For once we timed a short break to perfection. Not only did we enjoy a week without a single drop of rain, but our return trip to Felin Hescwm, just beside the sea near Dinas Cross in Pembrokeshire coincided with peak spring flower season along the coastal path and hedged banks, so typical of this part of the world.
Even better, despite this rare weather window in a poor start to 2024, we saw very few other visitors. Which made for a quiet soundscape for us to appreciate the extraordinary all-day serenading of a song thrush in our secluded valley and brief mist-shrouded glimpses and chee-ows of cliff-top choughs.
We had a few days of thick mist or fog, some overcast days, and some wonderful cool sunshine.
The view above is nearly the identical vista to the image below, taken last September by Fiona!
And a couple of views, below, from the private balcony to the rear of the converted grain store at Felin Hescwm, with resident bat.
Needing some serious sitting down time, I’d packed 2 books and read most of them whilst away – something I rarely manage when we’re at home. I probably spend far too much time photographing and ‘working’ around the property, besides uploading words and images to this rolling project that is my record of time spent in this special place.
I’ll mention both books, since for different reasons, I enjoyed them a great deal. Firstly Helen O’Neill’s “Daffodil – Biography of a Flower”. I recently wrote a piece bemoaning the lack of more historical information on the discovery and breeding of daffodils over the centuries. I’d come across references to this book, but few reviews for a title published in 2016, so I hadn’t pursued it. With the holiday date arriving I took a punt and bought a copy.
It far exceeded my expectations. It is both a beautiful book, with some wonderful full-page illustrations, and many works of art featuring daffodils from across the ages, but it’s also very well-researched and written. One could criticise it for not including images of most of the specific daffodil cultivars she mentions, or for the fact that one has to turn to the rear to discover the details relating to the images which appear regularly throughout the book. However I didn’t find this too inconvenient, and against that one can weigh the aesthetic advantage from not distracting from the impact of the illustrations with text.
The author also lightly interweaves her own personal story of daffodils, and how around the time she was researching the book, she was undergoing a battle with cancer. Her love of daffodils, particularly the collection her mother had amassed at her family home, comforted her during this tough time.
There are some real characters in the daffodil story, stretching back over a few hundred years, and the book traces the journey from inconsequential flower to its current status of global recognition, and ongoing hybridisation for both the cut flower, exhibition, and garden growing markets. Quite why the book has so few positive reviews is beyond me. Perhaps because it was written by an English woman and journalist, principally based in Australia. I’m guessing it was more favourably received there, and perhaps also in the U.S.A.
On a final daffodil note for this season, the day after our return, I received an out-of-the-blue email from Kate and Duncan Donald of Croft-16 daffodils, who I’ve mentioned several times on this blog, as the source of most of the older historic daffodil cultivars which we grow around the garden. 10 years ago, I’d sent them some bulbs of an unknown daffodil growing in our front border, asking if they could let me know what it was. After 10 years of study, and research – it takes a long time to let bulbs settle and compare them with others in their collection – they’ve told me that it’s subtly different to any others they grow, and may possibly be a long-lost cultivar grown by Edward Leeds – who is one of the key late Victorian British daffodil hybridisers discussed at some length in O’Neill’s book.
For any reader interested, there’s a very good review of Leeds (1802 -1877) written by Joy Uings here. He was clearly a very accomplished and modest horticulturalist who had many more strings to his bow than just breeding daffodils.
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The second book, “Tir: The Story of the Welsh Landscape”, by Carwyn Graves, was a book I’d encountered a few weeks ago, and decided against as possibly having too much of a political slant. In the end, it was mentioned to Fiona, who bought a copy anyway, so having relished “Daffodil”, I set to.
