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.
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