Leaving the office just after five, I draw the blinds and close the door before begining to make my way down to the lower car park by way of the north drive. The last of the light still retains definition upon the banks rising steeply either side of me; covered in moss, shrubs, ferns and spindly trees straining to reach the light. Rushing water drowns out any possible sounds of birds giving their concluding remarks to the day as I follow a storm ditch racing to the river in the valley below. Dormice live in these woods and although preferring to remain hidden and rarely seen by me, their lives and routines shape my imagination as I negotiate this road by night.
The drive soon reaches the car park and I glance up to the sky to witness the brief spectacle of ‘negative imagery’- when trees especially, but all forms become silhouettes and darkness begins to prevail on the land, but the sky in part at least, remains cast in daylight. Blue sky clings on and clouds become edged with golden tones for a little while. Trees tread the fine line between majestic and menacing; and now I pass the orchard and beyond that, a dense dark forest of hemlock where an occasional shaft of light through the inky darkness of this arboreal world of natural wonder gives me an idea of its size. I am captivated, searching the depths with my eyes and inhaling the sweet smell of damp conifer, wondering how much longer these trees will stand, they must be near cropping age. Roger will be pleased for the light on his field, but already a new crop is planted on the southern slope. Sometimes in the morning especially during the spring I like to climb up off the road and make my way through this thicket of evergreens to remind myself of their mystery. You see- there has been retained the occasional oak, no more than ten in the entire coop, but where they exist there is also a reason to stop for a while and glance up into the fresh leaves which, on a bright day scatter the sunlight like stained glass and speckle the needle-matted floor where fungi grow in clumps and thick moss clings to the adolescent rogues. Tonight I resist, although knowing that from within, looking out, the forest would shed its negative stance and embrace the fading light.
Now the road winds around the hillside following the form of the Dulas valley where the river bubbles with flood water; the snow I saw on the hills this morning has thawed throughout the day and now from every drainage channel comes the sound of turbulent water. Dark clouds frame the mountains rising between here and the coast; my eyes slowly adjusting to keep pace with the end of the day and I make out the first of the brightest stars above the other side of the valley. Strange shapes of trees line the hills above, looming down as if some massed army, as the Scotts pine towers above birch and hazel alike. The distinctive winter figure of the pine allows me to identify it; the others are a guess.
I walk briskly but not to hurry- only because now I excitedly listen and watch the world darken and change I do not make an effort to slow down. The wind has a polar chill to it and I noticed last week the direction change to a westerly, right on time to mark the end of autumn, depending on whose diaries you read. I pull my hat down over my ears as the final hill of the journey home comes to a summit. At this point it is always worth turning around; even in the (almost) dark to look upon the hills of the valley we have just negotiated. Out of view are Corris and the other northerly settlements, a journey for another day, or night.
I pass Lynns field on the left where I spent one summer doing some work on growing a variety of wholesome fruit and vegetables. I peer through an opening in the fence to make out a sleeping collection of leafy shapes, buttoning up for the delicate winter ahead. At the bottom of the hill and over the small stone bridge I pass another beautiful garden I once did some work in, during the same summer- I respectfully look over the hedge and try to remember its residents, and how curiosity got the better of me one hot afternoon when I ate some morning glory seeds I had gathered. Mowing the lawn that day became harder (although interesting and incredibly amusing!) than anything I have been asked to do since.
Just around the corner I join the path next to the main road for a short while where a bicycle ticks past in the dark going in the other direction. Through a small gate I leave the road behind for a bit and walk over the footbridge, the Dyfi flowing energetically beneath my feet. Bright lights shine from Machynlleth train station in the distance and I squint into them before turning my head into the bracing rain coming from the darkened river. On the other side of the bridge the sound of water underfoot tells of a recent bout of rain and the ease at which this rive can flood. I tread carefully with giant steps as if climbing stairs, until the sound of solid ground removes the need for such a strange style. I listen for the sound of otters which sometimes visit this part of the river; sounding like happy children playing they can disconcert even the most avid of nature watchers on the wrong sort of dark, rainy night.
The river path is lined with gauss shrubs on the inland side and even in the night I can make out their striking yellow flowers which come to take the winter watch over from their summer counter-parts. In woodlands everywhere campions bid a reluctant farewell to the year and the willows on the river bank cling desperately to the last of their slender leaves, while the gauss continues its ongoing display of colourful endeavor.
Now back on the road with town close I ignore the cars and look along the flat flood plain that I now transect. Somewhere in the distance are a pair of barn owls, I haven’t visited them for a while but I wonder If they are having much luck with their hunting these days. I pass the owl-path and traipse under the railway bridge to my house. The clock strikes six as I walk into town.
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