Free Insufficiently Welsh by Griff Rhys Jones Page B

Wales. The whole place is essentially a medieval “panic room”, thanks to thick fortifying walls, turrets and sturdy gates, but quite a civilised one. “There are galleries, withdrawing rooms and ancient toilets inside,” I was told in advance, and I was looking forward to some respite from the dripping weather, except that, when I got there, I discovered that Weobley is a bit of a ruin that Owain Glynd w ˆ r knocked about a bit. It was roofless.
    The evening clouds had faded down the grey of the stone. A light drizzle was adding to the gloom. I pulled my coat around my neck and zipped it up tight. I wasn’t there for fancy interiors. My quest was out there – on the impressive salt flats, over which Weobley had such a commanding view and over which it might have fired the odd cannon from time to time. It was dusk and the tide was coming in. It was time for a daily mass migration.
    I was there to help, to safely gather in the sheep, and then maybe to eat one. There is of course a stereotype about Wales and sheep. It has to be admitted that there are three times as many sheep in Wales as people; nine million to three million. A thousand of this woolly majority were out on these flats. Salt marsh is a great inter-tidal resource. Fish breed there and wading birds nest there, but samphire, sorrel, sea lavender and thrift grow there too. Sheep that chomp on these strongly flavoured herbs of the marshes become flavoursome themselves.
    But where were they exactly then in the darkening twilight? I could see nothing.
    â€œOh, they’re off out there somewhere,” said Roland and we trudged down a muddy path to the flat lands below. He was pointing ahead to the glistening water. I could make out the odd sheep shape right out in the marshes.
    â€œSurely it’s a huge job to get them in?”
    Roland was unworried. It was routine. “No, no,” he said casually. “They’ll come when they see the Land Rover. They want to get to the grass, you understand.” He pointed behind me at the startlingly lurid pasture lying directly under the castle.
    His son, Will, was driving away from us, very slowly out along a causeway. At the absolute extremity of the rough track, he turned his distant vehicle and then came back at a creeping pace.
    The sheep were spread over three hundred acres of damp sludge and tough, juicy herbiage. Now that their secret call had come, they noisily began to clop in towards the central road. They had the distinctly uncertain and nervous manner that sheep maintain whenever they are not actively consuming. With a steady purpose and heads bowed, scattered groups were working their way from distant muddy outposts towards us.
    The dogs were there mainly to hassle the strays. They ran out to the extremities. Even though the Land Rover was still way behind, we could see the outriders of the leading mob of sheep coming clearly into view, making their way down to the single gate that led to their evening safety. Except that, about fifty yards away, they halted.
    â€œOh, they’ve seen us,” said Roland. “They won’t want to come through with us standing here.” But he didn’t move. We watched as the sheep became increasingly fretful. His dog made a wide encirclement to encourage them a little, but that just caused some to bolt to the side: scrambling away across the hundreds of acres of salty bog and disappearing into the drizzle again.
    â€œThey don’t like that you see,” Roland pointed at our camera team, “and the camera on legs in particular.”
    I was parading in a bright red jacket too. We were placed discreetly back from the road, or so we thought, but the herd stopped. The swivel eyes swivelled again and more ran off sideways.
    I might have expected Roland to become concerned, but he stood exactly where he was, calmly chatting on about sheep: how the herbs added flavour, how the speed of the tide could be very quick