I’m sat listening to the summer rain drumming on the conservatory roof. The cat runs for shelter. The rain smells wonderful as it only ever does when the ground has been so dry. I hear thunder.
This has been a blissful summer with the weather feeling more African than I can remember in a long time; the raspy dry grasses, brown fields, cracked ground, exposed river beds and water marks on the rocks in the reservoirs.
The horses have just run past the window kicking and bucking in response to the thunder. The storm has moved now from being behind my left ear to being behind my right ear. I love how the air clears. They say it is the end of the heatwave and maybe it is. I am sure the farmers will be glad. Now that the schools have broken up for the holidays, it is quite likely to spell change.
Every moment that I have been able to enjoy this splendid summer sun, has been treasured, especially the day my favourite Welshman introduced me to a national gem – at least that’s what I think the shark-fin shaped, shapely mountain should be.
In the heat of it, there were many instances where my instincts kicked in and my senses spoke to me of forgotten sensations from my childhood: my wonder and wow at the beautiful vistas; hauling myself up with hot rock under hand, tactile dolorite; the smell of warm lichen; the rasping grasshoppers; however, the sheep stink is definitely Welsh! As is the damp boggy metallic smell of the springs and the sweaty, damp cloth of bracken.
It was a fairly leisurely start although he tried to say that, apart from the scramble at the end, this was the steepest bit. I don’t believe it! That said, our first water stop was 15 minutes in. He was feeling the weight of those litres he had offered to carry for all of us and was going to keep us ‘carefully’ hydrated: necessary – not a cloud in the sky!
And then the track began with an explanation of where the path would lead. We could see quite clearly ahead.
For some, once upon a time, they would have walked this daily on their way to work – a beautiful route.
Imagine that – working up here, rain and shine! I cannot leave my imagination at home on these sort of jaunts. I want to know the stories of the lives these ghosts of buildings represent and the forgotten past piled up on the slag heaps.
We passed lake one – where some young ladies were swimming; lake two – which was eerily deep, despite being low in water; to find lake three. Here my breath left me momentarily and he and I shared a kiss to celebrate such beauty. Neither photos nor words can entirely capture it. It’s best seen in the flesh. But here we stopped for lunch. We needed to fortify ourselves ready for the exhilarating ascent next. Jam sandwiches did the trick! Along with socks off and toes in the water.
Then the scramble began and I felt like a child again. There were many moments of stopping, looking back and “Wow”! We felt Llewllyn’s touch and wondered how well he knew this mountain. Our Boffin boy blazed on ahead, relishing the chance to pick an individual path. And then suddenly, there it was, the top, with Boffin sat waiting on the trig point!
Our descent through the moonscape of rock was as exciting in its variety, but could have been another world. With outstanding 360° views that put so many places into the context of their neighbouring valleys I felt in touch with the nation I love first. Snacked and watered, off we set, sliding (for the shorter legged version of the human race), leaping, climbing, descending the shapely mountain.
It was the best and is my new found favourite! There is so much to enjoy.