Carl Hier’s Underneath The Arches

A river in it’s infancy is a young, agile, enthusiastic creature. An animated tentacle of water finding it’s way, tumbling over rounded stones and boulders, high in the hills. At times it rests, gliding slowly and calmly. Long pools allow a breath to be taken before gravity takes control and white water rushes and falls again and again. No lack of oxygen here.

The upper reaches of this river twist and sparkle energetically through a limestone gorge. Winding its way through woodland and meadow, it has the privilege of cascading under some iconic historical structures.

Pontsarn Viaduct was built in the 1860’s

Walking underneath the arches of Pontsarn viaduct opens up another world, where nature seemingly comes alive. Built entirely of limestone quarried nearby, the viaduct has seen many changes in it’s life. It opened in 1867, a year when the United States purchased Alaska from Russia and when Queen Victoria (in her thirtieth year of reign) and Napoleon III turned down plans for a channel tunnel. Steam trains hurtled over it’s seven arches. At it’s peak, the busy rail link saw twenty services a day gracing it’s spine, ultimately closing as a rail service in the 1960’s.
Today cyclists and ramblers are its beneficiaries, crossing at a height of ninety feet above the river. The arches of the Grade II listed construction still proudly dominate the river valley, its imposing structure casting shadows over a Pandora’s box of flora and fauna.

Twenty steam train services graced structure in the 1870’s

The sound of the river dominates. Birdsong provides the backing vocals. The absence of traffic noise enhances the sense of wilderness and calm. An ancient broadleaved woodland smothers the valley. Hawthorn, beech, alder, birch and oak trees provide a flourishing comfort blanket, protecting against outside influences.

I am exploring the Taf Fechan, one of two separate rivers that ultimately combine to become the River Taff. The seams, the runs, the creases, the glides all have a life of their own, glossy and leaf-dappled, burbling over gravel, gushing through narrow channels. Storms can change the character of the river. Make no mistake, this can be a raging torrent. There is visible evidence of the water’s potency. Years of powerful swirling whirlpools have eroded smooth spherical pockets out of it’s limestone bed. A skilled craftsman would be proud of such perfectly sculpted curves, smooth to the touch and pleasing to the eye.

Visible evidence of the waters potency

Leaves that have grown up together on the same branch, providing vital shade through the summer months, now spiral on the breeze together, landing softly on water that has that special lustre of a young river. Water not yet influenced, or indeed harmed, by man’s activities. Water so pure that clear views of the river bed are possible in pools that are five or six feet deep. Fallen trees occasionally bridge the watercourse, the victims of past storms that raised the river level, eroding their waterside foundations and dislodging their roots.

The surrounding woodland is home to a variety of birds. Tawny Owl, Buzzard, Woodpecker, Jay, Nuthatch, Treecreeper and closer to the river, Grey and Yellow Wagtail, are all comfortable here. The nearby grassland and heathland areas provide a habitat for butterflies such as Common Blue and Meadow Brown.

Autumn moves us to gun-metal skies and fewer daylight hours with lowering temperatures and yet it is an unseasonably mild day. Insects abound along the river, some taking one last dance above the water, soaring and tumbling in the fading light.

A small wild brown trout has the audacity to leap clear of the water. Perhaps it’s competing with an acrobatic Grey Wagtail for an air-borne meal? The bird wins the contest, smartly swooping to snatch the winged insect and landing on a nearby stone to enjoy and digest it’s prize.

The mild temperatures are most welcome but all creatures are well aware that colder days are ahead. Nature’s cupboard is becoming increasingly bare by the day, so it’s best to take advantage of these meals while they’re still available.

Fish are not stocked here. Any resident trout have worked hard to migrate miles up river, overcoming significant hurdles on their way. Although their more famous ‘silver-traveller’ relatives the Salmon are yet to reach these upper haunts, any trout here have accomplished a journey of bolder-strewn gorges, narrow falls of considerable height, with no easy option available. In doing so they have managed to avoid predators from water, air and land. After all, since being born in the river, they have been closely pursued by kingfisher, larger trout, heron, mink and of course, fishermen.

The young river continues to cut through a narrow limestone ravine

Dippers are prominent, well-established residents here, the river’s stone-laden bed providing them with a rich daily larder. Their bobbing heads and smart white bibs are unmistakeable against the autumnal backdrop, as I watch four consecutive birds dart downstream a few metres apart, in a regimented procession. A fly-past of military precision.

I sit quietly and after a while, one returns and settles a short distance away. I marvel at it’s endeavours. Undertaking multiple visits to the river bed in some sheltered water behind a large stone. The chosen venue seems to serve up a perfect buffet. Every time the bird emerges, a meal is visible in it’s beak, the diving technique perfected throughout it’s life is clearly now paying dividends. A veritable feast is enjoyed before the bird leaves, moving up-river, flying low over the water. I too continue my journey, walking a short distance away from the river itself but still following it’s course.

A startled heron lumbers into flight as I again approach the water. I pause quietly at the edge of a small, calm pool. I absorb the scene and listen intently. A compendium of sounds and a mosaic of colours bombard the senses. I can hear a buzzard overhead and peer through the canopy, visibility helped by the ever-dwindling number of leaves still holding station, for now. Despite minding its own business, the Buzzard is hassled by two crows. It continues to circle and glide effortlessly but eventually, and somewhat reluctantly, slowly flaps it’s wings to depart the scene. The crows drop down to the woods. I guess they were satisfied, at least in their eyes, that they had successfully seen off the ‘intruder’.
In the foreground, iridescent green moss-covered stones have to be negotiated to reach the shallow water’s edge. A variety of pale green, yellow and red leaves provide a vibrant scene on the opposite bank.

Pond skaters dart away as I step into the shallows of the pool. Under the water, small fry scatter as my feet disturb the bottom and create small plumes of vegetation particles and silt. Lifting stones in the margins reveals other-worldly communities, signalling a healthy eco system for all residents. Caddies fly larvae show-off their remarkable home-building skills. Shrimps scuttle away to hide again under their stone shelters. It is creatures like these that undoubtedly provide the daily diet of the flourishing Dippers.

As a young teenager I had stood at the edge of this very pool, learning to cast a fly for the first time. The trout were never large, but my crude, ramshackle attempts of self-tied imitations were no match for those cunning, wily, diminutive fish. It was a number of years before my fly-tying and casting skills were sufficiently honed to fool any of this river’s inhabitants. The learning process was, however, thoroughly engrossing and enjoyable. Those times will never be forgotten.

A river runs eternal

I stare intently into the crystal clear shallows. I still find it fascinating to explore underwater worlds to see what can be found. Ever since my first visits to ponds and rivers as a child, my interest has not diminished. A small net and a jar provided hours of entertainment. Great Crested Newts were the ultimate prize from ponds. On the river, Stone Loach and Bullheads (or Miller’s Thumbs) were regular companions fifty years ago, but they did not show themselves today. Perhaps next time?

On the short journey home I think of the Dipper, the Heron and the Wagtails. I hear the call of the Buzzard and smile at those nuisance crows. In my mind, I walk the riverbank again, somehow this time expecting to see something different around the next bend or above the next pool. The sights and sounds remain as vivid as when I stood at the water’s edge.

I have left the river, but the river hasn’t left me.

Writing & Images Carl Hier, Late Autumn 2022