Just finished this book by the American writer, Whitney Brown. Who would have thought it: a coming of age book by a stone waller — that’s not a metaphor — she builds actual walls from stones, and they look very competent — artistic even.
It is a love story between a lost soul and the Welsh landscape and culture. Someone from somewhere very different who finds herself in the wildness, beauty and solitude of the hills of Mid-Wales. There is a Welshman involved but it’s not really about him, it’s about the walls and women welders and empowerment and throwing off the family shackles of expectation — good on her!
There are beautiful descriptions of lots of familiar places in Radnorshire and arround.
Since then I have been looking more carefully at our local walls and they are awsome.
Recently rebuilt at the base of Fan hill, I’ve been meaning to find out who achieved this feat of engineering.
Looking at the size of the boulders I suspect Meurig and his digger may have had a hand in it.
They should be very proud of this gift to posterity– it will out-live us all. People who build walls, with blood and sweat, in the driving rain, like Whitney Brown, soon find out who they really are! Does anybody else know?
Last week Luke came and replaced the last of our double fences and made a very good job of it. These provide a corridor for nature — linking areas of wild-wood and remind me of days gone-bye.
Remember when we used to wean our lambs, and sort them — with much baaing, a lacerated hand, a butted head, exposure to organophosphates (or similar), marital disharmony, horse-fly attack (despite aforementioned insecticide) and general fouling with mud and excrement — and that was just me..
Once sorted, the ewes were in one field and the ram lambs were happily in the boys-field. The ewe lambs were very unhappily in the girls-field. This is bound to lead me to extrapolate extravagantly upon the nature of the mother-daughter bond. The ewe lambs screamed hysterically and threw themselves against the double wire fence that separated them from their mums. The mums lay down taking a well-earned rest and tried not to listen, you could see them clenching their teeth and staring into the middle distance.
Close to the fence but trying not to listen — the mothers
As night falls the baaing does not diminish and shortly after 2 a.m. there is a great crescendo and from the house I can hear the lower tones of the adult ewes joining in. I wait, it does not diminish, so I get dressed, grabbing the first garments to come to hand, the torch battery is flat — I stumble out into the starless night (where are all those shooting stars?)
When I get to the source of the din, all the female sheep are gathered around a crisis, all offering an opinion. Two ewe lambs are stuck fast between the two fences that separate lambs from mums; there is an old tree growing there that has pinned them down, resolute in its dimly remembered hedge-duty of separation.
I climb over into the narrow wire cage, ripping my new trousers on the barbed wire and pull the first lamb out backwards by its kicking feet and hug it tight then I carefully hook the lamb’s flailing front limbs over the top wire of the fence avoiding the barbs more successfully than I did with my own bottom (we’re talking 30 wriggling kilograms – the lamb, that is) then I heave. Amazingly it lands like an SAS parachutist, rolling like a pro, regains its feet and in a single movement disappears into the night. The ewes are impressed.
The second lamb is huge and heavy, I apply the same technique and deliver it as a breech from the womb of the old tree but, despite all the huffing and puffing, my strength then fails me. I do not let go; I shout for my assistant… No reply, not even from the dog. The louder I shout, the louder the sheep join in, and the denser is the silence emanating from the sleeping house.
Nothing is more motivating than having no other options, after a little rest, I hook its feet over the top wire and with all my might I heave and the second lamb disappears into the night.
Next morning at first light a morning chorus of ovine distress startles me from slumber but strangely not my spouse. Exploration, slowly as I am strangely stiff, reveals another lamb grabbed by the panicky old hedge. As I approach, the lamb butts at the base of an old fence post which, having rotted in the ground, slides to one side creating a hole and the lamb escapes.
Ewe-lamb trapped between two fences and (bottom right) escape route
In the light of day the problem is clear: the newer of the two fences is fine but the old one which it replaced is, though upright, not up to the sudden and unaccustomed onslaught of the mother-daughter bond. Hurling themselves randomly against it the girls have found all the weak spots. It will have to be removed as soon as possible.
Twelve hours later the last roll of liberated fencing wire is rolled towards the barn.
Recycling fence wire – the old will last longer than the new!
Remember Gladys ( our ‘should have been left for dead’ lamb — the one with economy ears but huge determination to survive)? Well, on our final trip to the barn she passes us, heading after the others, away from the scene and up the hill, far away from the mother’s field, tossing her head as if to say, ‘We’re grown up now — we’re off up the top!’
