In the cusp of the old year

In the distance across the valley - the tower of Pantglas: all that remains of an Italianate gentry mansion.


It's a strange time, those nameless days between Christmas and Boxing Day and the New Year. A time of waiting, almost. I have decided I will end the old year as I mean to start the new one, so I have been braving the weather out in the garden, and busying myself indoors with jobs which have been on my mental list of "fings to do" for months if not years. I am not the most organized soul. This afternoon I have been painting the corner cupboards in our kitchen in a cream colour (one had had a first coat, about 18 months ago). We will need another can of this paint (Crown period colour, "Bonnet") to do a further coat and paint a couple of doors elsewhere in the house.

My husband and I had a good walk in the winter sunshine just before lunch. I was struggling on the hills as I've had the edge of a cold (my flu jab kept the worst at bay) and it hit my chest in the night. However, the views very pretty as there was a wintry mist and it made for atmospheric photographs. We found another place where a cottage had once been. All that remained was a bit cemented-up and brick lump of fireplace wall, and a pile of broken and rusting tinware and a broken cauldron. How sad that a cottage's history could be summed up in a few rusting objects, especially the broken cauldron with its memories of thousands of meals and the link to the heart of the house. I cannot help but think of the womens' souls tied to it . . . . I will see which cottage it might have been whilst I still have my monthly Ancestry membership.


An oak tree up toward's Old Isaac's cottage . . .

The view from the top - looking towards Horeb and Felingwm.

The lane ahead and Merlin's Hill in the distance.

We saw Lapwings - once a common sight where I grew up in the ploughlands of Hampshire , but now an unusual visitor.


The misty view towards Merlin's Hill.

It was the chunk of boulder and the rusting tin bath which first caught my attention.

A pile of rusting rubbish that is all that remains of the heart of a little roadside cottage. It looked like someone had taken a hammer to the cauldron and broken it in two . . .

Walking into the view - the lane home.