Bog Myrtle & Peat

I was walking in the hills above Presteigne when I heard a quad bike moving. Through the trees, I caught a glimpse of sheep moving in their field, then the flash of a collie beneath them. They were coming towards me, and I had nowhere to hide. Scotland has taught me to walk with impunity, and it never occurs to me that I should worry about trespass. If I meet the farmer as I pass, I smile and wave and the worst he can do is not wave back. But I don’t know what happens in Wales, and while it seems unlikely that the police would be called to arrest a passing walker, a telling-off or dressing-down is often worse.  

In my defence, a footpath ran through that field and out to Offa’s Dyke. The precedent was set, but there was no obvious path or trackway to be seen. It was just a dotted line on an ordnance survey map, and if the farmer chose to pick a fight, he could easily say that I shouldn’t be here, but there instead – and the inches or feet of difference would highlight the silliness of a system that is often based on pointless pedantry. And worse, this farmer was driving sheep towards me. I was not just passing through but actually in the way, and already the sheep were beginning to stall in the gate before me. It would have been helpful to second-guess the farmer’s movements and shift myself accordingly, but he could have been doing anything – and knowing my luck, I’d only make the situation worse. So I stood stock-still and waited to see what would happen.  

After a beat, the sheep recovered their courage and they passed me in a wide bend. The farmer came frowning behind them; the facsimile of a dozen friends and family members from home. He slowed to halt, and I said “Hello”. But I still didn’t know how the encounter would go, and I was inclined to roll on my back and show my belly. I apologised if I’d been in his way, but he only shrugged, saying “it’s not my land”. Then he asked me where I’d come from. I said “Scotland”, and immediately realised he meant today. So I said “Discoed”, and the churchyard where the yew tree grows. As if to heighten the point, I turned and gestured towards the valley where the steeple’s tip still showed a mile away. He nodded, then he said “Scotland, eh? I’ve got a cousin in Elgin”. Elgin is further away from my home than Powys is, but Scotland’s Scotland and Wales is Wales. His point stood. I showed an interest in the sheep which had begun to pool and mill by the next gateway, still pressed by the dog. That got him going, and he told me at length where the ewes had come from, using the names of farms and farmers which meant nothing to me at all. 

In the churchyard at Discoed, a sign explains that the yew tree there is five thousand years old. When his talk of sheep began to fail, I asked him about that tree and hoped that he could confirm or disprove an eye-widening fact. But he said he didn’t know; he’d never been to the church or noticed the yew. Then I found myself telling him that in Scotland, when shepherds die, it was common to bury the body with a tuft of wool in its hand. That way, the departed soul would be able to explain to St Peter about the worries of work, and why they’d never found the time for church. It couldn’t have been a more relevant remark, but he coughed and smiled and drove away.