It wasn't really a night for walking, but walking we went; up to the Stiperstones and on to one of the settlements made and deserted by c19th miners, The Paddock. There's little to see there now of course - nature is quick to reclaim its own. Vestigial stonework, the lumps and bumps that once were cottages and walls, the fruit trees and the lane which led to work and chapel - all greened over now with grass and moss and lichen.
It takes a triumph of imagination to whistle up the beating hearts, the lives and loves of the people who made this place their own. Can I, in my mind's eye imagine the house cow tethered in the corner, the pigs, the fowl - and the days like this when the weather was down and the chimney smoked and whatever was wet would refuse to dry? I try.
And the ponies? They may or may not have been real, appearing as they did out of the mist-muffled hillside to stand and gaze and graze. For all I know they may have dissolved as I walked by. The Stiperstones is that sort of place.