Breakfast is a quiet affair in our house, newspapers, correspondence and a bottomless pot of coffee, Today, however was different. Just as we prepared to broach the coffeepot, a bright yellow digger came.
Snowdonia is craggy. Immense boulders left by vast melting ice floes strew hillsides, scattered higgledy-piggledy or levered into place. Some form rough chambers with two standing parallel and one as capstone, thought to be burial mounds or monuments to the sun or moon. No one knows for sure except they are vestiges of ancient times.
One boulder lay half buried in a forgotten corner of the garden. The huge lump of its back intrigued and fed fleeting dreams of buried treasure or that our house was once a sacred site, and dwarfed our paltry attempts to dislodge it with a garden fork
A local builder of high repute oversaw the operation as the skilful driver first dislodged and then rolled the mammoth to rest flat in the middle of the lawn.
Alas no treasure or sign that it once was holy but it remains a huge talking point.