now famous as the Saatchi and Saatchi campaign which led to the Conservative victory in 1979.  And yet if you look carefully, you'll see that the line of supposed benefit seekers is actually the same twenty people - all of them volunteers from the Hendon Young Conservatives - photographed from different angles. What's even more ironic is that by the end of Thatcher's first term in office, unemployment had more than doubled.

That's a long time ago - and no doubt we'll look back on this crisis and its impact on civil liberties in a different light too.  But for now, I'm done with campaigning,  the toll on my wellbeing is actually too great.  Indeed, the prospect of civil disobedience is actually less stressful and easier to enact than all of that tweeting and letter writing.  In the meantime, I'm off to walk up a mountain where the only gathering is the rooks and the most important distance is the one between me and my darker thoughts.

The role of the countryside in helping us through this crisis.

Snowdonia - above the Glyders.

The events of the last few weeks will be with us for decades. Economically, there’ll certainly be pre and post Covid eras, and socially, though evidence shows we swiftly revert to our norms, most commentators expect there to be some adjustment. I wonder though, as I reflect on the ‘Stay Away’ sign that’s appeared in a lane near my house, at the deeper changes this shock to the system will bring, and the attitudinal legacies it may leave?

Somewhat to my surprise, I’ve coped well with the restrictions of the lockdown. I suppose that being an introvert, I was always going to be less affected by the lack of social interaction than I was by the limits to getting outdoors. In the event, I’ve adapted to that too, finding new ways to explore, making a virtue of what’s local; dwn ei filltir sgwar, as they say in Wales – a man of his own square mile.

But for all that I’ve found solace on my doorstep, there’s also been sadness – not in the landscape or the shrinking of my horizons, but in narrow minded insularity which the sign in that lane so typifies. Walk two miles from where I’m writing this and you’ll find others of similar ilk: Stay Home, Caravans not Welcome, No access – the internet is awash with much the same and worse.

Fear, of course, feeds our darker instincts. In the first grip of a pandemic (that very word is so emotive) we want action that keeps us safe - we don’t care about fancy pants reasoning or the niceties of whether this or that restriction offends against our individual rights.  And actually, I agree. Over sophistication would risk undermining the core message – especially when there are sections of society who seem to be determinedly irresponsible and selfish.

But that doesn’t mean, we shouldn’t call out attitudes and behaviours that in any other context we’d be quick to condemn. Of course, an urban exodus to Tenby beach or Pen Y Fan should not be encouraged – and those who flout the rules should rightly be penalised. But when the call to stay at home starts to morph into a more general ‘outsiders not welcome’ then we risk crossing a line. Last week, the tires of suspected ‘visitors’ cars were slashed in communities across Wales; there were farmers calling for footpaths to be closed, there were people posting pictures of suspiciously parked vehicles – and there were keyboard warriors glorying in the Easter stay-away, not as a regretfully necessary measure, but as a statement of neo-tribal identity.

If this were just a few individuals then perhaps I could shrug it off. But regretfully, some of those who should know better have acted poorly too. The posts on social media by the Pembrokeshire National Park for example - with their sideways digs at caravaners and second homeowners - are ill thought through, reinforcing an undercurrent of ‘us and ‘them’ that no afterthought of ‘you’ll be welcome when it’s over’ can ever mitigate.  In part, that’s because it isn’t going to be ‘over’ – at least not for a long while, and not in a clean cut way.

The real sadness in all this is that rural areas have – at least potentially - an important role to play in helping us come through what will be a messy and imperfect emergence from this crisis. If we think of those few environments that can relatively safely allow for exercise, wellbeing, families to be together – then the outdoors must come high on the list.  This week, it was reported that the Government is considering the restarting of construction projects on the basis that working outside poses a limited risk – then surely walking, or mountaineering, or surfing or sailing…must be even less so. 

