Rewild & Slow
Day 7: Matthew Smith
Winter / Y Gaeaf
I take a moment to rest on a grand fallen oak which straddles the banks of the Nant Merddog stream. Leaves take turns to kayak down its miniature waterfalls as the stream tumbles down the valley towards the River Ebbw. Mist rolls in from the north-west, turning this steep valley into a blank grey canvas. The accompanying wind is biting, stinging my cheeks and forcing me to pull my hat lower, a reminder that much of winter is still to come.
A buzzard calls high above me; through a gap in the canopy I catch it soaring before it disappears to the east on the lookout for prey over the mountain. The slopes above Silent Valley Nature Reserve, beyond Coed Tyn y Gelli, the highest ancient beech woodland in UK, are dotted with sheep. They feed between the scars of black coal that remain frp, the old spoil tips now recovered by mother nature, brought back to the wild, covered with rusty heather and gorse. The dogs take turns to move me on, galloping through the stream before jumping at my legs. They know the route and have accompanied me each week since I became a volunteer shepherd for Gwent Wildlife Trust.
I cross the small wooden bridge, recovering a plastic bottle from the water, prematurely ending its journey from stream to river to ocean. The dogs bound up steps that flank an enormous ancient beech tree, its roots clawing at the stream below. Dry days have been few and far between this winter and the track up to the Ant-Hill Meadow where the Trust’s sheep graze, is thick with mud, forcing me to grab branches to haul myself up. The dogs make easy work of it, racing ahead causing startled stonechats to explode from the undergrowth.
I clamber over the five-bar gate of the meadow, leaving the dogs impatient, heads darting between the posts. Grabbing the camera, I hope to catch the elusive woodpecker that I often hear, but rarely see, but in doing so I fail to notice how close I’ve got to a particularly craggy hawthorn tree, laden with fat scarlet berries and covered in wool-snagged sharp thorns. I won’t make that mistake again.
Through the mist I can make out the dozen or so Badger-faced Welsh mountain sheep that I’m here to check on. I wind my way through ant-hills and hawthorn, the sheep eyeing me suspiciously as I approach. I scan the flock used by the Trust for conservation grazing, checking all look healthy and none have wandered off with their wild cousins at the top of the mountain. All look fine today and the second I muse they’ve let me get surprisingly close, a skittish one bolts off, bounding downhill followed by all the others except one stubborn soul who stares, challenging why I’m in her field. I’m content that all look well, especially the lambs that came as a surprise in the spring following a visit by a rogue mountain ram. I hope that winter remains kind for them into the new year and we aren’t treated to a late surprise from the north as in previous winters.
The ant-hills make for good seats. I perch at this spot regularly, carefully chosen and camera primed near a huge tree under whose boughs I regularly spot the remains of a hunt. It was here, in the autumn, that I glimpsed what I thought was a sparrow hawk darting through the woodland. Sitting in the clearing, not a soul around, inspires ideas for new photographs. Rarely will I arrive at the reserve with any pre-conceived ideas of shots – planned shots are for my other passion, surf photography, the lining up of sunset and waves and surfer – today the flora and fauna will lead me down my own creative path.
The silence is broken by the cronking of a particularly boisterous group of ravens, more animated than usual, displaying in the hopes of finding a mate during this mid-winter period. It breaks my daydream and I make my way back to the dogs who leap against the gate in excitement.
We continue our walk through the valley, to the upper slopes through mixed woodland and along the old dramline along the route which would have once transported coal to the nearby colliery. The mist has thinned and looking southwards I see smoke pouring out of chimneys of terraced houses in nearby Cwm . The village developed through heavy industry but returned, semi-rural, following the closure of the last colliery decades ago. Closure of the mines, whilst once brutal for the people of the valleys, has enabled the countryside to return to wild. The remains of industry litter this hillside with tumbledown buildings covered in moss and lichen and inhabited by birds and mammals. Stone walls pierced with trees growing through their cracks and crevices. Dramways become walkways.
Emerging from the woodland, we reach the coal spoil tip. It’s easy to forget as you stroll the valley below that decades ago this area was harsh, industrial wasteland, but as I ascend through the reserve to these spoil tips the environment changes instantly. Lush woodland turns instantly to bare, scarred hills cracked with remnants of useless black gold. Yet nature has won this particular battle with the ghost of industry – a couple of rabbits scatter ahead of me into the yellow flowered gorse, gone before the dogs were even aware of their presence. Behind me I can hear, for the first time today, the elusive woodpecker – each rat tat tat mocking me in the knowledge he has emerged after me (and my camera) have gone.
As I head back down the valley to the little waterfalls of Nant Merddog I’m reminded of the summer long gone, my kids splashing about in the stream, and it dawns on me that spring is already approaching – some of the trees are already in bud and it won’t be long before the forest floor is alive with bluebell and wood sorrel. The wind bites again as I emerge from the valley and I’m reminded that winter still hangs over us; as keen as I was to be outside in this hidden gem of the Gwent valleys, I’m also quite keen to be back in the warm with a hot coffee. By the look of the wet dogs they’d quite like to be home too.