welsh hills again

The gorse is in flower, its warm cocunut sweet scent blows up from the valley as I walk down to the river. The wood anemones are opening everywhere under the still bare trees.  I love these. I love their delicacy, the way they shiver in the slightest breeze, the way they turn their open faces to the sun.  Soon the leaves will be on the trees and the track down to the river will become a cool green tunnel.  I know I will like that when it comes but just now the track is clean and clear, full of sunshine and with open views into the fields. My son and daughter in law's dog runs ahead but always pausing and checking where I am when the gap between us gets too wide. Down by the river in the damper ground the strappy leaves of the wild garlic are pushing up.  There are no flowers yet so the smell of garlic is only released when I crush the leaves between my fingers.  I must remember to come down again very soon and do some foraging. There are...

We went out for walk, our usual walk, up our lane to where it turns to a rough track and up further to the ridge with the huge view over the Vale of Clwyd towards Snowdonia.  It's a walk of about half an hour each way and I am trying to make it my run.  So far I haven't yet managed to run up in one run, two or three minutes with a minute or so of walking in between is all I can manage going upwards.  But yesterday I managed to run all the way down.  I might have been short of breath and challenging a beetroot for colour, but I did it, and for the first time in the three weeks of trying to run, caught just a glimpse of why people might run for pleasure.  There were just moments when the track disappeared smoothly beneath my feet and the wind blew cool on my hot face and the sheep looked up in mild surprise when I thought I could perhaps get to like this.  Running, especially failing to run uphill, gives me the only possible reason for wishing I didn't live o...