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I would like to see every school take its pupils, for one afternoon a
week, to run wild in the woods. But there is a major hindrance: not
enough woods. Many urban children live so far from the nearest
woodland that this simple venture would entail a major expedition.
Could every new housing development include some self-willed land
in which children can freely play?
Even beyond the cities, in many parts of the world the woods have
been erased. But now that farming, in the absence of subsidies, has
become unviable in certain places, we could be about to witness the
reversal of some of the enclosures which have excluded children and
adults, and the wildlife in which we once exulted.
I recognize that there are conflicts here, that the vision I have begun
to adumbrate in this topic collides with other people's visions. The
details differ in every nation, but the story is more or less the same:
forms of farming or fishing or forestry which suppress the natural
world are seen by those who pursue them as essential to maintaining
the economy, culture and traditions of their communities. I have seen
such struggles ignite loggers and fisherfolk in Canada, farmers in Nor-
way, whalers in Japan. The conflicts are real and cannot be lightly
dismissed. What I am about to describe is particular to Wales, but in
essence almost universal. It is a clash between the valid concerns of
those who now own or use the land and the valid concerns of those
who would like to re-engage with it, but currently find no purchase
there.
St David's Day.
Dydd Gwˆ yl Dewi
. The buds of the sallows were about
to break. The silk straining at the bracts was stretched so fine that
they gleamed like beads of mercury. The twigs of the birches had
turned mauve as the sap rose into them. Daffodils had risen from the
ground on the verges, and now their pregnant buds swayed on stiff
stems as the lorries swept past. Otherwise, from the road, there was
no sign that spring was soon to break out of winter's prison. The pas-
tures still slumbered in their hibernal colours, yellow and tan. Last
year's bracken, now a deep, snow-trampled russet, clung to the moun-
tains. The higher peaks - Cadair Idris, Aran Fawddwy, Tarren
Hendre - were still dressed in skewbald motley: the dead grass
appeared browner and darker beside the patches of glaring white.
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