On Thursday there was some clarification that the current legislation allows for a short drive of up to five minutes in order to take a much longer period of exercise. To many – myself included – this makes a huge difference to their horizons - and ultimately their mental health. We should welcome the clarity rather than feigning confusion or retreating to the comfort of inflexible prescriptions. For these are exactly the types of baby steps we will need, helping us to move beyond slogans without compromise to safety or leaping from one extreme to another. I’d like to see our National Parks (and other similar bodies) start thinking – and communicating – along similar lines, rather than promoting the blanket closure of our precious natural resources.  

But most of all, I’d like to see a change in an underlying attitude of ‘us and them’, which if not universal is worryingly to the fore. Those of us lucky enough to live in rural areas – and especially those with the ability to influence others - must come to terms with the reality that there will inevitably be some risk from visitors arriving from the city – just as those in urban areas are now taking daily risks to supply us with food and medicine and telecoms and building materials…  We live in an interconnected and mutually dependent society and the idea that its ‘our’ local health service or ‘our’ landscape or ‘our’ footpaths and that these regional assets are most definitely ‘not yours’, is not only wrong in its reasoning, it’s shabby in sentiment and actually, bad for our future too.

Last week I was struck by a simple Facebook post from my friends at Alpine Action Adventures - they were offering key workers a substantial discount on any holiday they might take this or next year. Sure, it’s a marketing device; but what a fantastic and creative gesture. They have other offers too and are responsibly encouraging guests to think ahead without the need to risk large deposits or inflexible commitments. What they are saying is Come and stay, we’re grateful for what you’ve done; we’re happy to share some of our good fortune - and these are people who live in France!  Let’s have more and similar gestures from businesses and public bodies here in the UK.

My grandfather, who lived through the great depression, was fond of the saying ‘we reap what we sow’. These too are seminal times, and we should grant some leeway for the planting of a few bad seeds. But in a few short months, the communities and the landscapes of rural Wales will have a golden opportunity to show – and share – the depth of their value to us all. In so doing, they can make a huge contribution to our national wellbeing and play a vital role in shaping some of the few positive legacies of this pandemic. Rather than putting signs on gates (either literally or online) we ought – right now - to be thinking of how we might embrace that challenge, even if the ways to do so are not immediately obvious.   

A different path

Sugar Loaf - the approach from Forest Coal Pit

Whenever taking photographs I'm reminded of a tip I read years ago: the best pictures show a new perspective - bend low to the ground, stand high to the subject; shoot portraits from the side. The thrust of the advice is that you shouldn't keep snapping in the same repetitive pattern.

I was pondering this yesterday as I walked up Sugar Loaf mountain on the outskirts of Abergavenny. It's the nearest peak to my home and at a tad under 2000ft a high contender for the summit I've stood on most often. In truth, that frequency is more a consequence of proximity than any great love of the view. The tourist path from above the A40 might get the heart pounding, but it seldom stirs the spirit.

So what a delight that on a whim I should decide to drive north and tackle the hill from a different side. My route would start lower than usual, cross the mountain's moorland saddle, and return with views of the Grwyne rather than the roadworks on the Heads of the Valleys road. It's a fiddle to get to, takes a deal more time, and the supposedly well signed car park took me two attempts to find.

 Yet almost immediately I had the sense of a good day ahead. The birdsong might have accounted for my felicity, or perhaps it was the brightening sky; or the bank of foxgloves, my favourite spring flower. But in the event, what made me smile most was an abandoned microwave and fridge, comically plugged to the earth as if making a point about its energy. 

That slantwise perspective set the tone for my walk. Almost every step seemed lighter, more vivid than the norm. The path was greener, wooded, less wide; I saw a stoat, a kite circling above. The Black Mountains, their silhouettes a lesson in tonal regression, were with me all the way. In thirty years of climbing this hill, I'd never been so aware of the view or less concerned with my speed.

Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. A friend mentioned to me recently that she'd hiked from Solva to Newgale on the Pembrokeshire coast, adding, it's so much better than the other way round.  She's right - in that case it's something to do with the arc of the sea on your shoulder, the lie of the cliffs, and the gradual approach to a distant shore.  To walk the other way is fine, but less climatic -  especially in a midday sun.

Which reminds me of a related piece of advice - that when photographing landscape, it's best to wait for the lengthening shadows. The trouble is, we're seldom out that long, or free to start so late. I can think of any number of routes that are substantially different not only as a consequence of approach and direction, but also the time of day.  And yet, for one reason or another, we chose to go with the familiar.

The summit of Sugar Loaf is most often viewed as a conical peak - indeed, there's a common misconception that it's an extinct volcano. The route from the north shows it to be broader, the path spiralling round in a pleasing helter-skelter approach.  Wheatears flash their arses from the rocks, larks sing above the moors, and all the time there is peace to this side of the hill that is lacking on the bracken lined thoroughfares to the south.

Returning from the top, I diverted to walk on the north-east spur.  The carcass of a deer was rotting by a low stone wall, its exposed spine simultaneously grotesque and intricately beautiful. Despite the stench, I leant close to photograph it from above, pondering if I'd ever seen a dead deer before. Before heading on I checked the map for the name of the little peak to my left. It's called Bryn Arw and I'd bet a lot of money that it's visited by fewer than one in a hundred who climb its famous neighbour, Skirrid Hill.

As I reach the end of the ridge I think about the coming weekend. The horizon takes a line from Offa's Dyke to the bulk of Blorenge and the South Wales valleys; in between lie the gentler fields of the English lowlands - it feels like I'm standing on the edge of what's wild. Perhaps I'll climb that little peak tomorrow instead of another trip to Skirrid? My friend reckons that's one of the best walks in Monmouthshire, and to be fair, she's a good judge of these things. But today I'm not so sure - for I'm reminded that sometimes it's good to chose a different path.

Skirrid Hill from Sugar Loaf 's north east flank

Special places - The Boat Yard Tea Room

The brilliant Boat Yard Tea Room at Pontymoile 

It's strange the places that we like the most; that bring a smile to the face whenever they're mentioned; that we love for their familiarity more than any prospect of the new...

Since returning to South Wales four years ago, I reckon the spot which has given me most joy, is a tiny little cafe, housed in a land-locked barge on the edge of the canal at Pontypool. It's at the Pontymoile Marina near the southern end of town and one of those locations that estate agents might chance as 'semi-rural'. When we were there last week, I told Jane it was my favourite place to eat, and wouldn't swap it for any of the gastro-pubs that are ten-a-penny in Gwent.

She's heard all this before. I give her the same spiel every time we come, which is about once a week and more often if I get a chance. Thankfully, Jane likes it there too, and has long since given up suggesting I change the record or widen my horizons. As I wiped the last crumbs of eggy bread from my plate I muttered something about it being the best cafe in South Wales and possibly my favourite of all time...

Which is unashamedly true.

It's ironic, that living in area renowned for pubs and restaurants, I increasingly dislike visiting all but a few. Most times there's an inverse relationship between how much a place is lauded and how much I enjoy the experience. It doesn't help that I don't drink, but it's more than that: they cost too much, they're inauthentic and they leave me cold.

Unlike at Pontymoile.  Where, usually, we take a walk on the tow path to work up an appetite, reminding ourselves that in less than a mile we're in the national park, and wondering why more people don't take advantage. In truth, it's busier at weekends but on an average Tuesday we seldom  pass more than a handful of ramblers on the way to our turn at bridge number fifty nine... Then it's back at a spritely pace for two eggs on toast, two slices of bacon and a cup of tea please - twice.

That all comes to around a tenner, and it's served with welcoming smiles and a chat about where we've been and who's doing what. Jane reckons I'm a different person at the cafe - that few people get to know as much about me as do Kelly and her dad James who run this little gem of a place.  But then they're as much a part of why I visit as the menu.

