Looking across to the Carmarthen Fans.
Yesterday the weather cried out to be enjoyed - pure sunshine from dawn till dusk, and with the prospect of it going downhill from today onwards (a prediction so far correct, as it is clouding over rapidly), we decided to seize the day, and set off for Llyn-y-Fan-Fach, our favourite summer walk. I was hoping that the Foxgloves would be out, as it is quite magical along by the river when they are, but after a cold May, they are still just in bud, and precious few of them by the look of things. I will have to scan some old photos and show you how it can look, when it's bedecked in summer finery.
The stony trackway up to the lake (now a reservoir) is a steady incline of about 1 in 12 or so, which you think would not be taxing, but every time we walk it I resolve to be fitter the next time, and each next time I never am! I think it is particularly arduous because it is so unrelenting and your calf muscles soon start to complain because there are absolutely NO flat bits whatsoever. We stopped half way to look at the trout ponds. There are always a few dead fish which have leapt too well and bashed themselves on the walls of the tanks. There are always fish leaping, and the sound of the water running into the tanks is cooling. The Martins were swooping and diving, gliding up to their nests under the eaves of the Fishfarm building, pausing a moment, then swooping down again and around, flashes of white and dark gliding wings. On the river there were Dippers, who fled at our approach, low above the rocks and river, to a safer spot. Water wagtails watched us from rocks and buzzards rode the thermals high above us.
The still waters of the lake reflected the moor grass on the steep slopes surrounding it, and looked like green satin. The wind ruffled the water, sending myriads of spangles of light down it, like the Lady of the Lake was shaking her wand along it.
We climbed up to the ridge and the view was breathtaking.
There was a 365 degree view all around us. The summerlands of Carmarthenshire were spread out like a map.
My dear husband.
View of the lake from the ridge.
Such a wonderful place to be. All we could hear were Skylarks, singing their hearts out around us. As we were eating our lunch (as basic a picnic as could be - a crusty brown cob loaf and hunks of cheese), we saw one launch itself off the rock near where we sat. The warm current caught it and held it - wings and tail lifted above its tiny body - as its song plucked at our heartstrings. Ravens cronked as they passed over the mountain, in their element of wilderness and rocks. Every breath was as sweet as air could be - pure and gently scented with the sweet perfume of millions of tiny moor plants - the tiny white four-petalled flowers of Heath Bedstraw, and blue Heath Milkwort and that indefinable scent which you only find in moorland.
Moi.
