Stefon has invited those of us who read and enjoyed his blog about a walk in Oare Marshes to chip in with descriptions of our favourite walks. Well, this was music to my ears. I wrote last time of my desire to go and see the bluebells at my secret place, but I was a bit concerned that I don't at present have quite enough energy to get there and back. However, my husband (J) kindly offered to accompany me and to go and get the car when I felt I'd had enough. So today we set off. There was a cold wind and it was threatening rain so we wrapped up warm. I believe it's lovely and sunny down south today, but as so often, not up here. We drove nearly to the base of Corndon Hill, the highest hill in East Wales, near to the standing stones of Mitchells Fold. For those of you who don't know the area, we are right on the border between Powys and Shropshire, ie between England and Wales, neither north nor south but somewhere in between. Our walk took us back and forth across the border, it's hard to know which country you're in most of the time. So we set off up a stony track, with Corndon looming above us to the left, the track bordered on both sides by fields full to bursting with ewes and lambs. Up here, above 1,000 ft, the lambs are late. They're still tiny with legs that are much too long for them. It makes them look quite comical. The noise of their bleating is quite deafening, some of the ewes sounding like complaining little old ladies.
After fording a small stream, we turned downhill to the right. From up here you can see for miles down the Kerry Vale and over the valley of our river, the Camlad, a tributary of the Severn, and in fact the only river that flows from England into Wales instead of the other way round. The views to the west are spectacular for the whole of this walk except when you're actually in the wood which was our goal. The hills are covered in rough grass and dead bracken at this time of year, with rocky outcrops and some scree. The liquid song of several skylarks could be heard, and in the occasional windblown hawthorns there were chaffinches and blackbirds, also singing their heads off. High above we also saw buzzards and heard their plaintive cry - they're very common around here, though their dominance is being challenged by the increasing population of red kites, who started moving into the neighbourhood about three years ago. We were astonished by the great number of fields down in the valley growing acid yellow oil seed rape - there seems to be more and more every year, mostly grown for biofuel production. Rape is a mixed blessing for beekeepers, as the bees just can't resist foraging on rape - it's such easy pickings, and you get a huge crop of honey at a time of year when there's not much else going on. I used to keep bees, until I developed an allergy to bee stings at the same time as I was diagnosed with cancer. What with the fear of getting stung again and the demands of treatment, I reluctantly sold my bees. But I still miss them. I kept some hives up on the hill, who never produced much honey, and others in an orchard in the valley, next to a garden full of flowers. In May they ignored the flowers and made straight for the rape - there was nothing I could do to stop them. The trouble with rape honey is that it crystallises very fast, in about 9 days if I remember rightly, and if you don't extract it soon enough it's stuck in the comb and you can't get it out. If, on the other hand, you extract too early, as I did my first year of beekeeping, the moisture content is too high and the honey ferments. And even if you get it out at the correct moisture content, it sets as hard as stone unless you cream it first.
Sorry, I digress. So anyway, on with the walk. It's a sheep path going steeply downhill from this point, over an easy stile halfway down, then it gets even steeper down to the small hamlet of Priest Weston. There used to be mining around here - lead and copper, I think - and the hillsides are scarred with ancient workings. The pub is even called the Miners' Arms. Hlalfway down the second field, we spied mushrooms in a huge ring. Now, we are quite keen but cautious mushroom foragers. What was unusual about these was the time of year, since most fungi appear in the autumn, but there is one type of edible mushroom, St George's mushroom, that appears around St George's Day, 23rd April. So these were probably they. They were quite large, with slightly inrolled margins, white in colour, and with narrow, crowded, white gills. They smelt just like field mushrooms, but the white gills made me a bit nervous. I picked one to take home and identify using the field guide, and stuffed it in my pocket, not quite daring to pick enough for a meal.
After the mushrooms, near the bottom of the hill, we turned up left along a track to a pretty cottage on the side of Llanfawr, a promontory next to Corndon Hill, which we had been skirting ever since we left the top track. On the bottom track where we were now, we found a birds nest which must have fallen out of a tree. It was an intricate weaving of moss and several kinds of feathers - some poor bird's home, destroyed by a puff of wind perhaps. I hope she hadn't yet laid her eggs. Over the stile next to the cottage and along a very wet path next to the hedge above the cottage garden - there are springs everywhere on these hillsides. More sheep and lambs, so Susie the dog had to go on the lead, though she's not interested in sheep really. Through the boggy bit and over a rocky stream, then along another narrow sheep path round the side of the hill until at last our wood was in sight. You could see the blue haze of the bluebells from a couple of hundred yards away. Up a final steep bank, me hauling myself up by clinging on to overhanging branches, and over another stile (under the fence for Susie, flat on her belly) and we were finally there. I'm ashamed to say I shed a tear or two, it was so astonishingly beautiful, with the delicate green of newly opened hornbeam, coppiced hazel and oak, and that amazing, ethereal blue. The delicate scent was not quite what I had been hoping for - it was too cold for that, I think, though I did get the odd waft of that elusive perfume. J couldn't smell a thing because he was suffering from hay fever. We continued along the path through the bluebells until we reached the bench under the oak tree, where we sat in silent contemplation. I don't mind admitting that I was wondering whether I would make it there next year. We took lots of photos of the bluebells, though the colour never reproduces properly, of each other and of the dog. I picked a handful of bluebells and found a buzzard's feather.
After discussing whether to retrace our steps or to continue down to the road and back to the village, we did the latter, over three more stiles to finally drop down to the narrow lane which leads along the 1000 ft contour to Priest Weston. I was told once that the top roads tend to be at that height because in the past land up to that level was cultivated whereas above 1000 ft it was originally common land, uncultivated sheep pasture. I was getting tired now, and we decided that I and the dog should wait in the village while J nobly climbed back up the hill to retrieve the car. Susie and I therefore sat on a thoughtfully provided wooden seat on a grassy triangle in the middle of this very peaceful village, while J was gone for half an hour. During that time we were passed by: 2 cyclists, 1 car, 1 landrover and a van. And it's Bank Holiday Monday! That's peace and tranquillity for you.
When we got home I put the bluebells in water, but as they do on being picked, they hung their heads in sorrow. I know I shouldn't but I never can resist. I also checked the identification of the mushroom in the field guide. It was indeed a St George's mushroom. Apparently it goes very well with chicken and fish, and can be dried extremely well too. There is a casserole dish called St George's chicken. It just so happens that I am cooking chicken tonight. 'Well, there's nothing else for it, you'll just have to go back and pick some more', J teased. Needless to say, I ignored him!