As this extract from the introduction shows, it’s a bold attempt to review the importance of the sometimes unique, often dramatic part that the landscape has had in shaping Welsh history, culture, language and literature. Based on chapter titles using the Welsh language words for land use features (e.g. Coed, Cloddiau, Cae, Mynydd – wood, hedge bank, field, mountain), Graves explores how varied the meaning of these descriptive terms are, and how they formed a vital part of a circular economy: the old style of land management which used to pertain in much of Wales and contributed to the past, rich biodiversity of the landscape. A diversity which has been, and is continuing to be, lost at alarming rates in more recent decades.
It was a particularly apt time for me to read the book, since there are several references to landscape features in the immediate vicinity of Dinas Cross, where we were staying, with its ancient history of human impacts on the landscape.
As someone who has always struggled with the Welsh language, in both oral and written forms, I found the book informative and enlightening. Certainly not a beautiful book, in the way that Daffodil is. And for me not as easy to read. I was looking forward to Graves’ suggestions for a way forward to reverse some of the recent negative trends he describes. These all come in his final ‘Epilogue’ chapter. He makes a rational analysis of possible routes that could be followed, many of which I would concur with, although whether most are ever likely to be politically acceptable, or actionable given current attitudes seems doubtful. My own gloomy assessment is that government policy tends to follow big money and big lobbying power, which has never lain in the hands of the actual land workers and the majority of rural residents, who are often those best placed to assess what might work, and what won’t.
So an interesting book, and one I’d recommend to anyone living in (particularly) rural Wales. I regretted the lack of an index, and although there are copious numbered notes at the rear of the book, I didn’t always find them obviously relevant for the few which I chose to cross-reference. Another slight disappointment, which is a problem I often encounter, is the difficulty of following up leads in the Welsh language, for translations into English. There seems to be a reluctance in some quarters to make such translations easily available. I was particularly fascinated by the discussion of the tradition of farmer-poets, especially in rural North Wales around Eyri (Snowdonia). Many of the snippets of poems included had me yearning to read more, accepting the problems of translating strictly rhyming verse from one tongue to another. Clearly, men and women of the land, and inevitably strongly interconnected to the natural world around them have always been moved to write or sing about their experiences.
So too have I, more recently after many years of living in this land, albeit writing in a ‘foreign’ tongue. I have never felt inhibited by, or alienated from the diversities of the natural world which surround us here, or by the limitations of my own native tongue. Nature seems to me to be truly omniglot. Or more accurately, perhaps, epiglot. It’s us humans who struggle to convey what we’re thinking in oral, or textural utterances, without the potential for confusing tribal misinterpretations.
Whilst I understand there are many historical reasons for the, sometimes, reluctance for translations from Welsh into English, (and an argument could well be made that I should have knuckled down and become proficient at reading and translating myself), my counterpoint would be firstly that only a fairly small minority of the nation’s population are currently able to read much that is written in Welsh. Or indeed prefer to read Welsh versions of text rather than the inevitably supplied English translations – required for all official communications (multiple personal anecdotal evidence, over many years).
My second observation is that in not making translations more easily available, much of the undoubtedly rich culture of Welsh language, poetry and song, is missing out on the potential to reach a much wider audience.
‘Tir’ is certainly an invaluable glimpse into the centuries long link between people, place, land and language that has shaped the landscape of Wales in a way that may indeed be more significant than in any other country in the United Kingdom. Graves certainly makes a good argument that this is the case. For anyone living, or even visiting this special land, whether Welsh speaking, or not, it’s a very worthwhile and revealing read.
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I’d spotted a chance to watch a screened, live performance of Macbeth in the excellent Mwldan Arts complex in Cardigan, whilst we were away so we turned up to the nearly empty theatre, and sat through a riveting performance staged by The Shakespeare Company, and starring Ralph Fiennes and Indira Varma. Very sadly, neither of us have much experience of Shakespeare, and certainly I couldn’t recall ever watching a performance of Macbeth before – how would we find this ancient tale, relocated for this performance into a contemporary war torn setting?
