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Preseli's Prehistoric Paradise

So, to Pembrokeshire. But not just any part of this beautiful Welsh county; we were staying in the shadow of the fabled Preseli Hills. How thrilling! Our base was in Newport, seven miles up the road from the vivacious ferry terminal of Fishguard. Therefore, we were in the happy position of being bounded by the Irish Sea on one side, and the towering bulk of Carn Ingli on the other. The translation of 'Carn Ingli' is literally 'The Mountain of Angels', after the Celtic St. Brynach experienced visions and conversations with angels there. This extinct volcano, sporting a huge and wonderful craggy outcrop, is home to an Iron Age hillfort, and various settlements and enclosures. Not only that, the *entire* Preseli Hills are confettied with all manner of standing stones and sprinkled liberally with burial chambers, but strangely, have only one stone circle remaining.

Carn Ingli's vast slopes lead down to the broad, volcanic beach of Newport Sands, and the winding estuary created by the Afon Nyfer. Walking through this idyllic megalithic homeland, it's only natural that one's thoughts turn to Salisbury Plain and Stonehenge. Could ancient engineers have guided trimarans carrying bluestones destined for that distant temple along the Nyfer's deep water channels? Whether they did or not doesn't really matter; just walking the line of the estuary and trying to visualise such an event makes one marvel. How I wish I could've seen it done. Well, if this isn't enough to have you licking your lips and ordering Country Cottage holiday catalogues by the score (book early to avoid disappointment), then it falls to me to tell you that Newport also boasts its very own cromlech within the town – the enchanting, and beautifully maintained, Carreg Coetan Arthur.

This exquisite little dolmen sits within its own enclosure; truly a construction imbued with faerie magick . . . words really aren't enough. The mellow Andy and I visited on a sunny afternoon, the first high shadows creeping across the capstone. We wandered around and discussed Neolithic engineering techniques, working out the most economical way of erecting the very large capstone. Andy favoured the A-frame technique, and I tried to visualise large teams of people playing tug-of-war with lengths of rope and a stubborn boulder. This was made slightly difficult by the incongruous housing estate now covering what had presumably been the prehistoric building site. After an interesting discussion, we retired to the beer garden of the Gwesty'r Castell for an hour so, and then I returned with the cameras. (This involved being wolf-whistled at by a bunch of girls outside the Golden Lion Hotel, who clearly thought I looked very epic in my walking boots, army strides, check shirt, shades, and huge rucksack; but this was soon followed by embarrassed laughter. Heigh-ho, their loss).

By now, dappled light from the holly and ash trees at the rear of the cromlech was falling over the capstone, and the birds were singing vociferously. I shot a fair few photos, met a very interesting couple called Marcus and Stephanie (what stories they told me – nothing to do with megalithing, but extraordinarily compelling all the same. No, honestly, I can't say any more), then sat on a very comfortable stone by the dolmen's uprights, and gazed towards Carn Ingli. Swifts chased each other through the air, chaffinches sang, and the peace was sublime. This place is a rare treat. Later in the week, I visited it for a third time, again with Andy and my fabulous mother, who was very impressed with it indeed.


The Preseli Hills are so densely covered by megalithic structures that it is highly unlikely that you would get then all covered in a week. Well, unless you are a particularly hardened form of megarak, able to draw up a visitation route of military precision and timing. Unfortunately, that wouldn't leave enough time to be able to enjoy each one's unique vibe, so it's probably advisable to plan several easy-paced trips over a few summers. However, the delightful Jane, her wonderful son Rupert, and I all went on a jaunt to some of the less dramatic sites on a rather overcast and chilly morning.

We drove up out of Newport, round the northern side of Carn Ingli, its barren slopes in dramatic contrast to the burgeoning vegetation below. All around, the trees were a riotous pallet of greens, and the hedgerows were exploding with wild flowers. There were drifts of foaming cow parsley; thrusting spears of red valerian; tumbling jewels of red and white campion, interspersed with the last of green alkanet's tiny blue flowers; delicate fronds of burgundy sorrel; early unfurling bracken; the occasional mouse-ear hawkweed dotting the grassy banks with yellow; and a very few magnificent purple foxgloves. And the bluebells! I've never seen so many great swathes of bluebells in my life before; how deliciously pretty they were.

