The wet wired-up slate fence posts of Hen Gau Valley are blue as plums and solemn as graves.

I walk past them today wearing waterproof socks that squelch and squirt in my stream-filled boots while my leggings funnel warm drafts and I listen to the rhythm of my feet and the rain-distorted noises in my hood.

DSC_0694Up beyond the fence at Crach Fynydd Pass, in a bog I shed my hood and hear a breath of wind stir the grass. Rain-radiant heather shines pink and moss glows as green as if each capillary cell is lit from within. To my fingers whinberries are cool and damp but bitten burst purple with warm juice. Water-light dissolves the clouds – sends them to scud across valleys – and a single wet cotton grass gleams.

Below, in the darker lanes approaching Dolgellau corridors of air lurk. Walking through them is like swimming in a river of warm and cold green currents.