Walkway over Tregaron Bog
Sometimes changes in the weather are spooky. All over the weekend and into Monday we had sunshine and blue skies. Tuesday looked set to be the same, though with a bit more cloud. We went out to Tregaron where there is a bog that sits in a bowl of the mountains, a rare and a special landscape. Skirting the willow carr and following the line of the river, we kept to the edge of the bog, but always it was there, brooding. In one place there was a grove of dead trees, their bark mossed and lichened as they sat, their roots waterlogged, where the bog was reclaiming land that had been drained.
Then the rain began to fall and the muddy path became muddier. But soon we reached the boardwalks across the sphagnum moss, soggy beyond saturation point. A heron flew over, banked, and returned the way it had come, its eerie cry speaking to me of things that I pondered, deep down. Wet through at the end of the walk, but that seemed appropriate for the day and I felt at one with the weather.
The next day, and the low pressure has turned the hard brightness to a milky grey. You can t feel the moisture seeping out of the air, and the temperature has fallen. The wind comes in gusts, blowing some dried leaves from a year that has passed into oblivion. They make a skittering noise on the drive and one of our cats, not far beyond being a kitten, chases them here and there, not sure which one to follow.
Yes, it's spooky. The world has changed and it feels like there is a storm on the way. Not for the first time I reflect on the changeability of the weather on this island and the unpredictable moods of our island goddess as bright days give way to grey and afternoon fades to an early evening. While the light lasts, nevertheless, the landscape of burgeoning springtime is all around me. But now, writing this after dark has fallen, with a glass of wine for comfort, the pool of light in which I write is a bubble in a sable sea.