The staging concept is described in the YouTube below by the principal actors, before their opening run in one of several specially created hangar-like theatre spaces in Liverpool, Edinburgh, London and Washington, D.C.
We were both riveted by the production.
Towards the end of this saga of violence and the corrupting influence of power on human personality, comes a twelve line speech delivered with huge intensity by Fiennes, standing beneath a spotlight, and with the excellent photographer zooming in close. For those unfamiliar with the play, this speech is included below, from Act 5 Scene 5.
Having just been told by his servant Seyton, that his wife, the Queen, is dead, Macbeth speaks realising that he is about to meet his own end soon, and probably violently. Full of very familiar phrases (so THAT’s where those words come from), centuries after Shakespeare penned them they were powerful enough for me to have spent many hours mulling them over, since.
Macbeth: Wherefore was that cry?
Seyton (M’s servant): The queen, my lord, is dead.
Macbeth: She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
In trying to track down a good recorded version, I discovered that just like performances of a well known piece of music, the variation in impact from the facial expressions, word emphasis, voice timbre and intonation that different actors impart to these few words, is huge. If you get a chance to watch this recent version, I think it would be money and time well spent.
For a very different, but equally powerful rendition to the film we watched, here’s a grainy record of the performance of 1976, directed by Trevor Nunn, featuring a then very young (and now Sir) Ian Mckellen:
And as a swiftly added extra, post publication of this post, watch this riveting explanation by McKellen as to how he approached this famous short piece of text. Amazing!
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An Idiot’s Tale?
Yesterday, and yesterday and yesterday,
The tireless thrush, unseen, sang out.
Shrill couplets, triplet trills, quad madrigals,
Hid deep amongst the ffridd-like slope that clads this ancient cleft,
Beside these gathered rocks and stones and slates.
Which some call home.
Of what he sings, I can but dream.
Devoid of noise cacophony he has a vacant stage.
A pheasant cock’s rare counterpointing crow,
Too light a heckle to slow his flow.
The waves don’t crash. The winds don’t blow.
High tide’s sucked shingle rhythmic roll
Has yet to drown, with metronomic rhyme.
No dampening rain drifts in, to snuff his flame.
Just mist. Sea-shadowed, sunset clouds.
He burns. He sings. I melt, all day.
The ancient cloddiau banks explode,
Red campion crammed, stiff foxglove spires,
Bright bluebells, sewn and stitchwort seamed.
Beneath Carningli‘s rocky crags,
Embroidered, sky-high in this hairy heath
Pink hoodies, four-notched golds, and two-tone blues.
Once familiar, linger still: Lousewort, Milkwort, Tormentil
Beyond in Gwaun‘s dense tree-lined sweep,
A cuckoo calls and calls and calls.
We climb, are torn between the lichened rocks,
The vistas sweep, the courting butterflies around our feet.
While down below, beside the hidden cove,
Our king still reigns supreme.
No struts, no frets, so many hours upon his stage,
Amongst those fading, heady hawthorn blooms.
No fury, surely? This serenading melody,
Tomorrow’s mournful, lost May, song.
27/05/2024
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Back home, and after unpacking, checking the sheep, whizzing round the garden, and inspecting the two ‘vacant’ honey bee ‘hives’, I decided immediately that the one on the larch trunk now has permanent residents: a swarm has moved in whilst we were away, after those many days of it being checked out by large numbers of bees before we’d left. 
Whether or not the swarm came from the hay shed colony, I’ll never know, but I’m sure too that this colony swarmed in our absence – there are far fewer bees entering and leaving the hive now, and no trace of a bee ‘beard’.
The remaining, modified, Swedish butter churn hive, (above), was to my eye still being scouted with numerous bees around the entrance, but not behaving in quite the way I’d expect if they’d taken up residence – there was still too much apparently interested but ‘aimless’ exploring around the entrance holes, and not enough purposeful to-ing and fro-ing.
