Despite the pale sunshine, the strong wind from the north brings with it a deep cold. Cramming my hat further down over my ears, I hurry across the exposed hilltop and seek the shelter of the woods above the Clarach Valley. Once within the trees, still bare and dormant apart from a scattering of catkins, the breeze eases – but newly fallen branches show the power of the winter gales that have scythed across this ridge. From the muted hues of the winter woodland, a few small hints of spring – snowdrops and primroses – are starting to emerge. Beside the path there is more activity: a fresh molehill, the earth still dark and moist. The firm crumb structure of this soil, rich from hundreds of years of leaf fall and the action of earthworms, would gain approval from those local gardeners whose own plots are heavy with clay and shale. As I move downhill, the clamour of the wind recedes until it is a remote murmur, like distant surf. The beech trees here are mature, with an understorey of holly hanging above the bed of leaf litter – from which the spikes of garlic flowers will soon emerge. Spindly beech saplings, their stems an inch or two across, reach towards the sky, waiting for a patch to open in the canopy and let them grow to replace fallen trees. Resting against a stone wall, I let the sounds of the woodland ease around me. In the new stillness, birdsong grows in prominence. Somewhere nearby several robins and a wren call sharply, while blackbirds flick dry leaves with remarkable noise. Across the path, a party of blue tits chase and bicker as they hunt for grubs and other morsels. High overhead, the harsh call of a rook adds a grating counterpoint. Some saplings still hold the dried leaves of last summer, which will only fall as the new leaf begins to emerge. Dry and brittle, they rattle together in the occasional gusts that reach the woodland floor, giving the impression of lightly falling rain. As I walk on across the hillside towards the coast path, I soon realise that this was not wholly an illusion.