Ash

Years ago Landimore was a poor North Gower village. It’s changed now to become a desirable upmarket place, with every house immaculately kept, but it remains quiet and away from it all.

The little pond behind the small car park at the end of the village is always interesting. In the warmth of the morning, thousands of tiny flies dance above its surface, eagerly feasted on by a robin-turned-flycatcher darting to and fro from the cover of the wood. The yellow flash of a female broad-bodied chaser dragonfly arrives, but it’s gone in a moment.

The rough track west bordering the marsh is always quiet. A few birds sing from the hanging woodland and a buzzard, merely a dot in the blue, calls incessantly. Ash, fully out now after the delayed onset of spring, dominates the woods, and I ponder what it might look like should ash dieback take hold.  Mile after mile of flat salt marsh is covered with many hundreds of bleating sheep, and salt marsh lamb is a speciality here and a local delicacy. The tranquillity is broken by the sound of a jeep out of which jumps a local farmer. With binoculars he checks his flock, stays a few minutes, and, satisfied that all’s well, is off.  Silence returns, and I walk on, passing tiny ponds in the soggy turf. At the head of one of the countless pills leading out to the estuary, a small decaying boat, now wedged high and dry after some long-gone big spring tide, is used as a perch for a smart pied wagtail.

At the end of the track under North Hill Tor I can see for miles, but can’t get across the Burry Pill to join the few walkers heading out over the sea wall to Whiteford Point.