On the subject of which, don't expect any fancy-pants bistro fare. All day breakfasts are the staple, with hot drinks, hand made cakes and often a daily special, which might be home made soup, or perhaps bubble and squeak... you get the idea. And so do lots of others - on a sunny Saturday the customers spill onto outdoor tables and we've learned to order in advance as a sell-out isn't unknown.

But as I said, it's not really about the food - or at least, nothing you'll find on the menu - because what they really serve here, is something that's hard to write down and even harder to price.  I'd call it 'care' - and the whole place reeks of it! From the hearty food to the bright decor, to the thoughtful attention to their local community (we like to have cheap treats for the kids, says Kel) - it's as tangible and in your face as the smell of their sausages on a winter's morning.

And without a doubt, that's why I like this place so much.

In a world of that's full of bland shops, bland restaurants and even blander service - this place is real and alive and full of character. Sure, there's a hint of nostalgia in my liking it so much - of times and facilities we've lost - but why not, and why not celebrate and support what's still there.  Kelly and James are making a go of a small business that's a little different - and a lot better - than any amount of branding could ever deliver.

So it's sad to hear that the marina is due to be redeveloped, with plans for a visitor centre putting  their tearoom under threat.  And how ironic that by making the place so popular they've put their own future in doubt - not that you'd sense it - only last week they held a free afternoon tea for their customers.  If the revamp goes ahead I hope the trust licences any new facility to Kelly and James - they've earned that chance.  But more than that, if they don't, they'll lose something special very special indeed.

Visit while you still can:  The Boat Yard Tea Room at Pontymoile Marina

After the storm

Near to my house is the beautiful cove of Abereiddy. The picture above is a stock shot from the Internet - it was probably taken about ten years ago, but that doesn't matter - the important thing is the line of the sea wall and where it joins the headland.

Compare this to the picture I took this morning.

To be fair the sea walls were removed a couple of year ago and the car park has receded a few meters each winter - but the recent storms did the equivalent of ten years' work in a night.  There was room for five cars today!

To the south is Newgale, a mile of sands backed with a bank of cobbles. The picture below was taken at Christmas.

The same spot this morning...

It's common for the winter storms to lower the sand, but in twenty years I've never seen it so denuded. A little further down, the petrified trunks of an ancient forest have been exposed for the first time in decades.

Above the usual shoreline, the putative defence is being replaced after the tide had brushed it aside.

And yet today all was calm, as beautiful and wondrous as ever - in some ways more so.

Shed of the year

I see that a hand-built cabin in the Cambrian Mountains has won Cuprinol's Shed of the Year. A prize of £1000 attracted hundreds of entrants - and about a million quid's worth of free publicity for Cuprinol. I bet their marketing team is delighted.

It seems that sheds are all the rage. There are books on sheds, brochures on sheds, TV programmes on sheds; there's even the equivalent of 'shed porn' websites (not really you understand)  on which enthusiasts download images and arrange shed parties or whatever else they do. I'd bet there's been academic papers with titles like 'the itinerant shed and its role in a post-modern society'.

Depending on your definition, I have at least two sheds and possibly three. The difficulty comes in whether our outhouse is truly a shed or just a room for the boiler. But let's not get all philosophic  - for the purposes of this blog we can agree that I have two, and I'll declare my working definition as being that a shed should have room to sit, read book and make a cup of tea. The ideal one would also have a sofa or bed, capable of accommodating at least a mid afternoon snooze.


In my case, the attraction is part nostalgic. My grandfather had a gimcrack cabin he would retire to after his daily trip to the Legion. It smelled of beer and leeks and had net curtains and a tripod table with a lace tablecloth. The walls were covered in our childhood drawings which in some cases he'd framed, though he was as good as blind.

There's also a need for space - 'thinking' a much as 'physical' - which some would argue is a reflection of our homes and lifestyles. But in fact, the idea of a creative haven has a long tradition, as well as practical application in so far as it allows for materials to be readily available and projects easily returned too.  My recent playing of the saxophone gives this a new twist - I'm regularly banished to give the family some peace, rather than the other way round!

