Delicious summer drizzle, rabbits on misty fields, heady perfumed flowers, a bounty of birds and the worlds best highland cow…
Tuesday 16th June 2026
Walk start time: 9.01am
Walk finish time: 10.29am
Walk area: Graig mountain footpaths
Miles walked: 2.9
The canopy folds around me, the waters of Nant Gelliwion rush down the gully beside me, and the damp air is full of the intoxicating scents of summer.
My walk has started with a fragment of woodland path that runs beside the river, offering a greener shortcut to the streets of the Graig.
Under the grey skies, the deep green leaves of the mature trees create a darkened refuge, tumbles of buttercups and wood avens lining the pathside, and the steady thunder of the river beside me feels like a call to arms to to be outside in the humid summer air.
(I dwelt more in this mini woodland escape in my last summer walking diary – Stolen streamside solace)
I exit this first powerful punch of nature to traverse a handful of steep and narrow streets before arriving at an apparent dead end, and the gateway to a house.
Here lies one well concealed entrance to the mountain paths, and I tread confidently through the house’s gates and neat cobbled driveway to meet the narrow path beyond.
The floral honeyed scent of summer…
As I step into the long grass lined banks, the dense birdsong beckons me forward through an overgrown ascent, to reach a wider, more open pathway.
Just before I reach it, my senses are suddenly consumed by a wonderful aroma. Dense and sweet, rich and floral, the spreading fronds of a large honeysuckle bush are heady and delicious.
I stop to photograph them, to drink in the intoxicating scent, and stand for several moments with my head amongst the dew covered blooms.
As I walk, melodic bird songs echo across the open landscape, changing volume and direction across the pathway minute by minute. A wren and blackcap vy for my attention in avian surround sound.
Beside the path, amongst straggling dry stone walls and young birch trees, foxgloves are dotted periodically, neat and bold. A small open heath section displays rich varieties of seeding grasses, the fiery oranges of fox and cubs sprinkled haphazardly between them.
On the main path, the landscape opens beside me, far reaching views over the town and misty hills beyond. A welcome drizzle begins to feather my skin with miniscule droplets – it feels welcome and wonderfully cooling under densely humid and overcast skies.
We tend to castigate grey skies for their effects on our mood, but there would be no delight in sunshine without them.
As well as this, I think – as I observe the shapes and silhouettes of the trees lining the path – sometimes grey skies can have their own kind of luminosity.
Subtle fragmented changes, darker and lighter shades and corners over the earth – they render nature in a higher – more atmospheric contrast.
( For a sunny summer walk, covering different ground on this mountain see – Hidden Pools in the land of lost treasure)
Fledgling trees in a woodland takeover…
On the path along the mountain’s edge, a single young oak tree has chosen the middle of the track to make its home.
We think of new trees and new woodland as bringing new life, hope, and oxygen to the earth – and they undoubtedly do.
But locals here have told me with great fondness of being able to wander the numerous fields and heaths across the mountain tops of the Graig, roaming more freely over open land which is now forested, picking the numerous whinberries that grow in late summer.
I have learnt that the incredibly biodiverse habitat of Rhondda Cynon Taff, left untouched, would be entirely taken over by woodland in years to come, and that management of woods and forestry is a necessary part of protecting our landscape, to allow other habitats and their species to thrive also.
I step carefully around the young tree nonetheless...I can’t help wishing it well.
A rose by any other name…
As the mountain curves at its promontory into the town, the path descends to the high streets of Treforest. I am about to exit the path through a kissing gate when I am enveloped again by a wave of scent.
A glance to my left reveals a wildly abundant rose, a musk rose I believe, white flowers strewn artlessly through dense banks of foliage.
The smell is exquisite – dense and rich – a warm floral wave that feels like an exotic Arabian night.
As I stop to admire its blooms I am drawn most particularly to the layered view it creates. The opulent wildness of the rose against the deep greens of the oak tree behind it, and the misty mountains just visible beyond.
Sometimes standing in a particular spot feels transformative – the exact layers and combinations of nature’s beauty in a complex and ever changing mosaic.
As I walk through the drizzly streets of Treforest, the air is still and humid, but the fine rain continues to cool my face, and I am almost immediately drawn in by another contrast which inexplicably pleases my eye.
