The first part of the walk hasd views across the valley to the little farmsteads on the opposite hillside, hemmed in about with parade-grounds of tall conifers, holly-green and heads-high.
The trees at the edge of the pathway were green with mosses and litchens, blasted with the winter rains and quiet in confidences, whispering in the breeze.
A forest is always in need of tending: of removing the weak and twisted ash and sycamore to let in the light and encourage the oak saplings.
Trees planted like ranks of skewers, barren land beneath, where nothing grows, their trunks misted-green on the boundaries from the prevailing rains and the twines of ivy, ever an opportunist.
There was a glimpse of a whitewashed farmhouse through the trees, nestling lengthways into the landscape as if it were planted there, so the winds blew over its roof.
A beguiling path led us on, trodden for long years before Forestry land was even thought about and leading to the uplands.
Badger-face sheep watched us suspiciously as we passed. They have black facial markings, and a black strip stretching down from throat, along the belly and the underside of the tail, and black legs. They also come in "negative" colouring, which is black/very dark brown-black with white marks and gullet/belly stripe.
