Morning mountains. Bright sun. Cold wind.

A big week getting ready for the Bath Artisan Market on Sunday 10th August. My first piece of displacement activity, in fact my default displacement activity in general - striding up Hay Bluff.

I can always justify walking up a mountain well, it's exercise! I found some wild thyme blooming on the slopes. Very Shakespearian, and a sure sign that fairies live here, although they would have to be hardy little folk to withstand the weather.

It was bright and sunny, but a very cold wind blew as I climbed. The light was amazing, everything so clear.

I feel so lucky to have this as my nearest place to ascend. I love the interplay of sunshine and shadow early in the morning.

 The only problem with walking up Hay Bluff at 6.30am is the ice cream van has not yet arrived in the car park when I arrive back there!
Now to begin the week.

Walking up Hay Bluff. Eating ice cream.

 I started my preparation for a huge week of school workshops and performances by striding up Hay Bluff.

 The ascent is quite steep which makes me feel as though I am really exercising, and the views from the top of the ridge are astonishing. That's PenyFan in the distance, looking very one dimensional.

The hawthorn is in full flower, and there were splashes of white wherever I looked.

 The air was full of skylarks singing. Swallows swooped below me as I sat on the top, and a hang glider twirled in the breeze.

Usually there are only sheep, some cows, and ponies as company. The foals happy resting in the sunshine. Bees buzzing, even at the top of the ridge. A skylark walked past me as I sat very still. I've never seen one close up before.

Today is the last day of the Hay Festival however, and it's not raining, so the car park was full of people eating ice cream and feeding their sandwiches to some of the more friendly ponies. I love the contrast of the jolly ice cream van and the dramatic sky behind it.

The ice cream seller and I agreed that it was great to live here.
I'm nearly ready for the week!

Prospero and Table Mountain

I walked up  Table Mountain outside Crickhowell, starting on the valley floor, next to the river, and looking up at my destination.

The 'table' makes a wonderful circular viewing platform, with the valleys below and peaks stretching above and away on all sides. In the damp air, the colours were intense and magnified. Breathtaking.

The noise of the wind blotted out all other sounds. Clouds rushed past, ragged hounds in full cry streaming over the ridge. I thought of Prospero saying to Ariel "Thou shalt be free as mountain wind," and thought what a fierce freedom that would be.

How wonderful to see Prospero giving his "this rough magic" speech up here. Breaking his staff and giving up his tiny place in the elemental magical world. I had a tremendous desire to follow the path on the next ridge, and keep walking, into the clouds and away.

Walking on the Skirrid Mountain.

On Easter Sunday I took my troubles to the Skirrid Mountain, and the wind carried them away.

 The Skirrid is one of my favourite mountains. Not difficult to climb, as there is a well used path maintained by the National Trust, and you climb up to the ridge, and then along to the summit.

The ascent is through a woodland, and yesterday it was full of birdsong, and so many wild flowers.
Primroses were blooming beneath the stalks of last years bracken, which will soon grow and cover them up. The brambles were beginning to sprout as well.

Lots of violets too. I was reminded of Oberon's speech in Midsummer Night's Dream;
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

There aren't any roses on the Skirrid, but plenty of woodbine beginning to grow, and little wood anenomes. Wild strawberry leaves,  and of course the first bluebells. There used to be wild thyme, but I couldn't see any yesterday.

There are some magical dead trees, covered in moss.

And near the top of the ascent before stepping onto the ridge, hawthorn. I imagine immortal spirits sitting in these hawthorn trees watching humankind as it trudges up the mountain and back down again.

The Skirrid accepts the scars that countless feet have made on its back, and it accepts all who walk along it, however fast or slow.

It was very cloudy and grey yesterday. There was little of the usually wonderful view on display. Just some silhouettes and faint shapes beyond the gorse.

It was so windy that I didn't stop at the summit. Feeling that the wind might knock me over, I turned round immediately and walked carefully back along the ridge. Some trees seemed to be doing the same thing.

Walking back through the greening woodland, I felt the mountain working its magic, and my spirits were lifted.

When the rain came the tiny sound of the raindrops filled the air, which smelled sweet and fresh. I felt absolutely blessed.