In the last stages of its journey to the sea, the river Ystwyth curves in gentle meanders across a broad valley pasture grazed by a modest scattering of sheep. This close to the coast, the wind from the sea is a powerful force, carving the small riverside trees into forms that leave no doubt as to its direction and persistence.
Given added impetus by the falling tide, the water moved quickly over a pebbled bed with alternating stretches of pool and riffle. Along the margin of the river, the low, matted vegetation had a pale, end-of-winter drabness despite the late-morning sunshine.
At several points, narrow gulleys led down to fans of fine sediment, which I checked, without success, for the paw and tail prints of any otter that might be passing through. Close by, the flowering gorse added isolated patches of bright colour – almost matching the yellow of the blackbird’s bill as it settled on the wire fence. From the depths of dormant bramble thickets, tangled and moribund, robins called and chased defiantly as they reinforced their territories.
Beyond the river, the great mass of Pen Dinas reaches steeply up from the meadows. Now topped by a monument to the Duke of Wellington, it once hosted an iron age fort with an enviable location. Dominating river valleys to north and south, and with ready access to good soil and the resources of both the sea and fresh water, this must have been a settlement of huge power and influence.
A pair of paragliders lifted from a field high on the seaward side and began to beat across the hillside in a manner not unlike that of the local red kites – who ignored the intrusion, calling to each other from the woodland opposite.
As I walked eastwards, a sharp-edged bank of cloud began to move inland, cutting across the sun and leaving it a chill, milky ghost; but as I crossed the river at Pont Tanycastell, a single dot of yellow on the roadside verge announced the first lesser celandine I’ve seen this year. A hint that spring may finally be on its way.
