It was just before 5 o’clock in the morning when the blackbird started to sing in the tree outside my window. Looking out, the eastern sky was a steel-grey dome silhouetting the hills across the valley, but as yet there was no detail in the landscape. Although I was tempted to make an early start, a glance at the outside thermometer drove me back to bed: It was 2 degrees below zero.
By mid-morning, conditions were more temperate and a pair of buzzards circled idly above the close-cropped pasture of the valley edge. I wondered whether the sunlight felt as good on their flight feathers as it did on my back as I walked northwards out of the village.
In no hurry, I paused by the bridge to examine the magnificent oak tree that stands in the hedge bank, its subtle asymmetry a testament to the prevailing wind. There were only slight signs of movement from its leaf buds, but further afield the more sheltered valley woodland carried the pale haze of emerging leaves in the tree crowns.
The stream, which eventually drains into the afon Clarach, meanders through mixed woodland whose floor of leaf detritus is now punctuated with clumps of bluebell leaves about 15cm tall. In a week or two, the flowering stems will bring the annual burst of colour to the under-storey.
A thin sapling, undermined by the stream, had fallen across the water at one point, and as I got nearer I noticed that a thin line of the moss and lichen on the top of the trunk had been eroded away, presumably by those using it as a small-animal superhighway.
With no other crossing point within 100 metres, this must provide a useful link between the two halves of the wood. No marks indicated conclusively what the culprits might be, but I’ll return at an appropriate time of day to see if I can spot them.
Beyond the wood I turned west towards the coast, but found an indistinct, misty horizon and a nagging chill taking hold of the day – reminding me that it is still early spring.
