There is a moment when the old oaks hold fast to winter. Their centuries taught them about betrayal: sunshine before the lash of hail whips round the hill; sweet birdsong stiff with frost, late snows and other silences. They are reluctant to unclench buds, hesitant to loosen pollen smoke. That day, when the vernal equinox tips into the light, and we wind clocks forwards to return a stolen hour; when timbers shiver with a pulse that opens up the leaves across the land; is that now?
Sycharth is a green ring in the valley a mile, as the crow flies, across the border into Montgomeryshire, Powys. It is a circular earthwork of a motte around the central mound of a bailey under a wooded hillside by the Cynllaith brook. On the ring are oaks and in the oaks are histories, and of those histories, the one about Owain Glyndŵr is the most famous.