We rattled through this floral magnificence until we reached our first destination, a cattle grid denoting the beginning of some bleak moorland at Tafarn y Bwlch. Disembarking from the car, the wind fairly whipped around, and the chill factor was obvious. I was just very pleased to be wearing my new bush hat, which went a long way to keeping me toasty warm. After mooching along the farm track for a bit, we could see the first of our objectives, a pair of leaning stones.

By now, we were well into open country, the moor and the sheep sweeping away from us. This not only gave the stones an air of bleak romantic solitude, it also gave Rupert a miserable time in the relentless freezing wind. After enthusiastically taking some photos of the stones with the pattern of linking pebbles someone had placed at their bases, I suddenly remembered I had a useful stripy blanket in my rucksack. "How do you fancy an Iron Age cloak?" I asked Rupe, folding it appropriately and throwing it round his shoulders. He still looked chilled to the marrow, and my hat was getting in the way, so I dropped it on his head with a flourish. Strangely, he didn't look so much Iron Age, but more like 'A Fistful of Dollars' meets 'Raphael's Angels'.

Pushing on, we followed the sheep tracks - "Follow the sheep tracks, Rupert, and you'll avoid the marshy ground – they know because they live here," said Jane, striking out purposefully – and continued along to a single standing stone. This one was absolutely magic, and Jane and I both immediately and independently christened her 'The Lady of the Lake'. In fact, it would appear she's really known as the Waun Mawn Stone.

The most gorgeous female lithic form stood before us in a small body of water that virtually surrounded her base, save for a short, narrow causeway in front of her. The shape of the deep puddle instantly reminded me of the moat at the foot of Silbury Hill. Next to her, a clump of tall, strong marsh grass was reflected in the wind-ruffled surface of the water. This stone inspires reverence. It was so easy to slip into memories of the Arthurian legend of the Lady of the Lake, and even easier to see how this type of landscape could give birth to such a notion. It was there, and it was real. Somehow. I felt an urge to visit Bodmin Moor.

The wonderful Rupert was now really beginning to feel the cold, however, so he and Jane returned to the car, leaving me to photograph this marvellous stone. All above me, skylarks were singing, despite the wind and the low, racing clouds, and I felt myself becoming more and more enraptured and ensnared by this amazing menhir. Eventually, I had to very unwillingly drag myself away, and return to the others in the car. I have to say, this one's a corker.

After a few hasty notes in the car, and respite from the wind, we barrelled over the other side of the Preseli Hills to the next two remote stones. Climbing up the B4329 as it headed south, we were treated to the most breathtaking sweep of mountain and moorland; a vast, broad expanse of rust coloured hillside, traversing the landscape for miles into dense grey clouds that met the horizon. Simply awe-inspiring, and desperately romantic. Cresting the hill, we were lucky enough to see a beautiful buzzard perched on a fence post six feet from us; startled, she flew off, but the delightful Jane followed her slowly in the car, and we got a very good look at an impressive bird of prey.

It wasn't long before we were trolling up and down a deserted high-backed country lane, a short way from a farm, trying to find the next stone on our list. We didn't find the first one immediately, so moved on to number two, Maen-y-Parc 'A'. Rupert and I left Jane to hop into a field full of sheep to visit a stone which I could just see poking up if I stood on the gate. Prior to leaping the gate, Jane said she was going to trespass.

"What's trespass?" asked Rupert.

As I was explaining this element of law to him, the distinct sound of hooves suddenly approached us. 'Oh dear,' I thought, as an attractive coffee-and-cream-coloured horse came into view, ridden by a woman who appeared to know the area jolly well. Horse and rider slowed as they approached us, and we got the once over. I tried to look nonchalant, leaning on the gate wearing my bush hat to hide my eyes, hoping she'd ride on, and willing Jane back so we could move off. I didn't really fancy a bollocking from a farmer's wife.

"Hello!" said this very hale and hearty woman, who looked like she could knock out a mean jam sponge as well as control a lusty thoroughbred. "Are you lost?"

I decided honesty was the best policy. "Er, no, we're actually hunting megalithic stones . . . my friend's just looking at one in that field . . . we're a bit odd like that . . . " I tried one of my semi-dazzling smiles, and pointedly rustled the OS Explorer OL35 I had in my hand.

