I know what you're thinking. It's about Dinorwig, so he'll have almost fallen over one of those vertiginous drops in the Garret sinc. Well, sorry to disappoint you, I'm still alive and typing - although there's time, it might happen yet. No, this is a shave of a different kind. So...Dinorwig. I was confident that Petra and I would be impressed by the vast Australia Mill, the Compressor House, or the Caban with it's old coats and boots. How could we not be, after the anticipation engendered by all those wonderful photographs on the web. They didn't disappoint- and seeing them in the raw slate was so much more vivid and intriguing. And yet...I found myself becoming attached to a couple of locations that seemed to have a definite atmosphere about them; something hard to quantify, but places that chimed with me. Places that were overlooked and little documented by the folk who love the place. One such is the little drumhouse a couple of levels above Australia; I think we are talking about the Lernion to Panws incline, a straightforward Drum installation, although as always, I am open to advice on this from wiser heads than mine. The point of this ramble is that the place is an isolated one, 1,800 feet above the valley. The ruined drumhouse is in the last throes of vertical life and will soon slowly sink to one side; gracefully, I imagine. It looks beautiful. Yes, I know, I have a strange idea of that concept since I like my landscapes punctuated by quarries and tips, but trust me, I trained as an artist you know. And there we were, soaking up the atmosphere on an unusually sunny day hereabouts, not a soul to be seen anywhere. Petra was in the ruins, taking photographs. I was standing outside, gazing across the valley to Snowdon. Then it happened. A curious sound, like the whoosh of an arrow. I felt something on my cheek and was very briefly aware of a shape; then it was gone and I saw a Sparrow Hawk come out of the crimp and soar upwards at fantastic speed. It took me a few moments to realise what had happened and, as the hawk flew off, a lovely little skylark emerged from the drum and quietly flitted away, seemingly unpeturbed by it's brush with death. Grazed by the arrow of a hawk...they say that an accipiter's brain can perceive time more slowly, that it can plan it's incredible moves in detail, rather like a program to predict and compensate for the inherent instability of a fighter jet. It saw that lark, did a hawk-type risk assessment in split seconds and plotted a course through the steel spiders of the Drumhouse. It only made a tiny error, and caught me so gently as it flew down. One way or another- that was a close shave.
2 Comments
Caley thistle
26/9/2019 08:18:15 pm
Lovely story I can totally relate to , reminds me of many years ago we were on islay and went exploring an old mine , I just bowled straight into one of the old cottages, and literally came face to face with a barn owl, don’t know who was more scared me or the owl , for that split second we made direct eye contact I let out a scream ran out backwards and the owl flew over my head , absolute beautiful creature and a privilege to have seen one so close , although I doubt the owl would agree
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Iain
27/9/2019 12:59:23 pm
Thanks Caley, yes, it is wonderful when you have an encounter with the raw side of wildlife...I can imagine seeing that owl must have been quite a shock- your response was appropriate! We had one come out of an adit at us in Cwm Pennant, for a moment I felt that it was a ghost. Beautiful creatures, owls.Very pleased that you enjoyed the post, thanks for your comment :-)
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