I've often wondered about the benefit of installing sheds at the office - it's an attractive idea, but doomed to failure. In no time they'd be demarcated; there'd be rules and regulations, an on-line booking system, plasma screens and tea and coffee on demand - they'd be a pastiche of the real thing, a veneer for the ego; out of touch with the original purpose.

Not that there is some deep meaning or meta-purpose in the sheds themselves - that too would be bollocks. They are simply a means to fun, to reconnecting, to winding down, to time alone - or in my case, to time with Dylan - twice this week we've had a 'shed-night': watched a movie, had some snacks, read stories and woken up to the dawn chorus - precious times. What's that phrase... can never come again?

But if times can't come again; ideas are constantly recycled. I couldn't help noticing the shed of the year's resemblance to the upturned boats on Lindisfarne. They have been there, icons of time and place, for more than a century - the oldest dates from 1902. Believe it or not, they're now in the care of the National Trust - so much for the humble cabin.

And not a drop of Cuprinol in sight.

Beachcombing.

I've not known a wetter Christmas. All week the rain has blurred our windows; driven by the Atlantic currents it beats on the walls, the roof tiles, the doorsteps - even the gutters in our village are bubbling, a muddy stream running parallel to the verge. On Christmas Eve I watched a line of empty beer cans floating past the farm at the head of the road.

We often tell visitors not to worry about the weather - there's a pleasure, we say, walking the coast in a gale. But this rain is dank and insistent - there's no thrill in it, just a constant drubbing, the ground sucking at your wellies if you venture off road. In the field across from our house, the starlings have sheltered all week in the hedge... waiting, like us, for any break in the clouds.

One came on Wednesday - an hour or so between fronts, the wind easing and the first hint of sun in days. The boys were happy to stay steaming inside, but Jane and I grabbed our coats and joined the dog-walkers on Newgale sands. There are few better storm beaches in Wales.

As we parked the car Jane commented on the plastic strewn along the high-water mark. It was horrid, she said, and I agreed, adding that it's bad for the wildlife as well as being ugly. And yet, as we set off, I secretly thrilled at what I might find - for there's a part of me that's always excited at the prospect of beachcombing.

I can recall going to the beach as a child, and my parents insisting on walking the tide mark.  Old pop bottles would be collected for the sixpence return fee, driftwood gathered for a fire; once (on Seaton Sluice beach) we came across a hoard of beeswax. My mother collected great lumps of it to make candles - she carved a horses head sculpture from it too.  Funny the things we remember?

I'm not alone in seeing the possibilities. The Cornish artist Peter Lanyon used to make constructions from objects he found on the beach. Using these as prompts to memory, he painted some of the best abstract landscapes of the Twentieth Century. Poets seem to respond to it too - though often I'm suspicious - their narratives and metaphors, (almost always a variation on 'washed up') a little too obvious, for my liking.

On Thursday there was a longer break in the clouds - this time we went to Marloes, another fine storm beach, and is it turned out, with an even greater collection of rubbish under its cliffs. There were nets, and piles of wood, a fishing boat rudder, some buoys and a lobster pot float (now in my garden, thank you). I especially liked a jagged crate, half-buried in the sand and resembling a shark's jaw.  Strangely there was no weed, the beach seemingly scoured of any large organic matter.

Jane is right of course, about the detritus. It's troubling how much is now floating in our seas - there are whole island made entirely of trash where he Earth's major currents meet - one, between Hawaii and California is known as the Great Pacific Garbage Patch!  And she's right it's pretty disgusting - much of what's been washed up is simply discarded netting, plastic boxes and fishing buckets.  Not that it's any better (though certainly, it's more comical), a few years ago there was a huge container of sun cream washed ashore - the following spring every car boot sale for miles around had a stall selling Spanish sun lotion.