She smiled back. "Oh, well, if it's stones you're after, you want to go up this road here . . ."

Leaning down from the saddle, she showed me a route up to Carn Menyn, if memory serves me correctly. "There's a stone circle up there and everything, but whether it's Neolithic or not, I don't know" she continued, as I made friends with the horse, stroking its velvety muzzle. We chatted for a bit longer, before she rode off, wishing us luck. Two seconds later, Jane came running guiltily back, and vaulted over the gate.

"Phew, got that one, just ran up and took a few shots, didn't want to hang about," she said, scrambling into the car. Rupert and I grinned at each other.

Still, we were very near to Maen-y-Parc 'B' and 'C', and so we decided to have another crack at finding them. After some pacing about with the map in the deserted high-banked country lane, I finally spotted the top of a stone hiding under a hawthorn bush, and practically built into the bank.

"Here, Rupe, if I give you a bunk-up, can you see what that stone looks like?"

"Yeah!" said Rupe, fancying a scramble up the bank. (Key element of any megarak's kit: one small boy with a willingness to try stupid things). Rupert scampered along the six-foot high bank, and peered into the field.

"Yeah, it's a stone!"

"Is it as tall as you? " I asked.

"Maybe," came the reply.

By now, we were joined by Jane and her camera. "I'm getting up there for a look," she said, grinning naughtily.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," I replied, thinking of crushed alkanet and campion, but more importantly, destroyed and eroded banking. Didn't like to tell her at the time, but Jane is considerably heavier than her son. Not that it made any difference, as my words reached her while she crawled along a foot above me. 'Oh bugger,' I thought. 'Suppose I better have a look'.

I scrambled up, and peered through the rusty barbed wire. It was quite a handsome stone, about six feet tall, patterned with lichens and moss, and very snug under its hawthorn bush. A nice juxtaposition, actually.

So it was all three of us were balancing precariously on a foot wide bank, Jane taking pictures of Rupert and me pointing at the stone and grinning maniacally. I just prayed a tractor didn't coming bowling round the corner, or for that matter, the woman on the horse. Don't think she'd've been terribly impressed. It was probably at this moment in time I realised I had gained entry to the World of Anoraks . . .

After sliding down the bank, we carried on to Tre-Fach Standing Stone, which stands in a field, looking out towards Carn Ingli. I wasn't as taken with this one, having been spoilt by the Waun Mawn Stone. Nonetheless, the views it commanded were very impressive.

A light drizzle started, but we decided to press on and try and squeeze in the unique site of Cerrig y Gof before we were due home. This place is in a field next to the very fast A487 Fishguard-Cardigan drag. (Be warned, the locals drive like Colin McRae). The delightful Jane was eventually able to park up next to a small bridge in a rut, and we nipped across the road into the field. It really started raining then, but this did not diminish the beautiful view. Cerrig y Gof looks across to the dramatic cliff faces of Dinas Island, and the Irish sea.

This is a very unusual monument, as all of its chambers look outwards in a five-pointed star pattern. I wondered if it had been originally designed that way, or had been yanked about by various folk in the recent past. It's a pretty large structure, and becoming fairly overgrown with brambles and wild flowers. I liked it very much, especially the view from one of the chambers through to Dinas Head. I would have liked to spent more time here, but the persistent rain and the need for tea prevented this. Never mind.

Later that day, our whole party - the charming Cloudhigh; delectable JP; mellow Andy; delightful Jane; wonderful Rupert; gorgeous Cleo, and I – all headed off to Cardigan and Poppit Sands. On the way, we stopped to see the hillfort of Castell Pen yr Allt.

After negotiating the best access to it with a farmer who was fixing a large agricultural implement (and who also kept glancing at me askance, whilst offering disconcerting smiles, according to Andy – I said he was probably thinking not only was I a voluptuous handful, more importantly, I was clearly strong, as I was carrying a very large and heavy rucksack. Farmers like that in a woman, I gather), we were allowed "over the gate into the field where that sheep is lying, there."

