Windhovers

Mynyddoedd y Preseli from the North West

Last week I saw a Kestrel, hovering for prey over the moors of the Preseli Hills. It brought to mind the feral wanderings of my childhood: building fires in the abandoned quarry near our house, camping in the scrub fields that are now a retail park, hunting for insects on the dune beaches of Northumberland…

Kestrels were more common then, but they held a special allure. My grandfather used to call them windhovers, regarding them as the ultimate sight hunter. Ironically, he was clinically blind, and if we came across one on our walks, I’d have to give him a running commentary on its position, kill success or failure. I liked them too, for their association with Ken Loach’s film Kes and even wondered if I might tame one as Billy, its protagonist, had done.

Thinking back, many aspects of my childhood adventures would be frowned on now. I spent days (and nights) unsupervised, had friends with air rifles, others who collected birds’ eggs; we knew little and cared less about conservation. And yet, I’m grateful for the education it gave me, and convinced that we have lost something in our sometimes over supervision and curation of the outdoors.

What’s more, my love of mountains and coast is inextricably linked to their wider ecology, much of which I learned as a boy. There’s not a walk I take when I don’t at least mentally record the flowers, birds and insects I’ve seen. My library of reference books is full of notes that are as much a record of my wanderings as my powers of observation.

Talking of which, did you know that Kestrels can see ultraviolet light, allowing them to track the urine trails of their prey? Further evidence that these magnificent birds exist in a world we can never fully understand, let alone experience. Which is perhaps why, decades on from my childhood encounters, seeing one over the moors near my house remains such a treat.

Wedding day musings

Last Saturday my son got married, tying the knot with his long-term partner and teenage sweetheart.  It was a lovely day, very modern and metropolitan; full of sunshine just as they had hoped. More traditionally, it was two families, and close friends, coming together to celebrate an act of union that’s as old as our culture. A proud moment for parents, and a one that inevitably invites reflection on the circles of life.

Not that their wedding was a mirror of ours. Jane and I were wed in a North Wales chapel, on a day of biblical rain, Snowdonia so shrouded in mist you could barely see the valleys. We went back there recently, the chapel closed now to its congregation, though I guess the building will stand beyond our lifetimes. It’s difficult to think of a place less like Wimbledon. 

And yet, on Saturday, there were similarities too. The joy and the fun; the sense of the occasion being shaped by their wishes, rather than a procession of rituals. Or at least not dominated by them. For ceremony is a part of marriage too, connecting us to the traditions and culture I mentioned earlier. Losing it entirely would, I think, lessen its meaning.

So I was pleased that the service, though secular, retained the essential element of binding promises that were once the preserve of the church. I’m not against the later (after all, we were married in a chapel) but it’s surely the commitment that matters most; and the declaring of such in front of friends, family and community. In the event, Mike and Louisa spoke their vows to each other with few dry eyes in the room.

As we all rose to leave, I was conscious that at 65 I had suddenly (for so it seemed) become the oldest of all the relatives present. How had that happened, and what had become of the time between?  Later, standing for photographs, I thought of the monochrome prints we have of our parents' weddings, and their rows of faces spanning four generations. I sense that is rarer today, though I could be wrong.

Because, of course, most things don't change. The bride was the most beautiful girl in the room, just as Jane had been. The groom was happy and handsome, as I’d like to think I was too, albeit that he has more hair!  And their friends, so full of life and opportunity, dancing to the same songs (literally and metaphorically) that we’d done back then.  

Which is just as it should be.  

For if a wedding is a milestone, then let it be a way marker too. When I think of the journey that Jane and I have travelled, I’m filled with gratitude at our good fortune, not only in the paths we chose but in our having those options in the first place. Truly, more than anything in the world, I wish the same for all my children.

Driving home on Sunday, Jane described the day as ‘a good job done'.  She was referring to more than the wedding itself, and I agreed. Though, in truth, that word ‘done’ grated just a little. For seldom have I felt a more tangible sense of a new chapter opening up. Weddings might well be watershed moments, but hopefully we’ve not quite yet reached the sea. 

Returning home

It's a long time since I posted anything here - too long, in fact.

By way of excuse, I have just returned from a trip across Europe, travelling from Bucharest through the Balkans, Adriatic Coast and Julian Alps, before the more familiar landscapes of Switzerland and France. In total, I visited ten countries, a journey those of us of a certain age would have considered improbable before the collapse of the Berlin Wall and the dismantling of the Eastern Bloc.

I’m conscious that road trips like this run the risk of superficial impressions, but in their very nature they also underscore the highs and lows of a continent that is as varied as it is vast. The potential for further exploration in the lesser-known regions has certainly been noted. Indeed, I’d argue the Durmitor Massif and Tara Gorge in Montenegro stand comparison with any mountains and rivers of the Alps.