At both Newgale and Marloes, we added a pile of netting to the waste bins - a small contribution to the clean up. In truth it will make little difference, the sea will carry most of the trash away - only to bring much of it back next year. And when it does, I'll have that strange dual feeling - a logical empathy with Jane's view that it's horrid - and a childish thrill that maybe, just maybe, there'll be some treasure to be found.

Starling season

Near to my house is the largest starling roost in Wales.  In a few weeks, the birds will start making their nightly trip to a small fir copse on Plumstone Mountain; the raptors will wait as the sun dips to the sea, and a so will begin one of the greatest avian spectacles in the UK.

For now, many of the birds are roosting at Slebech on the upper Daugleddau estuary. The early reports suggest numbers are high. To reach Plumstone the starlings will fly over Arnolds Hill, a low hump of the southern horizon when viewed from the winter roost.

My book, Counting Steps, includes an essay about the starlings - it's titled, Looking For Smoke Over Arnold's Hill.  An extract was recently printed in Booktime Magazine.

I hope you enjoy it.

If I describe the starlings to friends the response is always similar. There is mention of their flight, the swirling forms; comparisons to kaleidoscopes, oil on water, even Disney’s Fantasia. It seems we are fascinated by their synchronicity; the apparently random yet tightly choreographed swarming, the swoops and falls and joy and delight of it all.

And most have a story to share. We’re aware of starlings gathering in cities, under piers, on marshes and reed beds; one colleague talked of the flocks she’d seen on the American Plains. Starling roosts are a seasonal staple of television shows like Spring Watch and Countryfile. On the Somerset Levels they are a promoted as a tourist attraction.

Yet when I listen to these reports they don’t resonate.  It took me a while to realise why, though the answer should perhaps have been obvious. We tend to view starlings from afar. Indeed any description of the swarming presupposes we are at a remove.

What I so loved about Plumstone was the opposite.

To visit the roost that winter was to be amongst the birds. At Plumstone the starlings fly over your head; on a heavy night they will literally touch your hair. There will be hundreds by your feet, on the wires and fences, more on the barns and hedges – drinking from pools, chattering on perches, flushed skyward by the raptors. There’s a pair of resident goshawks that make their kills above the wooded break; a peregrine once stooped yards from where I stood, barrel rolling to clasp its prey from below.

Then there’s the stream of chatter, and the overpowering stench of guano. Three months of a million plus birds and the copse stinks of sweet lime. If I walked in the trees I could stand under the roost, the sky reduced to starlight by the bursting branches, my boots sticky and my coat peppered with droppings.

The following summer I took to watching birds at the coast. I never did that list-ticking thing, though I’d often drive to Strumble to look for auks, or walk to St David’s Head to watch the gannets diving off Ramsey. I liked best to go in the evening when occasionally there’d be shearwaters, flying low over the sea on their return to Skomer. 

But all this was at a distance.

I missed the black shroud of the starlings, the closeness, the calling and the smell. By the following November I was back at Plumstone, looking for smoke over Arnold’s Hill.

Cefn Croes wind farm

Let me start by sharing three recent conversations.

The first, with a writer who was once a prominent road protester. Would you have climbed those trees to stop the building of a wind farm, I asked?

The second, with a writer and environmentalist, as delightful as she was committed. I care most deeply about the landscape, I explained, my view on wind farms is really a matter of personal priorities.

And the third, with a writer whose generous mentoring has helped me more than any other. I've discovered the way to success, he said. Write nothing controversial, acknowledge all opinions and say bugger all of consequence.  He had a twinkle in his eye.

I recalled these snippets as I neared the summit of Pen y Garn on Saturday, walking on a treble-width forest track, five miles east of Devil's Bridge in the Cambrian Mountains. The 'road' leads to the Nant Rhys bothy, arguably the most perfect and isolated of all in Wales.