"Thank you very much," we said, and set off "round the buildings". After tramping across one field, we reached the gate, and instantly discovered that the sheep shared their field with at least 15 very inquisitive bullocks. The bullocks also decide to share the gate with us. Nonetheless, after some delicate manoeuvring over what was clearly a poorly maintained and rickety gate, we shooed the bullocks away, and set off for the hillfort. Andy wisely elected to stay in the other field, and moved out of sight of the bullocks, who were now pushing at the gate in their enthusiasm to watch him.

The hill fort was quite small, with a good proportion of earthwork still visible, but it was hard to appreciate how big it had originally been, as the farmer had told us part of it had been bulldozed in the '50's. Splendid. Not. What was dramatic, however, was its southern side. This was an incredibly steep drop into a deep little gorge, which is presently filled with oak-based deciduous woodland. It was an ideal spot from which to observe the surrounding area, and if necessary, repel invaders. Now, it was an ideal spot just to stand still, look at the flowers, and listen to the concert of rich bird song. I could hear all the usual songbirds, so, joined by the charming Cloudhigh and delectable JP, we stood and listened, and I tried to identify each different species of bird. Then JP noticed a very dead-looking sheep by the fence, so after a short examination of it, he and Cloudhigh moved on round the earthwork. I remained there mesmerised by the sounds around me, however, while the others in our party headed back over the field. Just as well I did, as I was lucky enough to see my first Goldcrest, albeit fleetingly. Wicked!

I returned to the gate, to find everyone the other side, and a dense wall of Welsh beef between me and them. This proved interesting, as I didn't know quite how I'd get past without being stood on, or covered in bovine mucus, something I have a particular distaste for – can't imagine why. I decided to take the 'I'm in charge' approach, and marched solidly up the field, while staring heartlessly and meanly at one bullock from under the brim of my hat. The bullock stared back resolutely for a bit, but when I was within ten feet of it, it suddenly turned chicken, went "Yikes!", and galloped off, spooking the others and causing a mini stampede. I had a clear exit over the gate, and no mucus. Lovely. That ended the day's megalithing, and we went to Cardigan for lunch at a greasy spoon, and an afternoon on the sands. (Beneath another hillfort, actually).


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A few days later, my fabulous mother had joined us (unfortunately, my enchanting sister was unable to do so), and she and Jane and I went out for a brief megalith one evening. We had very good light as we drove over the Preselis (again, along the B4329, with it's dramatic view, just as lovely in the sunshine), and to Gors Fawr, the only stone circle in the area. This small and discreet circle isn't obvious from the road, primarily due to the proliferation of gorse bushes surrounding it, lovely as they are in their golden splendour at this time of year.

Nonetheless, after a short walk along the footpath, we could see the short, dumpy stones appear. It's a pleasant enough circle, but again, what was so dramatic was its location. The broad moorland spread before us for some distance, and then suddenly swept up to become Mynydd Bach – truly impressive. I tried to visualise what the view must have looked like when the circle was constructed, but feel that the barren slopes we see today offer more drama and sobriety. By now, the clouds were building, and the sun was playing hide-and-seek with me, providing even more dramatic shadow when it appeared. I'm not sure if I got the shot I wanted, despite being there for some time.

By the time we returned to the car, the clouds had stacked up considerably, and we changed our plans to try and take in Pentre Ifan before the light went totally. We failed. By the time we got there, all the modelling light had gone, and a thin veil of haze began to fill the valley. This, however, didn't detract from the stunning location of this huge monument. It's not just Pentre Ifan itself – that's just part of it. The rest is the utterly amazing view it commands over a gorgeous valley. To be honest, the view really did more for me than the dolmen itself. Granted, the dolmen is a phenomenal piece of engineering, but there's something about this place that needs it to be viewed as a whole. The sense of calmness was palpable, and there was a strange cathedral-like quality to the structure. In fact, a few days later, I was reading up on it in a useful little book called 'Prehistoric Preseli' by N.P. Figgis (Atelier Productions, ISBN 1 899793 06 2, £8.99 from all local bookshops). This absorbing and highly informative tome shows a useful diagram/picture of a possible interpretation of what the structure would have looked like in its hey-day. Cathedralesque would be about the ticket. After reading that, you start thinking about its choice of location and placement, and begin imagining what it would have looked like in situ. Totally awe-inspiring. I'm definitely becoming more interested in the beliefs and engineering of these places, almost over the stones themselves, and would dearly like to be able to travel back 7,000 years to find out more . . .

