Pendant ranks of catkins cascade in orderly plenitude from every roadside twig to delight my eye. Characteristic trees of the west, hazels come with folkloric texture attached. Magical trees, they tremble to the faintest suggestion of a breeze. In fading light, catkins glow pale dusty lemon.
This afternoon, shafts of sunlight stream through the western hills to pick out earthworks of Cefnllys Castle. This played its part in the fractious history of the Welsh Marches. Now nothing but grass-veiled rubble remains. My lane descends towards Afon Ieithon. A church spire rises from the pastures, shadow pooling around it. Bracken hillsides above flame with light. Llanfihangel Cefnllys church, or St Michael’s: it once served a long-lost borough that died out shortly after the bubonic plague arrived.
It is so lovely here, so quiet. I slip down a path by Bailey Einon wood to arrive at Shaky Bridge – a sturdier structure these days than the name implies. Three hundred yards beyond, by a kissing gate, you enter the temenos (sacred enclosure). A circle of yew within the wall is index to its having been a Celtic Christian “clas”, or monastic settlement. Augustine of Canterbury put paid to all that; Roman Catholic rites came to rule. I enter the simple, restored church. It was unroofed by a 19th-century vicar, but pressure was brought to bear. He was made to restore and re-roof it. The present incumbent’s a namesake of mine. The site has such stillness. I come here often.
Walking homewards by the river in robin-chorused dusk, a sonorous, deep note, far-carrying, thrills up from the river. I walk over, peer down. Low in the water, gliding across one of the deep pools, is a pair of goosanders. The hook-bill of the drake is red, the smoothness of their progress across the surface remarkable. I lean against an aged thorn to watch, thankful that Afon Ieithon is not a major angling water. The Welsh assembly hands out licences to shoot goosander on Welsh rivers far too freely in my view. Not here, I hope. Riverbanks and abundant hollow thorns offer plenty of nesting opportunity hereabouts.
But I recall driving this way last winter and coming across a fox hunt in progress – illegal of course, but country folk can justify the need. Laws may not apply in quiet places.
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