Winter Sacrifice

It’s too cold to snow. Well, that’s what people say. People say all sorts of things, but I’m pretty sure it snows in Siberia. Maybe cold air is too dry or something, but I doubt that has ever been an issue in Wales.

The climb is tough. I expected it to be. Strictly speaking it’s a walk, not a climb, and a hill, not a mountain, but these things are relative. I used to come here all the time, sometimes every day, but my health has declined over the last few years with a resultant increase in girth. Yet, I am determined. Today, the solstice, will be a new beginning.

There is a peculiar winter freshness to the hillside. Leaving the compact frozen earth of the carpark, I join the trail which ascends to the fort. Thin sunlight brushes my skin with thrilling tingles, through air cold enough to slice nostrils like a razor. I am thankful for my boots, bought two decades ago from a soldier who had been issued the wrong kit, while stationed in Iraq. There has been no rain, yet the trail is ploughed into troughs of frozen mud with cracking ice puddles, straggling clumps of brown bracken and stubborn gorse, crisply frosted in a heavy dew that never dispersed.

The frigid earth crunches and crumbles, as I lean into hiking poles which, to any observer, might seem incongruous in the hands of a fat, sweat-drenched, red-faced old man; but, for now, the hill is mine alone. The sharp scent of gorse, battles with an earthy composting stench, muted by the icy breeze. The base of the hill is a corridor of rowan, sagging under the weight of bright winter berries, and skeletal silver birch. As I break cover, already breathing hard, I enter another world.

Beyond the sanctuary of the trees, wind easily sweeps away the warmth of the sun. Fine mist settles in the basin, not yet dense enough to obscure the motley muddle of meadows and scrappy bare hedgerows, which encircle the riverbanks and glittering gems of distant windows.

The enclosures may be new, but this land was pasture long before the first rocks were dragged to the summit above. The twin monuments of Y Garn Goch serve as both witness and gateway to an unimaginably ancient world, atop the Red Cairn. The hill is reputedly named for the blood spilled by Romans, a blood that still speaks from the ice-age boulders, where I rest to snatch breath from the frozen fingers of the wind. Three of these boulders are positioned and hewn to form benches, boldly chiselled in Welsh and, with macabre irony, English and Latin: ‘WITHIN THE SAFETY OF THE HILLS’.

Breath duly caught, I resign myself to the throbbing pain already gnawing my chest and knees and resume the climb to Y Gaer Fach on the first peak above. The trail lies open for this stretch, bordered by pale marsh grass, large clumps of withered bracken, and patches of rusty heather. This view of the valley floor is breath-taking, the sun still high enough to transform the river to a gargantuan gun-metal slow-worm, slinking lazily between the road and train tracks. The cool, powder blue sky is broken only by a few oily clouds, frothing gently over the horizon.

The wind falls to a respectful breeze as I near the Little Fort, as though I’ve climbed above its domain. My raking breath breaks a perfect silence, briefly joined, in fluted greeting, by a solitary skylark, who, heralding my arrival, disappears over the brow to Y Gaer Fawr. At the first walls of its smaller sibling, the Large Fort remains hidden from view.

From the path, the Little Fort could be mistaken for a natural scattering of glacial rocks, but an adventurer, bold enough to brave the tangled undergrowth and tumbling sandstone, is rewarded with the shadow of a structure, long ago trampled by unforgiving Roman boots. Today, however, my quest lies at the farther peak, in the expansive majesty of Y Gaer Fawr itself.

Clinging to the trail, I come at last to the crumbling remains of treacherous icy steps and haul myself to the brow, peering down into the saddle of the hill. Beyond the basin lies a yet more arduous climb to the expansive shattered wall atop the final peak.

I expected howling, life-sapping winds, but now, at the most exposed point, the air is deathly still. Though the warmth has drained from the fleeing sun, the sheer stasis of the moment supplies such ambience that neither cold nor heat holds meaning. This equilibrium provides a sharp contrast to the cutting pain that accompanies each precious gulp of air, as I battle the demands of giddy peripheral darkness for immediate rest and hydration. I smile grimly, holding close to my chest a trump card: knowledge of the restorative sanctuary below.

It would be a mistake to rest at the summit and forsake the gratifying contrast of descent. The trail presents an easy slope down, through broad meadows of sparkling frosted marsh grass and blasted bracken. Everywhere, straggling green life reclaims powdery mounds where ants have abandoned nests, mirroring the ruined nests of humanity above. So, fighting to stabilise my breathing, I press reluctant legs to their punishing duty, promising proper respite at the place where I had tearfully accepted Wales as my home.

-

To the right of the path, on the level floor of the saddle, stands a solitary stunted oak. Though less than four metres tall, his gnarled trunk and mossy branches, still clinging to the last reluctant acorns, stand sentinel at the gate of a people lost to history. Crouching low, he braces against the exposure of his post. Watchful, at the foot of the main fort, he seemingly emerges directly from ancient, lichen-dappled building stones, leaning toward the stricken walls of the lesser fort, arms outstretched.