The black silhouette of a bird shaped roof top ornament- its sharp sculptured form emphasising the soft mistiness of the green hills beyond.
I ascend the side streets of Treforest, noticing the Welsh poppies sprouting from the verges, admiring the colourful bursts of flowers in front gardens.
Just before I reach the entrance to the next mountain path, a cheerful burst of white flowers peeks out at me from the side of a back lane.
From a distance they look a bit like ox-eye daisies, but they are much too small. My plant app tells me they are the vibrant blooms of feverfew – a plant used medicinally for centuries – as a painkiller for migraines, and to ward off colds and fevers.
Hopping bottoms in an idyllic field…
I turn onto one of my favourite stretches of path, a narrow cobbled lane accessing a couple of more remote and very prettily located cottages.
The lane is bordered by a dry stone wall, beyond which are revealed wonderful views out over the valley and hills beyond.
Today the scene is even more enticing for being hazy – enigmatic clouds that can’t quite decide what they’re up to – and slow moving mists edging the landscape in magic.
As I survey the wild looking tussocky fields, a movement catches my eye, and a rabbit’s bum disappears into the greenery just a few metres from where I am standing.
Feeling thrilled at the sight, I edge closer to the wall to peer at the field, and keep watching. Eventually, I spot another, further into the field, sitting in the centre of a circle of grass hillocks, like a mini rabbit Stonehenge.
I can’t tell if it is looking at me, but it stays very still, pretending to be a grass tussock, until it gets bored and begins hopping around again.
A little way off, closer to the wall, I spot another, busily hopping from one spot to the next, and it raises up on its back legs, ears straight in the air, as if trying to adopt the most rabbity posture it can think of.
They are too far away for me to photograph clearly, but I have a go, and I feel so incredibly grateful to have seen them today.
The song of the willow warbler…
As I pass the last house, the path narrows to a track, and descends sharply into a stream valley under cover of trees.
There is a pleasing crunch of dry twigs under my feet as the light drops under the dense canopy, and I arrive at a kissing gate beside a small stream.
I stop here to listen. The stream is a busy delicious bubble, soporifically calm, and the smell of the damp earth is fresh and pungent in the dimmer light.
Around me, a cacophony of birdsong, among the robins, thrushes, blackbirds and blackcaps, the songs of a gold crest and a willow warbler.
The willow warbler is a beautiful little bird, and I am particularly pleased to hear its song. We once discovered a nest in the long grasses at the end of our allotment, and a very careful peek revealed a tiny clutch of eggs no bigger than mini eggs.
The nest was thereafter left entirely alone for the season, but after the chicks had fledged we were able to retrieve and handle it – a teeny but clevery threaded circle of woven grasses, small enough to fit easily in my children’s palms. A wondrous thing.
Wet trousers, and my favourite highland cows…
From the streamside, I take the path leading off to the right, a narrow track that wends through a natural gully. The banks of deep greenery on either side act as a noise barrier, and the only sounds around me are the birdsong, the soft crunch of my feet, and the gentle trickle of water.
As I reach the stretch that leads up to the main mountain track, (which about six weeks ago had lovely open hillside views), I realise that summer has got away from me, and my track is progressively disappearing amongst a thicket of dense ferns.
Although the last section looks as though it should be almost impassable, fortunately, the brambles are few and far between, it is mainly dew covered soft ferns, well over the height of my head.
They soak my thin trousers completely as I make my way through, but it feels refreshing in the humid air, so I choose to treat it as a gentle fern brushing spa experience.
All around me is damp and lush and verdant, and just before I reach the main pathway, the ever mesmerising sight of beads of dew on an intricately laced web.
I reach the main track back to the edge of the Graig feeling damp but elated.
The sky ahead offers pockets of light amidst the grey and I am happy to see that my favourite girls, Florence and Pansy are in residence in the sloping field beside the path.
Florence offers me her wonderfully enormous head, I imagine, hoping for some food, but receives a brave scruffle on the nose instead, whilst regarding me suspiciously.
They are the icing on a magnificent gateau of a walk – a nature filled, glorious, grey summer day…
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