I crawled about in the freshly-strimmed grass, and took some pictures, but fear that the lack of light will not imbue these shots with the required drama. Heigh-ho. :o(

My final megalithic experience of this trip was the compelling Carreg Samson, which for some reason, I felt was very important to visit before we left. We did this via the nearby Llangloffan Cheese Farm. If you like cheese, this is the place for you. Oh yes. Might I recommend the 'Llangloffan Organic' as a thoroughly enjoyable graze, and the 'Graunston Mature' as something of a high-octane, skin melting, tiger-of-a-taste sensation? Mind you, you wouldn't want to kiss anyone after a mouthful of this, not unless they'd been at it also . . . scrum-diddly-umptious.

Then it was off to Carreg Samson in what was already becoming boiling hot weather. If you think Cerrig y Gof enjoys a good view, it's only experiencing a reasonable peek compared to Carreg Samson. This big baby stands in a cow field with the most inspiring view over the Pembrokeshire coastal cliffs and the Irish Sea, which was blue and lovely on this particular morning, despite the heat haze. Carreg Samson is huge, solid and doughty, and appropriately named.

Interestingly, it is also constructed from two different types of stone, the best ones being a conglomeration of lumpy rock, huge seams of rose quartz, amber quartzite, and dollops of black flint that look like cow poo, but happily are not. Something about the texture of all this reminded me of my grandmother's suet puddings; but I'm pleased to inform you all she never loaded hers with amber quartzite, preferring instead the tameness of currants.

I spent a considerable time photographing this from every conceivable angle, and also felt very at home when sat under the vast capstone. This is an extraordinarily good place to sit and reflect on life. Sadly, though, I didn't have all day, and all to soon, had to return to the car. But I love you, Carreg Samson!


[This is an account of what was probably in total, a solid day's worth of megalithing. Should you want to get a vast amount done in a week, I would recommend going solo, or with a very understanding partner/equally insane megarak. You will need a punishing schedule to get it all done in that time frame, but frankly, this would do the whole area a disservice, and it doesn't merit it – it's far too lovely. Plan for a small mixed bag of sites, and soak them up. Not only is Carreg Samson an extraordinarily good place to sit and reflect on life, the whole of the Preseli Hills will provided a monument for whatever mood you may be in, and I heartily recommend a visit as soon as humanly possible. You will not be disappointed.]

Mynydd Carningli — Fieldnotes

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I had wanted to climb this vast and imposing mountain during our holiday, but the road to relaxation is paved with good intentions (or something like that). Looking up at its towering bulk, and its relationship to the surrounding countryside, it's easy to see why the mantle of sacred hill would be bestowed on it, and probably a very long time before St. Brynach hove into view.

The translation of 'Carn Ingli' is literally 'The Mountain of Angels', after the Celtic St. Brynach experienced visions and conversations with angels there. This extinct volcano, sporting a huge and wonderful craggy outcrop, is home to an Iron Age hillfort, and various settlements and enclosures.

Carreg Coetan Arthur — Fieldnotes

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This exquisite little dolmen sits within its own enclosure; truly a construction imbued with faerie magick . . . words really aren't enough. The mellow Andy and I visited on a sunny afternoon, the first high shadows creeping across the capstone. . . dappled light from the holly and ash trees at the rear of the cromlech was falling over the capstone, and the birds were singing vociferously. I shot a fair few photos . . . then sat on a very comfortable stone by the dolmen's uprights, and gazed towards Carn Ingli. Swifts chased each other through the air, chaffinches sang, and the peace was sublime. This place is a rare treat. Later in the week, I visited it for a third time, again with Andy and my fabulous mother, who was very impressed with it indeed.

Tafarn y Bwlch — Fieldnotes

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We reached our first destination, a cattle grid denoting the beginning of some bleak moorland . . . disembarking from the car, the wind fairly whipped around, and the chill factor was obvious. I was just very pleased to be wearing my new bush hat, which went a long way to keeping me toasty warm. After mooching along the farm track for a bit, we could see the first of our objectives, a pair of leaning stones.

