The River Wye in Winter
Striated snow is smeared across the hillsides in streaks of bright white over the dun fields of molinia grass bleached from off-green to washed-out beige at the end of winter.
The pale sunlight's almost bright reflected off the snow-fields on the mountain.
Grey water rushes briskly down the slopes and over the road in running sheets giving the tarmac a silvery sheen but otherwise transparent.
Bare trees of a twisted oak wood writhe out of the moss on a wet slope: remnant vegetation dreaming of a lost age.
Douglas fir and Norway spruce bristle in their plantations, confident denizens of the treescape, contemporary icons of the forest.
At the highest point it's bare and the snow thickens. The car's thermometer clicks down another degree.
We follow the streams off the heights down from here: Tarenig joining Wye and soon becoming a winding river.
The road through the gorge winding too, following the river's curves, determined by water.