Gladys — all weaned and grown-up
My husband turned to me, ‘Did you notice anything odd about those ewe-lambs.’
We’ve been dog sitting in the East Midlands — the heat waves are over. All the municipal grass and verges are dead and the leaves are beginning to fall.
In town we sit on a bench and look at the flowers. Bruce sniffs out abandoned take-aways and random chips, which he’s not allowed to eat.
We visit the landmarks — look at the new roof of the art gallery, sniff all the bins, and visit the parish church — no peregrines today.
But there are pigeons around the Rotary Club’s pointed clock tower,
They are not impressed by Bruce and don’t even flutter.
Now it is definitely raining and the buses don’t go in our direction.
He misses a nice smelly hedgerow and a rabbity ditch, but most of all he misses the football, sitting on the sofa with the ones he loves.
Still, home and dry and rain has stopped play in the test match (there’s only so much cricket a dog can stand) and Chelsea are playing Brighton on the tiny telly and Granny has brought his bed in, so we can all watch in comfort.
Police motor cyclists from all over Britain ready for the off!
As the Women’s Tour of Britain Bike race fourth stage gets ready to start from Llanidloes today!
Never has our quiet little town seen so many Emergency Services!
Powys Ambulance service all set, plus reinforcements from elsewhere in the UK. Note this Anglophone Ambulance–
Several private ambulances are here, just in case. This one is lurking by the cake stall. Emergency cups of tea are available outside the Stag.
Not to be outdone, or trapped, the Fire Engine waits in the wings, conveniently near to the fish shop. I hope Thomas sells all his scallops before the next shout.
The competitors are starting to arrive.
In their spectacular team colours — all very shiny — where did they get their water.
Teams are being introduced and are flexing their muscles.
We wonder where all the headless police officers have gone, when we see two emerging from the Wild Oak Cafe,
Sadly the young police officer on the right has lost his bike and he was having such a good time, as I am sure they all are. He hit one of our cattle grids and ended up concussed in hospital — fully recovered but suffering the indignity of being driven in a squad car.
Here are the marshals also be-biked. I recon that at the end of the day, all being well, the motor cyclists will have enjoyed themselves more than the cyclists — four hours in the saddle, from Llanidloes to Hay-on-Wye and too knackered to visit the bookshops.
They have had a really good week, met colleagues from all over, doing what bikers have always liked to do — whizzing about our beautiful land (sponsored by Lloyds Bank).
PS Pleased to see Lloyds doing something with all the money they have saved by closing all the branches.
This is a rare Striped Hawk-moth Hyles livornica —
It’s a migrant that visits in summer but cannot survive our winters, preferring the Mediterranean and Africa. Not often seen in the UK; 2006 was a good year when 383 were spotted mainly in the South and South-west England. That was when the last one was spotted in Montgomeryshire, when one came as far as Welshpool… Until a day or two ago when we caught this one in our trap in the Trannon Valley of Mid-Wales.
Their caterpillars like to eat Rosebay Willow Herb, of which we have tons, although rapidly dying down now, and the moths will drink nectar from a wide range of flowers especially Red Valerian but even if this one could find a mate, their chances of breeding successfully are remote.
We are told that there are Hummingbird Hawk-moths in nearby Trefeglwys, a much more common visitor, although we haven’t spotted one this year — they are obvious because they fly by day and you think you have seen a Hummingbird! Evidently they are omens of good things to come — I do hope so!
We’ve had a cooler day, the Painted Ladies have disappeared as has the solitary Clouded Yellow butterfly.
Over the years I have often blogged about the rain. We live in one of the wettest areas of England and Wales.
Above is how it is supposed to look in Summer.
Here it is today:
It won’t be long before the golden hills are brown as the sheep eat the last of the dead grass but that is perhaps not a bad thing as at the moment every thing on the ground is tinder dry. Yesterday the valleys of this part of Mid-Wales were obscured by smoke which, by the magic of Facebook we learned was coming from wild fires. Even from the top of the hill we couldn’t see any flames. So they were not about to engulf us; the nearest was a good 15 miles away; so you can imagine how extensive it was but under control by the time the smoke reached us.
As I headed home with my shopping I passed more vehicles than I have ever seen in our valley, all heading towards the source of the smoke; farmers, I guess, heading out to help.
Today all is clear.
