An Autumn Day

Between two weather systems, one either side of the island, so today is bright and clear, the low Sun in a blue sky with occasional scudding clouds moving steadily in the breeze and casting shadows on the land as they pass. The pale, clear light of the Sun illuminates the brittle leaves still on the trees, dry rusty-gold and faded yellow, yet they glow in the translucent air.

As often on clear days the roar of low-flying military jets suddenly fills the valley, taking advantage of the perfect weather for practice following the contours of the hills. Just as suddenly they are gone, looping back to some far distant air base, and the only sound left behind is the mewing of a pair of buzzards overhead. Are these from the huge nest I spotted at the top of one of the trees growing further down the slope but visible from the path along the ridge which is level with the treetops?

The dew pond on Bryn Hir was full of water with pondweed growing in it, as if it were always so and not just as likely to be dry as it sometimes is when I visit. The view from here displays the Eleri Valley as a long, curved sweep between hills and I can pick out places I walk to and woods I pass through above the river, and the line of the river in the narrow gorge below the wooded slopes. In the other direction a v-shaped patch of sea is visible between two rounded hills, offset from each other but appearing level in this angle of view.

It is a perfect day. I walk back down off the open hillside and into the woods again. There is a choice of paths where I often hesitate before deciding which way to take. Today I go up through a derelict gate and round the hill fort where a short-lived wooden motte and bailey castle was erected in the 12th century by an intrusive Norman lord. Now it is almost inaccessible because of the bramble and gorse that clothe the slopes. I keep to the footpath across a wet, boggy field and then take the lane down to the village.

The arils on the ancient yew in the churchyard are beginning to darken. Here under the deep green shade I look out at the sunlight on the hillside trees shining amber through the autumnal hues of the leaves. Below, the stream rushes down into a culvert and the sound of it contrasts with the stillness of the water in the well-shaft of the Holy Well where I pause and carry a blessing home.

After the Flood

I awoke last weekend to the sound of sirens down on the main road and later saw helicopters hovering on the outskirts of the village. But it was not until someone phoned to check if we were OK that I realised what was wrong. Heavy rain had fallen all day on Friday and through the night. The severity of the weather was indicated by a dead house martin in the porch with no visible signs of being mauled by our cats. But still I had to switch on the television before I realised the full extent of the flooding almost on our doorstep. The river Leri (Eleri) had burst through banks and over bridges to flood two nearby villages and engulf a riverside caravan site situated just below our village. The helicopters were rescuing stranded people from the caravans.

We stayed at home for the rest of the weekend. The river Rheidol had also burst its banks and flooded the retail park in Aberystwyth. Living on a hill we were unaffected as the rest of the weekend was quite dry and sunny. I left it a few days before taking a bus to the river estuary at Ynyslas and walking the four miles or so back along the river valley. The river was diverted in the 19th century so the final mile or so to the estuary is a wide straight channel which was constructed to drain an area at the edge of Borth Bog (Cors Fochno) to create new fields. Some of these fields have since been allowed to revert to wetlands and are managed as part of the Cors Fochno nature reserve. Other fields are still farmed but one of these resembled a lake and a farmer was using his tractor engine to drive a larger pump which was transferring water from the field over the embankment into the river through a huge pipe. It looked like he would be there for some time. There was a considerable amount of debris along the silty edges of the banks, mostly tree branches and other natural objects, but also manufactured items including a large calor gas canister such as those used on caravan sites.

All along one side of the bank, apparently unaffected by the flood, grew as mass of Thrift - or Sea Pink - flowers (see picture above). It was not until I reached the point where the embanked straight channel changed to the narrower curves of the natural course of the river that the real devastation of the flood became apparent. The river level was much higher than usual, the water grey with silt and running at great force. The bankside vegetation had all been flattened and a line of silty deposits indicated where the waters had risen over the banks. There is a place where I have often stood in the shade of alders watching the easy flow of the silvery waters, and where I once saw a kingfisher flash through a pool of light beneath a gap in the canopy. It was no place to stand now, but I stood there anyway. A dragonfly hovered for a moment, in the distance I heard a cuckoo calling from the willow carr; life went on.

Further upstream I passed through one of the villages that had been inundated. A house right on the river had windows and doors wide open to take advantage of the sunny day and the light breeze to dry it out. Gardens were covered in silt and sodden household items were piled up against a wall. I avoided the path I usually take which follows the river past the caravan park. But looking down from a higher path I could see tarmac paths uplifted from their foundations, elsewhere items were scattered randomly or stacked neatly where the clean-up had begun. People with diggers, tractors or just shovels were busy at the task.

Climbing the slope back up to my house its steepness seemed like a blessing. The blue skies were beginning to cloud over. More rain was on the way.

Llanfihangel Genau'r Glyn - what's in a name?

Jim Parc Nest with Wynne Melville Jones opening the Poetry Path

Some time ago I wrote HERE about the creation of a poetry path in the village of Llanfihangel Genau'r Glyn. Since then the path has been completed and, on 17th May 2012, it was officially opened by Jim Parc Nest, the Archdruid of the Gorsedd of Bards in Wales. The opening was followed by an event in the adjoining church filmed by the Welsh-language TV channel S4C, in which some of the poems were read by their authors and others by their posthumous representatives. These were interspersed by performances from local schoolchildren.

At the launch ceremony, the man whose vision created the path, Wynne Melville Jones, spoke of his wish that the event might be a spur to further developments in the revival of the village's full name from the abbreviated form 'Llandre' which dates from the coming of the railway in 1840. Although the railway track still runs through the village, the station has long since been closed but the abbreviated name remains in spite of a campaign which has resulted in the full name being restored in brackets below 'Llandre' on the main road sign for the village.

What's in a name? In this case a lot of history as well as the beauty of the words. Literally it means 'The Church of Michael at the Mouth of the Glen'. 'Mouth' (Genau) here is used in the same sense as 'mouth of a river' and means the entrance or pass into a valley. The valley is the Cwm Eleri of my poem on the path. The village has had other names in its history, such as 'Llanfihangel Castell Gwallter', referring to the establishment of a motte and bailey castle in the 12th century by the Norman Walter ('Gwallter' in Welsh) de Bec up on the site of a hill fort above the village. This was destroyed by the locals and now only the earthworks remain. A poem on the path by Huw Ceiriog refers to this and cleverly works into an englyn the Norman word ruelle (which still gives its name to a couple of farms) Walter's 'little road' and a warning that though he has gone the threat he represents still remains.

Names, when looked into, are often rich with historical, cultural and geographical resonances. 'Llandre' represents the utility of railway engineers and signwriters. 'Llanfihangel Genau'r Glyn' contains the historical development of a parish, a legend about the building of the church - itself resonant of a possible older religious enclosure dedicated to Brigid (Bride, Ffraid, or the Glanfrêd referred to in my poem), and a name that evokes the geographical location it represents.

Which should we prefer? Jim Parc Nest acknowledged the beauty of the longer name in the Welsh language. He also spoke of the Poetry Path (Llwybr Llên) and referred to a poem not on the path which expresses the idea (roughly remembered from his speech and inadequately translated here) that the really significant moments of life are recorded in 'twists and turns on the path of poetry'. Quite so.