Bog Myrtle & Peat

She was talking about her pelvic floor – and how you never knew what you had until it was gone. Her friend could only agree, and they began to exchange the details of their respective specialists. Then one of the ladies began to sneeze in a series of raucous, blood-curdling screams and the sound reverberated… Continue reading

They’ll cancel the ferry to Iona if the sea’s too rough, and all the signs seemed set for disappointment. But the sailors hardly blinked at waves which broke across the prows of their tiny, open boat, and nobody mentioned the dreadful northwesterly wind. There were no cars on our sailing, and only seven foot-passengers to… Continue reading

High times on the Cree at Challoch and the road to Bargrennan. After several days of rain, the river’s risen to the lip of the highway, and the view from the verge is only of black, disturbing water. It’s too wild for the ducks and the usual stands of cattle which wait to the depth… Continue reading

There’s mountains of taxidermy for sale in the junk shop at Wadebridge. Stuffed birds stand on every table and bookcase, and if you had to name a general trend of species there, you’d call them “moorland birds”. So there’s a display of golden plover, a box containing three ring ousels and a dunlin in a… Continue reading

I was given my first rabbit snares when I was ten years old. They’d come fresh from the shop, and the shiny hoops were the colour of gold. But nobody showed me how to make them work, and I spent several weeks in suspended frustration. I didn’t know how to make tealers or pegs, and… Continue reading

They say the yew tree at Discoed is five thousand years old. It long predates St Michael’s church and the round remains of an ancient cemetery where it stands. In fact, it predates almost everything in the valley of the river Lugg as it rolls towards Presteigne, and it’s impossible to imagine the world in… Continue reading

It’s a fair walk out to the hillbacks, and the ground’s anything but steady underfoot. There’s moss and cranberry tangled in the peat pools like mesh from the bags that oranges come in, and grass which has been green all summer has finally relaxed into redness. Now the colour’s blowing out from the tip-ends first;… Continue reading

I’m looking for some kind of Wales, and the hunt is all-consuming. Childhood visits to Portmeirion and Cardigan Bay turned out to be nothing against the country which has grown in my imagination as an adult. I drool over the short stories of Dylan Thomas and Caradoc Evans; I stall before the tall, commanding landscapes… Continue reading

For no obvious reason, the idea has come upon me to start painting again, and carrying a sketchbook in my truck has encouraged me to use it often. After a few cursory attempts to draw buildings and plants and people, I became aware that sitting down to draw something requires a level of patience and… Continue reading

A bullock of mine was struck by an adder in June. His knee-joint swelled and the animal was lame for some time afterwards. I gathered him in and saw to the knee, but he wasn’t able to turn the ship around. Some kind of infection settled upon him, and he went off his food. Weeks… Continue reading