So many and so varied; today the meadow was alive with fluttering. These are what we found in half an hour!
Amazing diversity of butterflies on 2nd August,2026, on a single, small patch of thistles that we have allowed to flower this year.
Also lots of small whites which never seem to photograph well.
Nearly forgot the small copper!
We had a blowy night and next morning Cwm Cudyn was blocked in 2 places, first with an Oak Tree which put our new electric chainsaw in it’s place — even with Roger helping! It lies right across the carriageway — no carriages will pass this way for quite a while.
Further up where the banks are steep and the soil thin, 5 tall pine trees lost their grip and had a go at skiing, skidding elegantly down the sloping bedrock leaving it glistening in the rain. Continuing the metaphor they all fell over in a tangled heap in the bottom of the cwm.
See how tenuous was their hold.
Still they managed to block the road.
At the bottom, where the lane is high above the river, you can see the lanky oak that normally stands on the edge of the stream with its roots in the water. It had a rough night, resisting the 90 mph gusts, and is now having a lie down. I bet that made the neighbors house shake.
Next day the levels have fallen here.
We worried about the impact of all this water further down stream but there was a news black-out — no power, no internet, no mobile coverage and the land-line was knocked out by the fallen larch on the hill.
We kept warm by cutting and moving the smaller fallen trees that were in the way and by unbunging the culvert by the house to release the Olympic swimming-pool of muddy water that had gathered on the road to stop the cars — not that there were many!
Once power was restored, Assad had fallen in Syria so there was nothing much to hear about trees or floods!
Its chilly here and the ground is covered and crunchy.
Food is thin on the ground and creatures need more calories to keep warm.
This is bringing birds that are usually wary of humans closer to the house.
This fine jay has been spotted foraging under the bird feeder and is battling for custody of the windfall apples with the local carrion crow, who sits in the tree posturing aggressively.
By and large jay defers to crow but sneaks back later.
Both hear the Raven up above, getting closer but still never coming to ground.
One regular is undeterred.
The Buzzards sit on the telegraph poles having removed the dead mouse from the patio, which I caught for him in my kitchen! Times are especially hard for him, and the fox as all the little mammals have gone to ground. We see the foxes prints prowling the edges of the fields but no rabbit tracks.
The one lonely fieldfare is not scared of the jay — there are plenty of fallen apples still.
But the little birds must beware!
The sparrowhawk visits daily and sits on the bird feeder — we know he’s there by the sudden eerie absence of everything else.
Yesterday was grey — the thick, wet cloud lay on the wet ground blanketing the melting snow, making the road run, frappé with ice – you remember Slush Puppies.
As we walked down hill to our village through the rain, we dug our sticks into the bank to avoid slip-sliding or aquaplaning. We remembered the conversation of the night before when the News reported ‘NHS about to be overwhelmed’ in this latest cold snap.
I’d recalled when I was a casualty officer tending the droves of the foolish elderly with their fractured ankles, wrists and hips, who’d ventured out on the first frosty morning after the ‘thaw’. Just another example of role-reversal, ‘Bill!’ I say, ‘Think how much you will enjoy the helicopter ride!’
But we make it to Llawr-y-glyn without falling and we aren’t the only ones – 30 odd villagers who should all know better, are there to drink mulled wine in the gloaming, dodging the drips and the gushes from the puddle on the canopy, as a public spirited citizen pokes it from beneath with his brolly wetting all the mince pies.
The Christmas Tree had appeared, as always, by magic – we used to decorate it with bows and baubles — but it took so long to collect them each year after the inevitable gale that now it is simply decked with lights and switched on by the youngest resident – she didn’t make a speech.
Now we trudge home, up hill. Did I mention we both had Covid recently and still puff a bit. In the dark I remember not to forget the day glow jackets,(too late!) I switch on my torch. There is no traffic so no one knocks us into the hedge leaving us for dead so we count tawny owls.
In 2018 the weather was better. The faces change but life goes on.
Powys Council Superheroes Dafydd and Jamie, mobilized from Llandrindod Wells, have braved the elements to unbung our culverts and release our flood water — the valley reverberates with satisfying glugs, gurgles and the sound of rushing water!
Rainfall of 100ml in 24hrs and it’s gone on for days (uncorroborated due to unavailability of rainwater gauges “no-one here needs to measure it!” Our little stream has overflowed for the first time in living memory, mine.