Of course, I knew what to expect. After all, I'd been this way before. I'd written of my hatred of the Cefn Croes wind farm, its impact on the landscape and the inappropriateness of its turbines. I'd gone so far as to say that before passing judgement every campaigner (for or against) should stand under one of the monstrous contraptions.

You'll understand then, I'm no fence-sitter on this issue - though it's fair to say that over recent years I've tried harder to listen to alternative views. Sometimes I even find myself nodding.

But as I crested the rise that visceral response hit me again... I began ranting to my walking companion... and again... reeling off photos... and again... spitting into my iPhone's voice recorder: fucking turbines.. and again... arrogant, criminal... and again... they make me want to puke..  I was listening to no one and to trucking no arguments.

And you know, I was glad about that. For in those few minutes of rage I felt more authentic than any amount of reasoned argument, probing questions or careful assessment of perspectives. I didn't give a toss for the technical reports available as pdf downloads, the website propaganda of the energy companies or the paranoia of the eco-lobby that positions windfarms as a binary alternative to nuclear-fuelled wastelands. Nor did I care about the European grants, the Welsh Assembly's Sustainability Strategy, or the 40,000 homes putatively benefiting from this 'clean' energy.

What I cared about was this place.

The Elenydd wilderness is one of the few mountain regions worthy of that epithet. The Cefn Croes windfarm is barely visible from the road, it takes miles of walking to get up close, it directly affects but a handful of homes and doesn't offend the tourist's windscreened view of Wales. And that's precisely why it matters so much.

This landscape is precious; it's rare and special, and I'm angry because we despoil it with industrialisation on a scale that would be unthinkable in any urban equivalent. This is wrong, and it's plain and obvious when you go there. But because most of you won't, I'd ask you to spend 14 seconds watching the video below.

Just sometimes it's entirely rational to follow our gut.

Soar-y-mynydd and Llyne Brianne

The Soar-y-Mynydd chapel is often cited as the most remote in Wales. I'm not sure how that calculation is made, but it is certainly one of the most beautiful and makes for a fine pilgrimage when walking or cycling in the Green Desert of Wales - a Victorian description of the Cambrian Mountains which, in many ways, remains appropriate.

In describing Soar-y-Mynydd as beautiful, I'm defying convention: austere, would be equally apt; forbidding, not out of place. But then beauty comes in different forms. My neighbour is a stonemason who's indifferent to ornate carving but delights in the millimetre accuracy of cathedral pillars. He would like Soar-y-Mynydd, not for its stonework, but its simplicity: the symmetrical arrangement of the boxed pews, the lack of adornment, the sparse use of colour.

I like the windows too, tall with Gothic points inside a rounded arch, no stained glass. They remind me of my junior school, which is perhaps not surprising because the chapel was conjoined to one until it closed in the 1940s. To picture the community then is to imagine a lost world. Last weekend, three cars were parked on the drive; the information board says that in its heyday, sixty horses were regularly tethered on Sundays!

The landscape is transformed too. Down the hill is the Llyn Brianne reservoir, built in the Seventies to provide water for South Wales, it consumed the upper Tywi to near its meeting with the Doethie. Interestingly, I can't find a reference to the name of the valley before it was flooded (the river above it is the Camddwr, but perhaps it was just known as Tywi). An excellent local website says the reservoir is actually a misspelling of a minor tributary, the Nant y Bryniau (literally, the stream in the hills).

Above the waterline are the ubiquitous conifer forests that cover too much of the Cambrian Mountains. To be fair, the planting began long before the dam was constructed, and, of all the mid wales reservoirs, Llyn Brianne seems to blend more sensitively, even delightfully, into the hills. We walked a five-mile section last Sunday and saw redstarts, dragonflies, a tortoiseshell butterfly and a soaring buzzard - no kites at the dam, but they were there at the RSPB reserve below.