By now, we were well into open country, the moor and the sheep sweeping away from us. This not only gave the stones an air of bleak romantic solitude, it also gave Rupert a miserable time in the relentless freezing wind. After enthusiastically taking some photos of the stones with the pattern of linking pebbles someone had placed at their bases, I suddenly remembered I had a useful stripy blanket in my rucksack. "How do you fancy an Iron Age cloak?" I asked Rupe, folding it appropriately and throwing it round his shoulders. He still looked chilled to the marrow, and my hat was getting in the way, so I dropped it on his head with a flourish.

Strangely, he didn't look so much Iron Age, but more like 'A Fistful of Dollars' meets 'Raphael's Angels'.

Waun Mawn Stone — Fieldnotes

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This one was absolutely magic, and Jane and I both immediately and independently christened her 'The Lady of the Lake'. The most gorgeous female lithic form was standing before us in a small body of water that virtually surrounded her base, save for a short, narrow causeway in front of her. The shape of the deep puddle instantly reminded me of the moat at the foot of Silbury Hill. Next to her, a clump of tall, strong marsh grass was reflected in the wind-ruffled surface of the water. This stone inspires reverence. It was so easy to slip into memories of the Arthurian legend of the Lady of the Lake, and even easier to see how this type of landscape could give birth to such a notion. It was there, and it was real. Somehow. I felt an urge to visit Bodmin Moor.

All above me, skylarks were singing, despite the wind and the low, racing clouds, and I felt myself becoming more and more enraptured and ensnared by this amazing menhir. Eventually, I had to very unwillingly drag myself away, and return to the others in the car. I have to say, this one's a corker.

Maen-y-Parc 'A' — Fieldnotes

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As Jane says, there is no public access to this stone, but that didn't prevent her leaping over the gate, leaving me to deal with anyone passing who might want to know what we were up to. Like the lady on the attractive horse, for example...

Maen-y-Parc 'B' and 'C' — Fieldnotes

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After some pacing about with the map in the deserted high-banked country lane, I finally spotted the top of a stone hiding under a hawthorn bush, and practically built into the bank. "Here, Rupe, if I give you a bunk-up, can you see what that stone looks like?" (Key element of any megarak's kit: one small boy with a willingness to try stupid things). Rupert scampered along the six-foot high bank, and peered into the field.

Jane and I scrambled up after him, and peered through the rusty barbed wire. It was quite a handsome stone, about six feet tall, patterned with lichens and moss, and very snug under its hawthorn bush. A nice juxtaposition, actually.

So it was all three of us were balancing precariously on a foot wide bank, Jane taking pictures of Rupert and me pointing at the stone and grinning maniacally. I just prayed a tractor didn't coming bowling round the corner, or for that matter, the woman on the horse. Don't think she'd have been terribly impressed. It was probably at this moment in time I realised I had gained entry to the World of Anoraks . . .

Tre-Fach Standing Stone — Fieldnotes

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In a field a short way from the road, overlooking Carn Ingli. I wasn't as taken with this one, having been spoilt by the Waun Mawn Stone. Nonetheless, the views it commanded were very impressive.

Cerrig y Gof — Fieldnotes

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This place is in a field next to the very fast A487 Fishguard-Cardigan drag. (Be warned, the locals drive like Colin McRae). The delightful Jane was eventually able to park up next to a small bridge in a rut, and we nipped across the road into the field. It really started raining then, but this did not diminish the beautiful view. Cerrig y Gof looks across to the dramatic cliff faces of Dinas Island, and the Irish sea.

This is a very unusual monument, as all of its chambers look outwards in a five-pointed star pattern. I wondered if it had been originally designed that way, or had been yanked about by various folk in the recent past. It's a pretty large structure, and becoming fairly overgrown with brambles and wild flowers. I liked it very much, especially the view from one of the chambers through to Dinas Head. I would have liked to spent more time here, but the persistent rain and the need for tea prevented this. Never mind.

Castell Pen yr Allt — Fieldnotes

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After negotiating the best access to it with a lascivious farmer who was fixing a large agricultural implement. . . we were allowed "over the gate into the field where that sheep is lying, there." After tramping across one field, we reached the gate, and instantly discovered that the sheep shared their field with at least 15 very inquisitive bullocks. . .