At the base of the tree lie broken, moss-covered, slabs, offering passable seating; solid and permanent, in defiance of the sapping villainy of burrowing mammals, whose tunnels snake beneath the earth like secret routes to the Underworld. It is here that I finally slump, wheezing, lips tingling, fierce drums of torrential blood pounding my ears. Fire tears through every sinew and joint, and the air feels like clay, offering but a sip of oxygen for each rib-cracking gasp. I unscrew the water flask with trembling hands and fill my mouth, swallowing fast to catch the next breath. Through all the pain, the sheer visceral delight of this fey sanctum fills me with satisfaction.

Leaning back, the broad branches reach out and over me, in a protective embrace. The oak’s majesty belies his stature. Split brown acorns nestle cosily in the crunchy mossy grass around my scuffed boots. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that these may be the boots of a dead man.

The sun now rests on the hump of the lesser fort, the early valley sunset spreading baby-pink wings across the misty horizon. Dusk arrives here long before it reaches the flatlands, starving the hills of what may be a spectacular sunset below. I hope to view it from the final peak, but there is no moving forward until my body consents. Ribbed watercolour clouds condense in the smooth blue sky, even as I watch, framing the pink haze. Night approaches quietly from behind the ledge, a slate grey stain relentlessly inching forward overhead. Now that my breathing is under control, the stillness is broken only by the quiet whispering of marsh grass, or the almost imperceptible tussle of leaves, as air gently shifts.

No birds in the sky, no sign of burrowers, not even an insect, and no people. There is nothing but the stricken remains of Y Gaer Fach, its fractured rocks scattered like a frozen avalanche from the jagged stone teeth at the brow, bearing silent witness to the nameless Neolithic builders, who erected high stone walls centuries before the arrival of the Celts.

A sun, too young to set, huddles, embraced by ruins, casting long golden shadows, like fingers toward the summit. I watch for a while as a distant aeroplane, the last sign of the world below, adds its trail to the clouds and silently follows the sun out of view. Though shadows recede, it will not be dark for some time. I take another sip of water, enjoying the limbo of silent stillness, letting it fill me, until pain joins the shadows in the slippery realm of memory, leaving me weightless and free.

It is in this ghostly twilight that I first see her. She appears unexpectedly from my left, where the hill falls away in what would be an easier ascent, were there any trail through the undergrowth and rubble. She seems unconcerned with these obstacles, picking her way through waist-high grass, as though she knows every rock and pitfall. She’s young, not much more than a girl. Despite the cold, she wears a sleeveless patchwork shift, clearly homemade, in a barrage of clashing russet, dark green, yellow, and burgundy hues. Perhaps she hails from one of the many traveller camps or communes drawn to the wild west of Wales. At her hip she carries a large woven wicker basket in the shape of a horn. Her hair is long, dark, and wild. Bluish tattoos adorn both arms, and numerous bangles clink in time with her step.

As she approaches, I see bunches of garlic mustard and cleavers fill the basket. She is slim, athletic, and deeply tanned. Squatting beneath the tree, ashamed of my obesity, I wish I were invisible, but she will see me as she passes.

Not wishing to startle her, I call out in re-assuring singsong, “Good evening!”

She looks, sees me, hesitates. She does not reply.

Feeling silly in the face of her watchful silence, I try again: “Noswaith dda!”

Without a word, she hurries past, her piercing stare never faltering, expertly dodging gorse and mounds. She stares straight through me. I am embarrassed. I avert my eyes, but hers pin me down. I shift uncomfortably, feeling ungainly and out of place. I am sweating, face burning red.

Then she is gone, toward the summit. Inexplicably guilty, I want to go home, but my body disagrees. I am unable to stand. The shroud of night has crept forward while my eyes were on the floor. Everything is much darker now. No moon, no stars, no relief as the last of the greying light lingers in the encroaching cloud, leaving me in deep shadow. I try to rise again, but my legs won’t co-operate. If I don’t move soon, I’ll struggle to navigate the icy path, whether onward or back to the carpark. My phone has a torch, but little charge. I had planned to make the summit before nightfall, using the last of the power to light my descent.

Then I hear them. Whispering. Shifting in the long grass. They can’t imagine that I can’t hear them. It is a language I don’t know. Not Welsh, more lilting. They are all around me. At first, I am frightened, then confused. The whispers become murmurs. They are beckoning me, I realise. I understand; somehow, I know the words. Like remembering something long forgotten.

‘Come with us. Be like us. Follow us.’

I can see them now. Tall muscular shapes in the shadows. Their hair and beards white, shaggy, spiked. Dark skin tattooed in spirals, reflecting a gossamer sheen in the dying light. There is no threat. We are sisters and brothers. We turn and walk back to the path. I no longer feel heavy. There is no more pain.

As we climb the steep trail, I see the tall walls above, the wide welcoming gates. No fort, but a temple. Snow begins to fall, in spectral waves, dusting the path to cover our tracks. I watch, hypnotised, as the hillside comes alive under its crisp glaze. The sacrifice is accepted. The lumpen carcass will lay at the alter for five sunsets, to feed the eagles. And we shall thrive, within the safety of the hills, evermore.

-x-