And yet it’s impossible for all but the most indifferent of travellers not to sense the echoes of recent history: the abandoned buildings, the houses pockmarked with bullets, the truly shocking inequalities that have come with the rebuilding of economies and infrastructures. An abiding thought throughout my journey has been how lucky I am, and how the contrast between my starting point and home is so much greater than the miles I have travelled.

Yesterday, approaching journey's end, the sweep of Pembrokeshire’s coast greeted me as I crested the hill near my house. Seldom have I felt more grateful for where I live and for the sheer good luck to have been born when and where I was. 

Funny isn’t it, how in travelling for adventure, we come also to appreciate what we already have.

Why I’m no longer learning Welsh.

It’s nearly forty years since I first moved to Wales, so I’ve decided it’s time I stopped learning Welsh. This doesn’t mean I’m giving up on the language – indeed, rather the opposite, for I’ve spoken more Cymraeg in the last month than the previous four decades. If you haven’t yet twigged, the operative word in the sentence above is ‘spoken’!

And that’s because I’ve realised that all the books and grammar tables and YouTube tutorials can only take you so far. In my case, they do worse and fry my brain as I try to decipher and translate in a literal way. Which of course is not how things are, or how we make progress, in the real world.

Instead, I’ve taken to simply speaking out loud, and seeking every opportunity to give it a go, make mistakes and try again… The ladies who run my local café laugh that I speak Welsh with a bit of French thrown in – but they are so welcoming and delighted that I try. It turns out I also have friend in the next village who’s been silently learning for years – and who desperately wanted someone to practice with!

She too makes lots of mistakes, but together we’re improving.

It strikes me that this approach has wider application, including for our time in the mountains. I’m not suggesting we should tackle, say, rock climbing, in quite the same way but there comes a point in any activity when we must commit and risk a little failure. All the books in the world can’t teach us what it’s like to pull on a hold, move freely upward, and sense the ground falling away below us.

I‘ve no doubt that, somewhere, there are doctorates on the best balance between classroom and experiential learning. But I’m not going to read them and certainly not in relation to Cymraeg. Instead, I’m getting on with the ‘doing’, because forty years is far too long to garner the courage to begin.

Wela I di ar yr mynydd…

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A version of this post appeared in the AAC(UK) newsletter, of which I am editor

Winter musing

Skiing at the Roc d'Enfer, Haute Savoie

Last week I went skiing with my son, completing the circuit of the Roc d’Enfer, a few kilometres north of Morzine. The access station is disconnected from the main resorts of the Portes du Soleil and hence largely overlooked by the hordes that flock to their overcrowded slopes. In four hours, we saw perhaps fifteen people, gliding through tree lined rides that feel more like back country than a maintained piste.

Which hints at the complicated relationship I have with skiing.

For decades I dismissed it as a ‘sport’ (note the italics and scare quotes) of thrill seekers who had little knowledge of – or care for — the mountains. My view was shaped by a climbing accident in my twenties when the nearby glacier skiers could offer no assistance.  And over the years that attitude hardened; I’d like to claim from an increasing awareness of its environmental damage, but, in truth, as much a disdain for the boorish mix of alcohol and adrenaline that’s stereotypical of snow sport tourism.

If that makes me sound like an old grinch, then I suppose I was — and sometimes still can be.

And yet, here I am in my mid-sixties, regularly skiing with my family, and loving the thrills as much as the sport’s capacity (no italics or scare quotes this time) to smooth the differences in our age and fitness.  Having started in my fifties, I’m not especially good, but I’m competent enough to enjoy the landscape and discover valleys and vistas that would not otherwise come my way.  

Do I regret those years of curmudgeonly attitude?  Not really, because I filled them with other activities, and as I said, the relationship remains complicated.  Skiing will never replace my love of climbing; I still have concerns about its over commercialisation, and as for its safety record, my eldest son lost his best friend in a tragic accident that could so easily have been avoided.

But despite all this, I have come to look forward to the season, enjoying the winter like never before.  And as I get older, with more of those behind me than ahead, I reckon that’s as good a reason as any to take a broader and more positive perspective.

A slightly amended version of this post was published in the AAC (UK) monthly newsletter.

Christmas Magic

Wharfedale on Boxing Day

According to Google, the gap between Christmas and New Year is known as Twixtmas, its bots describing the term as an unofficial cosy period, sometimes referred to as Crimbolimbo. On reading the last word of that summary, I thought, that’s another lexical nugget I’ll consign to the dustbin labelled Drivel.

Which I suppose hints at a certain prejudice on my part. Because for all that I try to keep up with the times, I confess to struggling with the growth of AI and ChatGPT. As a writer, there’s probably an element of protective bias, but honestly, most of what it generates strikes me as more artificial than intelligent. 

