It rained all night. The valley is sheltered but in the dark were howlings and buffets. I thought there might be floods so I didn’t get up for the early train and we listened to the cricket in bed, Aggers and Boycott crackling in and out of ice needles, droning in and out of half dreams, from somewhere warm and dry – from India.

And then the wind dropped and there was storm light.

scan0001I walked the long way to town climbing the valley road to the forestry tracks and round to the final hill. Oak limbs were torn and strewn on the road where the banks are mossy. Halfway up, Tarren y Gesail was revealed beyond battered branches stark and white and blasted, the cold sky there a moodier blue just for a moment before it was gone.

Up on the forest tracks sky behind gothic larch lace was pale. The hill pines whipped about in the wind and I wondered where I’d be safest if they fell, hugging the slate or making a jump of it.

The truculent weather danced and dithered. Behind me the sky was ink but the conifers dazzled wet green and rainbows flashed among the hills and vanished. At the top and in sight of town, a white light beam picked out the river and water fields, the far mountains snow stricken and dissolving.

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