I first came to Llyn Brianne a month after moving to Wales, mistaking the mountain road as a potential easy option on a cycle tour. In the twenty years since I must have returned at least once each year, often more. Reflecting last weekend, I realised its become central to my image and understanding of this part of Wales. And it's full of good memories too -  of nights in the Dolgoch hostel, of backpacking with my boys, cycling the Tregaron road - of my friends kayaking the overspill on the dam (an activity now banned).

And of Soar-y-Mynydd too. I have no religious faith, but if I did, I think I'd be 'chapel' not 'church'. So it's good to know the pews are still used - and sometimes even filled. For Soar-y-Mynydd has become an oasis in the desert - parishioners travel miles to attend its services, and evidently, preachers consider it a great honour to be invited. A friend told me they are all firebrands, bible-bashers of the old school. I like the thought of them ranting as the rain hammers the windows and the Avon Camwddwr runs brackish and inextricably towards the dam.

Pembrokeshire secrets - Porthymynawydd Bay

On Thursday we dropped our eldest son at Whitesands where he was spending the day with his girlfriend and her family. He'd given us strict instructions not to 'lurk', which frankly, is understandable given the embarrassment potential that parents have for teenagers -  no doubt made worse by the prospect of us donning bathing costumes.

So instead Jane and I went to Porthmynawydd, one of my favourite beaches and somewhat of a Pembrokeshire secret. Perhaps the term 'secret' is a bit strong, for Porthymynawydd is seldom deserted in summer -  but on a day when the car parks were overflowing, there were less than a dozen people who'd made the one kilometre walk to reach this peaceful haven.

In fact, half the 'crowd' hadn't even done that; instead, they arrived by boats, launching from Solva, about three miles to the west. Some others came on kayaks, paddling from Newgale, a mile or two to the east and no doubt wondering why they'd not known of this place before. You'll understand from this, that Porthmynawydd is within easy reach of the tourist hot spots of West Wales.

And yet it's a world away. The bay is formed by a deep cove and headland (Dinas Fach), sheltering a shallow and soft sanded beach. The high cliffs enclose the horizon, adding to the sense of remoteness - and they still the waves, creating, at high tide, a shallow lagoon that's perfect for swimming and messing about. There are caves and rock pools, diving platforms and crystal clear snorkelling. One chap there on Thursday caught a huge spider crab, bringing it back for inspection before releasing it again.

At high water, the beach, as with most in Pembrokeshire, is all but gone - but no worries, for this gives the best swimming and the cobbles are fine, if a little lumpy, for sunbathing. Once the tide ebbs the shallow ground means the sand is quickly exposed and at low water, it extends almost to the headland. There is seldom any weed, there are no sharp rocks and the position of the cove means there's minimal tidal rip to worry parents. If you're lucky a seal or two may pay a visit, and the rock pools on the cliff shelves are abundant with blennies and anemone.  The only downside is the barnacles which coat the lower rocks - I'd advise sandals or booties for any scrambling.

But that's enough description - for more, you must visit yourself.

Porthymynawydd is more usually known as Pointz Castle, the name of the farm at the start of the access track. Pointz Castle lies two miles west of Newgale on the A487 at grid reference 831237. The track starts just past the farm and there is a good parking spot here. The route is well marked and obvious - just head down and follow the stream to the cove. In fairness, it's a steepish walk back, but like all good things, some effort is required.

Often I've read landscape writers describing this or that 'special place', but not revealing the location, claiming that to do so would risk the invasion of crowds. This seems a little selfish to me, and in most cases overestimates the reach of their work and the impact of recommendations. With the exception of disclosing sensitive wildlife sites which might be abused (remember the days when Red Kite nests were guarded by the military?), I take a more generous view; in any event, that one kilometre walk will always deter the tourist hordes.

Our day ended with the tide ebbing to low. We took a wrong turn on the coast path and ascended the western cliffs, only to have to descend again. From the summit though, I could see over the sweep of St Brides; there were tankers at anchor off Skomer, a heat haze softening the sky, and the cove below us - a sparkling jewel in what is already a golden crown.