If that sounds a touch curmudgeonly, at least I’m not alone. The Oxford Dictionary’s 2024 word of the year was ‘Brain Rot’, referring to the mental drain from trivial content, while Merriam-Webster gave their award this year to ‘slop’, denoting the low-quality, often erroneous, content that floods the internet.

But thankfully, there’s more to this quiet period than mindless scrolling.  

Indeed, the beaches and mountains near my house are busier at this time of year than almost any other. Family groups are particularly prominent, taking the air after the festivities. Often, there are three generations together, making me wonder how many of our truly lasting memories are founded on these seasonal strolls.

My own Christmas was spent in Yorkshire, where on Boxing Day nine of us hiked up Otley Chevin, stopping to gaze over Wharfedale and the distant Almscliffe crags. The year before we walked together at Ilkley Moor, the one previous on Mynydd Carningli in the Preselli Hills… I could easily go back a decade.

Can I recall what we ate and drank each of those years, or what presents we exchanged... not really.  

The AI bots would probably make a fair stab; they might even suggest where we chose to take our exercise. But what they’ll never do, is capture how it felt to be in the landscape with our children and their partners, grown adults now but bonded just as strongly…  by love, a shared attachment to each other, and a passion for the outdoors.

That, to me, is what makes Christmas truly magical.

Leicester — a lifetime and the blink of an eye.

Villiers Hall - 1980

The city of Leicester may stand roughly at the centre of England, but I doubt many people would describe it as one of our major – or most attractive – conurbations. Unless you live there, or are visiting for a purpose, it’s more likely you think of it as a junction on a journey to elsewhere.  In my case, having arranged my adult life to live as near to the hills and coast as possible, you might assume I’d give the place little thought.

And yet, the opposite is the case. 

Rather — for reasons that will become clear — there’s barely a day that goes by when I don’t think of its streets and parks and the people I met there as a student.  Having read that sentence, you’ll have gathered, it’s where I went to university.  It’s also where I had some of the happiest — and most formative — years of my life. 

Last week, entirely unprompted, my son’s fiancée sent me a WhatsApp message enquiring about my undergraduate accommodation. Was I resident at Villiers Hall, she asked?  Adding that a lady at her office, called Debra, had boarded there at around the same time — perhaps we’d been in the same friendship group?  

After a few exchanges, my phone pinged with a copy of the photograph above.  I’m on the third row, behind a chap wearing a red sweatshirt. Debra is on the far left, sitting on a wall, her face partially obscured by a girl in mustard trousers. There’s enough in her outline, though, for me to remember her, as I do almost all the faces, and many of the names.

The photo was taken at the end of my first year. That summer, I stayed alone in Leicester, working in a crisp factory and learning lessons that would, ultimately, serve me as well as any academic training. Not that I’m cynical about that, for I draw on it daily too. If university was ever intended as a comprehensive education, then I reckon my experience personified it.

Which is perhaps why I loved it so.  Indeed, when I was interviewed by the university some years ago (they were contacting alumni who’d had what they flatteringly described as ‘outstanding careers’), I remember saying it had taken me decades to move on. More truthfully, I never have… and I hope, never will.

For there’s more to this story than last week’s exchange of messages. 

Villiers Hall is no more — replaced by modern self-catering blocks with en-suites, fibre internet and all the rest. However, the grounds and footprint of the buildings remain largely the same. To the right of where the photo was taken is Ashcroft House, the former grace and favour home of the hall’s bursar, where we played snooker in the downstairs rooms.

I know this because more than forty years after I graduated, my youngest son is a resident there. Not only is he living in Ashcroft House, but he’s studying for the same degree that I did forty-five years ago... Talk about life coming full circle!  

Of course, he’s doing it his own way and in his own era; my connections to Leicester are, rightly, no more to him than the nostalgic memories of his old man. It’s a sobering thought, too, that in studying politics, much of his course examines world events that have occurred long after the shutter came down on the camera that captured the faces of my fellow students.

I often wonder what happened to my friends from that time. For all that I loved my time at university, I have precious few connections with the people who made it so special. Perhaps that’s something to do with the need, in those days, for writing letters to keep in touch; the absence of smartphones and messaging apps that we now take for granted.  

How ironic then — or perhaps appropriately serendipitous — that all these musings were triggered by the instantaneous sharing of a group shot that many of those pictured will have long since filed in a box of forgotten memories.  Can there be such a thing as 'forgotten memories'?  Or am I wrong in that assumption?  And would they, like me, smile as broadly on seeing it as they did on that bright spring day in 1980?

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P.S.
And in a spirit of coming full circle, here is me —and my son — standing in roughly the same place last Thursday.