At Prenol, your lordship

Not the aromatic hydrocarbon, nor the species of ant, but, you guessed it, a trig point, on yes, a hill, on the bend of the river Cone-egg by Smug-valley, overlooking the Slippery head of the witch, Bare bilberries, Bald scab, Weak wheat hill, and the tall ridge of the lake of the shoals, amongst others. Sadly, Fridd Wanc is not visible from the spot or I’d have told you that it means itchy or lusty pasture.

Closer than these, a riddle of field boundaries leap to and fro, strewn as though an endless ribbon were still attached to the tail of some distant doe.

A warm welcome from the local dairy farmer, Tim, which is welsh for Tim, with tales of fighter planes at fifty foot causing calves to abort, and doubtless, milk to curdle. Tales of rain which falls on only neighboring fields and an old weather saying which stuck with me, that the mountains look closer before the rain.

Out there in all weathers, getting on with the job. The farmers pragmatism doesn’t preclude his appreciation of poetry, but does serve to highlight the distorting lens of romanticism. The notion of landscape as a pretty picture results in an inverted relationship with the land itself. note. this thought is not complete.

Some things I meant to say

On the Great Orme, Y Gogarth, or Cuckoo of the bear, courtesy of translate. An outlying limestone fortress, and island in waiting. Tales of the extensive and ancient copper industry there are well told, the acne of open cast mining in the seventeenth century is still visible from space, as are the well combed medieval ridge and furrow field systems and a number of hut circles, the exposed nature of some of the sites, in contrast to the leeward agricultural activity, does raise questions, why put yourself in that position? why indeed.

The dramatic north east face sees little of the sun in the winter, looking for light, not least to make my life easier, the golden glow of the middle brown limestone in the hour it takes for the sun to rise and set behind the clouds is best viewed from west shore. on the other side, coming round the top corner of marine drive, near the temptingly titled rest and be thankful cafe, to be hit suddenly and simultaneously by the full force of the sun and the wind, demanded careful consideration.

What’s the subject? the thingness, the relatedness, the experience, or it’s ability to arouse and sustain interest in any form.

The post apocalyptic artillery range, still used as such by some, certainly appealed to me. Where islands of gorse and brambles lapped by plush velvet moss drift across a palimpsest of tarmac and foundations. yeah. The equinox of slope and sea. That did it for me.