On Berwyn

On Berwyn

The only car for miles, we climb the thin scar of road above a dark drop and emerge onto the moors as the sun sets. At the highest point, we witness a sight reserved only for the traveller whose presence is governed by nothing but an unplanned accident of timing. Every sunset is powerful, every one evocative and memorable but this one is a surely a glimpse of the supernatural.

Backlit by the essence of nature, the skyline is alive. The mountains have become more than distant shapes, they have souls and spirits and draw the eye with such a power as cannot rationally be described.

In a minute or maybe less the molten sky cools and the silhouettes lose their edges. Now, they are just the mountains, slipping into darkness, drama done, the night’s shroud pulled across the glimpse of grace. Before we descend into the woods, an impression of silver leaf on the shadowed land remains. It is Llyn Celyn, intake tower clearly discernible against its sinister sheen.

By the time we reach Bala, it is dark.

(Many thanks to Jo Jones for the photo on this page)

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