The locals

 

A local lockdown walk along Lasgarn Lane, Trevethin, to the trig point on Mynydd Garn Wen was more memorable for sub zero temperatures and the number of local people who had similar intentions, rather than any wildlife on offer.

The lane itself was treacherous in places. On bends where high roadside hedges prevented the winter sun from penetrating to the surface the overnight formation of ice was a trap for those without sure foot.

The walk itself is always a delight whatever the season. Thick managed hedgerows, fragmented in places by field gates and farm tracks bleeds into moss covered drystone walls flanked by majestic beech trees. The verge between road and field boundary ranged from hedge bank to small grassy margin. A few redwing fed in a sheep grazed field and a nuthatch called from the top of a large beech tree.

Where the roadside margin is wide enough to accommodate some fallen timber I noted some that was sporting the distinctive phenomenon of hair ice. It was only a day or two before that BBC's Winterwatch was talking about the very same thing. Hair ice is produced by a fungus found in rotting wood called Exidiopsis effusa. This in turn results in strands of ice that resembles hair.

When on my knees photographing the hair ice, I became aware of two young lads who had paused from pushing their bikes up the lane. They seemed puzzled by a middle aged man on his knees in the countryside - and who wouldn't I suppose. I proceeded to the mountain gate and the lads cycled past. On the track to the trig point there were walkers and a transit van from whence came three scrambler bikes. There was litter from the evening before's take away and another vehicle that had just arrived containing a family with rabbiting type dogs. Not driving for your exercise had clearly fallen on deaf ears on this occasion.

After visiting the trig point I returned for home. People were still coming up the lane with others like me returning. A seasoned walker with rucksack only just kept his footing as he passed through an ice patch. At a field gate I paused to look for ground feeding redwing in the grassland sward beyond. As I did the two aforementioned young cyclists rode past at speed. The second lad, had clearly thought that seeing me on my knees photographing hair ice, that I was foraging for food, because as he went passed he shouted, 'looking for food are you, you sad bastard'. Local lads don't you just love 'um?