Matt

Walks

A waterfall called Sgwd-yr-Eira, The Falling of the Snow, makes a white curtain as it plunges into a pool below

We tread carefully along the rock-cut path, our faces misted with spray and our voices raised against the white noise of the plunging water. This is what we’ve come to see, this is Sgwd-yr-Eira – the Falling of the Snow.

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It was an adventure I’d dreamed about since a childhood bedtime story – an adventure that spanned 14 years, starting in Minehead when I was a teenager and finishing in Poole as I was about to become a parent.

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Two distant figures walk up a snow covered hill through sparse woodland.

Another snowfall. Peering through the window into the early-morning gloom we could see a deep covering in the street outside. The hill beyond was obscured by cloud but we knew straight away that we wanted to go up there.

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The silhouette of an adult, a child and a dog on a lead walking on the canal towpath underneath a road bridge.

Keen to escape rural mud after a wet winter, we caught the train into Birmingham for an urban wander and, for one of us, an unscheduled swim.

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A chocolate Labrador sits, tongue hanging out, by a wooden signpost marking the source of the River Severn.

Every winter, I climb the hill behind our house to see the extent of the flooding in the vale below. It’s hard to believe this immense volume of water starts its journey in a muddy puddle on a Welsh hillside.

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