The hill fort [is] quite small, with a good proportion of earthwork still visible, but it was hard to appreciate how big it had originally been, as the farmer had told us part of it had been bulldozed in the '50's. Splendid. Not.

What was dramatic, however, was its southern side. This was an incredibly steep drop into a deep little gorge, which is presently filled with oak-based deciduous woodland. It was an ideal spot from which to observe the surrounding area, and if necessary, repel invaders. Now, it was an ideal spot just to stand still, look at the flowers, and listen to the concert of rich bird song. I could hear all the usual songbirds, and remained there mesmerised as the others headed back over the field. Just as well I did, as I was lucky enough to see my first Goldcrest, albeit fleetingly. Wicked!

I returned to the gate, to find everyone the other side, and a dense wall of Welsh beef between me and them. To find out how I got back to write this fieldnote, check out the weblog . . .

Gors Fawr — Fieldnotes

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A few days later, my fabulous mother had joined us (unfortunately, my enchanting sister was unable to do so), and she and Jane and I went out for a brief megalith one evening. We had very good light as we drove over the Preselis (again, along the B4329, with it's dramatic view, just as lovely in the sunshine), and to Gors Fawr, the only stone circle in the area. This small and discreet circle isn't easily obvious from the road, primarily due to the proliferation of gorse bushes surrounding it, lovely as they are in their golden splendour at this time of year.

Nonetheless, after a short walk along the footpath, we could see the short, dumpy stones appear. It's a pleasant enough circle, but again, what was so dramatic was its location. The broad moorland spread before us for some distance, and then suddenly swept up to become Mynydd Bach – truly impressive. I tried to visualise what the view must have looked like when the circle was constructed, but feel that the barren slopes we see today offer more drama and sobriety. By now, the clouds were building, and the sun was playing hide-and-seek with me, providing even more dramatic shadow when it appeared. I'm not sure if I got the shot I wanted, despite being there for some time.

Pentre Ifan — Fieldnotes

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We changed our plans to try and take in Pentre Ifan before the light went totally. We failed. By the time we got there, all the modelling light had gone, and a thin veil of haze began to fill the valley. This, however, didn't detract from the stunning location of this huge monument. It's not just Pentre Ifan itself – that's just part of it. The rest is the utterly amazing view it commands over a gorgeous valley.

To be honest, the view really did more for me than the dolmen itself. Granted, the dolmen is a phenomenal piece of engineering, but there's something about this place that needs it to be viewed as a whole. The sense of calmness was palpable, and there was a strange cathedral-like quality to the structure. . . you start thinking about its choice of location and placement, and begin imagining what it would have looked like in situ. Totally awe-inspiring. I'm definitely becoming more interested in the beliefs and engineering of these places, almost over the stones themselves, and would dearly like to be able to travel back 7,000 years to find out more . . .

I crawled about in the freshly-strimmed grass, and took some pictures, but fear that the lack of light will not imbue these shots with the required drama. Heigh-ho. :o(

Carreg Samson — Fieldnotes

31.08.03ce
If you think Cerrig y Gof enjoys a good view, it's only experiencing a reasonable peek compared to Carreg Samson. This big baby stands in a cow field with the most inspiring view over the Pembrokeshire coastal cliffs and the Irish Sea, which was blue and lovely on this particular morning, despite the heat haze.

Carreg Samson is huge, solid and doughty, and appropriately named. Interestingly, it is also constructed from two different types of stone, the best ones being a conglomeration of lumpy stone, huge seams of rose quartz, amber quartzite, and dollops of black flint that look like cow poo, but happily are not. Something about the texture of all this reminds me of my grandmother's suet puddings; but I'm pleased to inform you all she never loaded hers with amber quartzite, preferring instead the tameness of currants.

I spent a considerable time photographing this from every conceivable angle, and also felt very at home when sat under the vast capstone. This is an extraordinarily good place to sit and reflect on life. Sadly, though, I didn't have all day, and all to soon, had to return to the car. But I love you, Carreg Samson!
treaclechops Posted by treaclechops
4th September 2003ce
Edited 3rd December 2004ce


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