As the summer wore on, there was lots to see and do in Hay-on-Wye.
One Sunday afternoon, I went for a walk up in the region of the Black Mountains, and near to Hay Bluff, with a group of people I’d recently met. It was a beautiful piece of countryside: expanses of fields and hills, subdivided like a quilted blanket
and decorated with sheep
and the occasional wild horse
hand glider (sorry, gentle reader, I didn’t get the shot for that one) and kite enthusiast.
Our able guide told us that the mountains were called the Black Mountains because they actually looked black, depending on where the sunlight hit them from. I guess this is an example of what she meant:
Now, even though the Welsh countryside had its own peculiar brand of beauty, it still in many ways reminded me of Jamaica. Sometimes I closed all else out and imagined I was in Jamaica just to see if the similarity was real, and it was.
And even though the actual flora in Wales was somewhat different from that in Jamaica, I reminisced about Jamaica as we waded through sections of hillside that swallowed us in bushes up to and past our waists. It reminded me specifically of the time when I was perhaps about nine years old and my Aunty Jean and some of the other adults in our family were going to the field to do some work one day. I remembered my Aunty Jean giving me a piggy back as we trekked along a narrow, hilly, bushy track just like the one below. But if I remember correctly, it was prickly, pineapple plants that surrounded us on either side; and maybe my Aunty Jean didn’t want me to get scratched legs by wading through them myself.
I reckon we walked several miles that Sunday afternoon in Hay.
And I daresay that all of us, including the dog, who incidentally is related to George, the Labrador, enjoyed it thoroughly.
There were many more walking routes in Wales and it would perhaps take me a month of Sundays to do them all. But for now, I can say I went to Hay Bluff-the famous Hay Bluff-well almost-and for now, that’s more than good enough.