And the road in the dip had turned into a lake — but here is Dafydd:
doing what must be one of the most satisfying jobs in the world — here is the apotheosis of his craft!
The great unbung! See the job satisfaction:
Meanwhile Bill and I continue our flood surveillance — the innovative unblockable, hurdle-based, stream valve is working well.
And I think how much Alan would have enjoyed the diversion of so much muddy water.
Suddenly it’s the autumn equinox so we can’t waste a moment of late summer sunshine!
It seems the Welsh weather has quite forgotten itself.
As snow and ice cover the eastern counties of Great Britain, Wales is bathed in celestial light — for a trice.
It’s chilly with a strange east wind (of change, perhaps). The prevailing wind here is nearly always wet and westerly — it brings our weather from the Atlantic and snow storms from America — not so today, its coming from the Urals (I’ve got my Russian hat on.)
The sheep have not been gathered in, against the storm, but wait in disgruntled groups for fresh silage, the sweet smell of which precedes the shepherd on the crisp cold air.
Our valley is muted in the winter shade but the tops are bright, scoured dry by the icy wind.
which sends the turbines spinning and brings the snow ever closer — unless it all drops on England first!
But for those of you who are stuck in other places or don’t want to get out of your warm beds, here is a walk through the crunchy frost — watch out for the frozen mole hills covered by a dusting of last night’s hail and this morning’s crystal dew — they stub your toes and send you sprawling on the now unyielding turf.
See the lane in the middle distance — treated last night with grit and salt (during a rain storm that washed it all away) and now frozen and deterring visitors — Bill is looking for the postman –the computer says his parcel is on its way but I know differently. Just as we have decided not to venture out to shop — we will fall upon the mercy of our store cupboard (my armageddon stash) and I will secretly hope for much more snow so that we are confined by something different –something that makes us cut wood and bake bread! Something reassuringly traditional!
Meanwhile we inspect the sheep and marvel at the beauty of their surroundings.
By afternoon it is beginning to thaw but only until sunset and more is forecast.
What a difference a day makes — the clear blue sky has bought my fair weather friend out onto the banks of the Trannon to wonder at the thundering of the water and bemoan the absence of aerial activity.
No thermals yet for the buzzards and kites, not even the cronk of a raven… The kingfisher and the dipper have moved downstream. But what is this new roar above that of the rushing river. Right above our heads:
“All the way from Lakenheath,” said Bill “and probably in less time than it’s taken us to walk down the valley… ” He had a strange far away look on his face, “Jet noise — the sound of freedom!” he said, quoting the bumper stickers of the 80’s.
I only hope that my friends who remember protesting at Greenham Common with the same expression of nostalgia will have forgotten this by the time we meet again.
There were three F15Es (I need 3 — one to jump, 2 to adjust the camera and 3: bingo!) They made several passes over our valley and then were gone, doubtless marvelling all the way home at the strange water-world beneath them — all the way from Wales to East Anglia, in less time than it took us to walk home for our lunch. It will have been a spectacular journey today.
Here we are, a group of intrepid British bird-watchers hunting the Ferruginous Pygmy Owl (Glaucidium brasillium) in Texas last month, in perishing conditions as a freak cold front swept the US. All wearing everything we had and me with socks on my hands we searched a ranch 1/6th the area of Wales for a little tropical owl at the far north of its range. Our guides were tenacious and cunning with their recordings of Pygmy calls and inside information about recent sightings, they had no intention of letting us go until we had seen this timorous beastie.
Here he is, about the size of a starling (but all puffed up), as intrigued by our strange appearance and beguiling calls as we were by him.
It had been even colder the day before when icicles were spotted dangling from the air-conditioning vent at breakfast. Here are the more robust members of the party looking for icebergs on Corpus Christi Lake.
As the more feeble fled for shelter in adjacent woodland we were treated to a view of this Great Horned Owl (Bubo virginianus) who had had the same idea.
As we climbed back into the minibus and fell upon the last of the emergency Worther’s Originals (the beauty of travelling with Grandads) a little bird flitted frantically in the bare branches above, looking for something to eat — a Black Throated Green Warbler (Setophaga virens) — a late migrant caught short by the Arctic blast.
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