The following (Saturday) morning dawned dry, sunny and bright so we opted to have our customary weekend cooked breakfast on the terrace in the fresh air, after I’d walked around the garden to capture the lovely light and shadows, first thing. 
We’re very used to bee and insect noise, as well as constant movement in this part of the garden. Particularly at this time of the year, with Cotoneasters, Nectaroscordum, Allium and Aquilegia flowers in profusion, so it might have been a minute or two before we both simultaneously picked up on a louder buzzing coming from the edge of the terrace garden, beneath the hawthorn tree.
By the time I’d grabbed the camera from upstairs the air of the terrace was filling with bees.
A fantastic opportunity to experience the natural marvel that is a swarm of honey bees relocating to a new home. 
After perhaps just 15 minutes, the terrace was growing quieter, so I moved to somewhere closer to their focus of activity, where I could view the front of the Swedish butter churn hive, located below the hawthorn.
Sure enough, the front of the hive was completely covered with bees which were already beginning to march down the front of the hive, and in through the 2 new holes I’d created in the lower front of the hive: after realising my design flaws which the previous colony successfully put up with for their 2 years in this space.
Within another 15 minutes, the drama was over, and the casual observer may not have noticed anything had changed, from the scene the day before. A real treat for us both to have witnessed this, the natural spring reproductive drama of the honey bee colony, uninhibited by human interventions.
Within a couple of days, it’s obvious that the bee behaviour is very different now around the entrance – much more purposeful foraging with bees entering and leaving the colony at speed, flying up, and South East, before mainly doing sharp right angled turns as they climb higher and head off to forage, mainly due North.
This means that as I’d hoped and expected, the garden is now back up to its full and self-imposed maximum complement of 6 honey bee colonies in different sizes and styles of boxes. From which I can potentially harvest a single box of honey from two of them, later in the year. More than sufficient for our needs.
Just before writing this, the excellent Oxford Natural Beekeeping Group’s blog which I follow, posted their annual data discussing recorded winter bee colony losses over the last winter in the colonies of their members in the Oxfordshire area. Interesting reading both for their numbers, and for Paul’s discussion. An average of around 34% of a total of 167 colonies of these minimal intervention, treatment free colonies died out over the last winter period. Paul compares these figures with more conventional beekeeper losses in the UK and U.S.A.
It seems that I’ve been fortunate by comparison to have fared so well over the last winter here, with no colony losses over the winter period: from the four colonies which went into the winter period. One of which was a swarm last June taking up residence in an empty hive, and hence at much higher risk of not making it through the following winter. This swarm almost certainly came from another of the Gelli colonies, which later failed during late summer. Musical Hives?
I’d like to think that this apparent success here is not a reflection of the weather (which was mild but incessantly wet since June), but possibly influenced by my insulated ‘hive’ properties and locations; local honey bee genetics; and most importantly, I’d like to feel, the diverse abundance of dietary forage options throughout much of the year in the environs of the garden and local landscape.
Of course it could be none of these. Just a lucky quirk of fate, which won’t be repeated. I need a much longer time frame of monitoring them here to have more confidence that some of the very little that I actually do with, and on behalf of, these local bees, is of real value.
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Finally, I’m finishing with a recording of the fabulous, short Franz Liszt piece: Consolations, S. 172: III, played here by the young pianist, Alim Beisembayev. Born in Kazakhstan he trained primarily in the UK, and won the prestigious Leeds piano competition in 2021. A recent beautifully recorded and played rendition of this famous work composed by Liszt to commemorate his dear friend, in the year of Chopin’s death in 1839. Like Shakespeare’s words, this music will still touch souls and calm fevered brows for centuries to come, I think, regardless of music’s contemporary ebbs and flows.
It’s rare for me in recent times to listen to a male pianist play with such delicacy and emotion: almost caressing the keys to draw the music out of the piano.
And who knows, with a general election looming it may prove to be a very welcome distraction from the imminent maelstrom of sound and fury.