halftwo
Wird Batcher
Been putting in some mountain practice for Java!
Snowdonia, cloudless and majestic, humped stunned under the sun. First, the track through the forest, following the brook between oak and larch, rising steadily towards the falls, the going easy.
Far, far up in the haze hirundines filled the gaps between the wooded peaks, then suddenly panicking as two female Sparrowhawks sparred, displaying their antagonism in big butterfly flight before diving vertically in synchrony, hurtling earthward.
Ravens rolled as they passed, Buzzards, bent-winged in the breeze, sailed across the valley.
In sun dappled shadows a male Common hawker - blue and beautiful - glides in and out of light.
The falls themselves: spectacular and sparkling, white bright against jet slabs dash themselves on the rocks below.
Westward a perfect parabola of valley meets another slope: the arc ascending.
And now the climb proper. Up a cleft between peaks, lesser falls descending in rushes and pools. Heathers in pinks and purples, bumblebee busy. Bilberries: petit pois-tiny, bursting: fresh blood-red juices fading to purple and staining the picking fingers.
A deep pool below seven rivulets, foamy falls fanning over smooth rock faces: an invitation: a swim, ice-cold, clear, acidic.
Up more steeply now, a rocky scramble, jagged pinnacles pierce the sky. A Stonechat calls. Rowens in full fruit cling to clefts.
On the top slopes Meadow pipits are still feeding young. Grassy sheep-cropped pastures and wet mossy hollows which cool the feet. Another half hour to the birdless peak where the wind whips, the world below like a map. And down again past a Merlins' nest along sheep tracks and slippery scree, Ravens rolling in the wind: because they can.
Snowdonia, cloudless and majestic, humped stunned under the sun. First, the track through the forest, following the brook between oak and larch, rising steadily towards the falls, the going easy.
Far, far up in the haze hirundines filled the gaps between the wooded peaks, then suddenly panicking as two female Sparrowhawks sparred, displaying their antagonism in big butterfly flight before diving vertically in synchrony, hurtling earthward.
Ravens rolled as they passed, Buzzards, bent-winged in the breeze, sailed across the valley.
In sun dappled shadows a male Common hawker - blue and beautiful - glides in and out of light.
The falls themselves: spectacular and sparkling, white bright against jet slabs dash themselves on the rocks below.
Westward a perfect parabola of valley meets another slope: the arc ascending.
And now the climb proper. Up a cleft between peaks, lesser falls descending in rushes and pools. Heathers in pinks and purples, bumblebee busy. Bilberries: petit pois-tiny, bursting: fresh blood-red juices fading to purple and staining the picking fingers.
A deep pool below seven rivulets, foamy falls fanning over smooth rock faces: an invitation: a swim, ice-cold, clear, acidic.
Up more steeply now, a rocky scramble, jagged pinnacles pierce the sky. A Stonechat calls. Rowens in full fruit cling to clefts.
On the top slopes Meadow pipits are still feeding young. Grassy sheep-cropped pastures and wet mossy hollows which cool the feet. Another half hour to the birdless peak where the wind whips, the world below like a map. And down again past a Merlins' nest along sheep tracks and slippery scree, Ravens rolling in the wind: because they can.
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