It was high time for a walk if only to take a break from the manuscript.
The usual linear walk over the top to the nearest town often reveals something new, no matter how often we walk it, trees ravaged by high winds, mountain springs swollen to torrents.
We stopped to gaze on a high hill pass, Bwlch y Rhiwgyr, (Drovers’ Pass), anticipating the view which on a clear day takes in the Mawddach Estuary and the Lleyn Peninsular and were seduced by the sight of a flock of sheep safely grazing a field of winter fodder – turnips I guess, but mangel-wurzel sounds better. The sheep were too busy to notice us as we ploughed on through.
A crossway of paths leading to and from a pre-historic trio of standing stones known as Arthur’s Quoits had been carefully delineated by the sower of the turnips and stood out green and clear, tapering to a distant point.
What also become clear was a way forward with the novel, a story and set of characters that have hung about me for long years now, refusing either to go away or become clear. A character I have named Hennessy, whose face, as broad as a potato and round as a turnip drifted across the sky in cloud formation was the key.
Pretentious, but true.