As a dear friend said: ‚Both the reality of the stark, somewhat barren landscape of the British isles – and to look close and realise the life that thrives on exactly such setting!‘ Yes – the rare occasion of a bright sunny afternoon makes up for every grey November day, and now I understand why Wales is said to be so beautiful.
Trees have merged their barks with moss, it seems. A coat of green runs over the landscape in summer. But in winter, the ferns which cover the Welsh hills make them gloom in reddish brown colours.
South of Snowdonia National Park there’s a small beaver conservation centre, deeply hidden in the valley and miles away from any supermarket or even village. The only noises that the beavers hear are probably the steady rustle of the well fed stream winding down and passing the permaculture farm with its frequent little trickles and waterfalls, the eager chatter of the ducks and geese and the thunking of fresh carrots, crusty tree branches and – oh! – apples an hour before sunset.
Fir trees compose a dark monoculture here, resembling the Black Forest in Southern Germany. The landscape needs reforestation with a healthy mixed forest so that the phenomenal flora can spread even wider. And of course with enough wide space for the sheep, which flock along the hill tops – visible as fluffy white specks from the distance.