Holy mountains are ten a penny in the “Celtic realms”, of course, but even among this plethora of landscape spirituality, Skirrid Fawr, at 1,594 feet, stands out, its great distinguishing landslip cleft clearly visible on its weather slope, gothically accentuated and strange.
I’d viewed it the previous evening, a blue peak with a rockfall on its western scarp. So I ambled towards it on a dank afternoon from the valley of the little Afon Troddi, along delightful paths enlivened now and again by statuesque bulls sporting great brass rings through their nostrils.