I’m off to check the well again and Bill is filling the buckets with rainwater from the butts, to flush the loo; once a day each. We take “Being careful with water” very seriously. If we, with our catchment of 25 of the wettest acres in Britain can see our stocks dwindling so alarmingly; I wonder how long the taps will continue to work in our towns and cities.
Seems every decade we have to worry about something new.
On the point of posting this both our phones screamed loudly: SEVERE ALERT — something really important but written only in Welsh — no translation available — I am thrown, in panic, upon my linguistic skills — the Welsh dictionary is conveniently on the table… It’s definitely something to do with fire… Minutes later, the phone screams again — this time in English, so now we know that we must not light the barbeque.
I’m going out to cut down the kindling growing around the house.
New moth found this morning — an important find which confirms the good health of our oak woodland.
In Britain this Spotted Carpet Moth (nothing to do with carpets) hangs on in the Highland of Scotland and very locally in parts of the West Country. I have found one sighting in Eryri (Snowdonia) but nothing in Mid-Wales (I didn’t look very hard!)
This beautiful moth lays it’s eggs on Old Man’s Beard lichen, Usnea filipendula which festoons the branches of oak trees and itself indicates a pristine, pollution free atmosphere. Both could be Key Performance Indicators (KPI) if you are benchmarking as a Universal Action as part of the new, controversial Sustainable Farming Scheme. The caterpillars are green with black spots. The moth and its food are extinct in many parts of Britain. It is mainly spotted now in the mountainous areas of continental Europe and Scotland… And the Trannon Valley!
Usnea filipendula (Beard lichen) CC BY 2.5
Thanks to Bernol Haynold for the above photo — it’s too hot to go up into the wood and photograph our own!
Here I am, on my birthday. We are testing my birthday present, a state-of-the-art, battery-driven moth-trap.
It is a summer evening in the oak wood, we encourage insects, Some of them are man-eaters; hence the fetching veil. They pollenate and fascinate and fuel the food-chains, sustaining all the chicks, bats and baby mammals. They also give us an idea of how well we are doing, the numbers and variation give us an index of diversity which we can compare year on year.
Eyed Hawk Moth
WOODLAND MOTH SURVEY 01.07.2026
Number of moths identified: 128
Number of different species identified: 55
GARDEN MOTH SURVEY 01.07.2026
Number of moths Identified: 48
Number of different species identified: 31
Just to give you a taste of these under-appreciated creatures which are not dull and not boring!
Here are some of the more spectacular ones we collected and released in the morning.
HAWK MOTHS
Elephant Hawk Moth
Small Elephant Hawk Moth for comparison — it was flying 25.05.2026, can you see the differences?
Poplar Hawk Moth — found 7 of these giants in the garden trap.
EMERALD MOTHS
Large Emerald Moth
Common Emerald Moth
Light Emerald Moth
Smaller but just as beautiful:
Buff Arches Moth
Clouded Border Moth, we caught 4, this one made a break for it in the morning.
Map-winged Swift Moth
Small but exquisite!
Burnished Brass Moth
Just a taster and which was the most numerous? The Riband Wave — we caught 13 in the Woodland they are very variable.
Riband Wave
Got to go –getting dark, it’s warm and no rain is forecast but the moon should be obscured by cloud — perfect for trapping.
You must be joking — it’s not possible in this day and age.
Here’s the problem:
There was a bridge here, early 20th century and unsafe. So, in the interests of health and safety and driven by ill-considered impulse, I demolished it. Then discovered that the sheep won’t wade to the other side; they don’t like getting their feet wet and have no concept of a ford.
I know, I’ll put in some stepping stones. We’ve got lots of boulder that we dug out of the foundations of our old Dutch barn and I’ve seen the sheep happily balancing on the rocks.
Daunting task but here’s the answer:
Civil engineer extraordinaire. I explained the vague concept and showed him the stones.
“What you need is an Irish Bridge.”
It might look simple but it isn’t — every stone was sized and places with upmost care, backed up and wedged. We don’t want it washing away or eroding the bank.
Later that morning we have an Irish bridge.
Solid granite, firmly bedded in, with nothing to rot or rust and no moving parts. The flow is unimpeded and undiverted and when in flood will flow over the top. A Mediaeval solution to a 21st century problem. We didn’t have to buy anything —
Sustainable bridge building! All you need is Meuryg and his digger.
