the elan valley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I can't believe how beautiful this valley is. It's mustard and rust, bracken and heather, burnt umber, yellow ochre and flint grey. The rocks echo the colours of the plants. Photoshopped by sunlight and minerals. It's earthy and ancient. We look for fossils in the slate. Listen to the wind that whips the shrubs and makes the water lap against the stones. We walk the reservoir's circumference, careful not to slip in. I imagine gold panning, sleeping in a log cabin; drinking coffee from a rusty metal cup and eating beans baked over a driftwood fire. 

Then we find another one edged with woods of dark green conifers. A central island, a pearl drop of Christmas trees. This time it's brown bears that I visualise, and canoes paddled in the lake dug by men only a hundred years ago. 

Another one, the blue carpet crossed by an arched stone bridge, bound with calm pistachio green hills. Different again. A ewe with her lamb wanders along the path in front of us. She stop dead and comforts her nervous offspring letting the scared baby suckle whilst we wait patiently to pass by. 

We spent half a day but could have stayed for a month. We'll be back soon. It's just across the border, a half hour drive. Another country. It seems like a million miles away...