A 250 Red Kite Midsummer's Day at Bwlch Nant yr Arian

Bwlch Nant Yr Arian would be worth visiting just for the name alone - the Gap or Mountain Pass of the Silver Stream. How gorgeous is that, and even better when you learn there were silver mines in the area in the 18th century. 

I'd come for the kites, though, and 250 is the number the information boards say you might expect to see at feeding time, but with no way of counting, there seemed to be hundreds more (though given we were there on Midsummer's Day and it was all a bit magical anyway, there's always a chance some passing Puck put flower juice in my eyes.) 

Here's the view from the cafe terrace of red kites, with a few gulls mixed in, waiting for feeding time.

We made our way down to the pond for a closer view. It felt like when I was a kid and we were waiting for the feeding of the sea lions at Bristol Zoo - only these kites are wild and free, so there was none of the captivity anxiety that hung about zoo visits even back then. 

The Northerner was rather more apprehensive about it than me. Unconvinced that kites mostly eat carrion, he was clutching the walking stick we keep in the back of the car, ready to beat any off bird that might try to make a meal of our (admittedly small) border collie.

Like the sheep nibbling obliviously on the hillsides, he needn't have worried. When the feeding started, it was performative. 

And yes, something must have happened to my eyes because they were filling up with tears at the seeing and hearing of such a spectacle, of birds that were all but extinct in these islands in the 19th and first half of the 20th century, and like the bewitched characters in A Midsummer Night's Dream, I'd fallen in love.  

I doubt I'll witness anything better than this for some time.

Midsummer on Kelston Roundhill

Even the most successful poets struggle to make a living out of their writing, at least not without supplementing their income in some way. But poetry does sometimes open doors to new experiences.

On Friday night it was a gate that had its rusted-up lock sawn off so that we could enter the copse on top of Kelston Roundhill for a bout of poetting and storytelling. And very special it was too.

We'd gathered a little over half way up the hill at the Old Barn, at the invitation of the current Bard of Bath, Conor Whelan. We were a bit early, having had an easy drive from Bristol through comparatively sparse traffic. 

We whiled away the time studying the views and trying to get our bearings, while fielding calls from less fortunate friends who'd trusted to their sat navs and were now having to reverse down narrow and awkwardly cambered lanes. 

There but for the grace of all Sun Gods everywhere, thought I, having a swig of red wine. 

Eventually everyone arrived and we headed up the remainder of the hill. 

No one can be sure of the historical significance of the hill. When the trees were planted at the end of the 18th century, it was claimed to be the site of a tumulus or barrow.  If so, any evidence would have been greatly disturbed by the planting. 

There are no springs up there, so no one would have lived there, but it would have made an excellent lookout. 

It's been suggested that there might even have been a temple up there. (Perhaps like the one on Brent Knoll?) 

Notions of spirituality soon gave way to wheezing and puffing. Rather foolishly, we'd allowed the Bard to lead the way, and he was a lot younger than many of us. 

Looking north-west to the Severn and Wales beyond

He was still apparently heading in the wrong direction when we reached the top, parched and gasping for breath.

Round the other side of the hill, there was an impressive view of Bath, to the south and east. A hot air balloon drifted over from the direction of Bristol. 

After a little fiddling with the gate, the bard led us into the middle of the copse.

It was all a bit exciting and magical. You wouldn't have been that surprised to bump into Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth and Mustardseed. 

And then it was time for poems and stories, which is when the enchantment really started.

By and by, the sun began to set, and it grew chilly for those who'd come without the benefit of a jacket or a bardic cloak. 

Just time to hear from the farmer who'd worked on the land all his life, and who read a poem he'd written about the Old Barn - how it had fallen into disrepair as the land use had changed from cultivation to pasture, and then found a new lease of life as a meeting place. 

Then it began to get a bit psychedelic, and we had to get back for the dog, so we picked our way down the hill in the last of the sunlight ...

... and home via the chipper in Cadbury Heath. 

Where The Wild Things Are

These are not just bluebells. They're Forest of Dean bluebells. 

But first the view from New Fancy viewpoint because the Northerner hasn't really got much idea of the size of the Forest, and I like the name New Fancy, and the viewpoint

used to be the spoilheap of the eponymous mine and mining is of especial interest to a Barnsley lad. 

Then on to Soudley Ponds, which might or might not be part of the Forest's industrial landscape, having perhaps been dug out in the 18th century to provide water for the furnaces in the valley ...

... or perhaps in the 19th to provide some decent fishing for the landowner. 

Maybe we should consult the Chronicles of Trees. 

Beyond the long necklace of ponds we were in Sutton Bottom and Wallsprings Wood and this was where the bluebells started in earnest. 

I have to say that they weren't quite as spectacular as they've been in previous years. I don't know if this is because it's a different part of the Forest and they are a little thinner on the ground here ... 

... or maybe the conditions haven't been quite as favourable ...  

... but actually, I much preferred not being overwhelmed by them. As for location, we couldn't have been in a better spot, as we had it entirely to ourselves. 

Well, maybe not entirely. I mean, you could easily imagine encountering Titania or Oberon or one of the star-crossed lovers here ... 

... or even Bottom. 

I actually did spot a mole dreaming butterfly dreams.

There's nowhere quite like the Forest. The Northerner was very taken with it. A brief reverie about winning the lottery and living there without having to commute in to work ensued. 

Back at Dean Heritage Centre, we finally came across a Wild Thing. Clearly, we decided, this is Where They Are.  Except it turned out to be a Gruffalo, which was after my children's time. 

In fact, there were quite a few sculptures dotted around the car park. 

This is my favourite - a miner rescuing another.