In the silent light of night, beneath a shining moon and scattered stars, a rabbit grazes. Simple, soft, alive. Not a beast, not wild, but gentle—true. One moment of peace under the sky is more precious than a thousand lives spent disturbing others.
Better one day alive with dignity, harmony, humility—than years wasted in violence, greed, and deception. The world breaks when men forget this. When they justify the wrong, wear false crowns of power, worship chaos in the name of nation, god, or coin. Then the bad multiplies—like a virus. Bad makes bad.
But here, the rabbit eats grass. No war. No lies. Nature needs no excuse for its grace. And those who live like this—calm, conscious, thoughtful—are like stars in a clear sky. Beautiful mind, beautiful act. A man of peace, of virtue, of creativity, shines more than any moon or mountain.
The world hungers not for empires, but for dignity. For patience. For truth. Let the well-behaved, the kind-hearted, the creators—make this world again. For barbarian thought destroys, but the beautiful soul rebuilds.
In every quiet being—like this rabbit—there is a wisdom. Not loud, not cruel, just right. And that, not power, is what makes life sacred.
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Evening light differs From morning’s golden promise Both bless the same earth
Took this in the park in Cardiff
Here stands one man, silver threading his temples, morning mirror showing lines like rivers carved by time’s patient hand. Sixty-seven winters behind, maybe ten, maybe twenty summers ahead—who knows the counting of Creator’s mathematics? Still he wakes each dawn asking the great question: what purpose burns in these old bones?
Well man, good man, but world whispers confusion in his ears. Society machine tells him: retire, rest, fade into background like yesterday’s newspaper. But his soul—ah, his soul burns bright as noon sun, ideas flowing like spring rivers after winter’s breaking. Experience accumulates like treasures in deep caves of memory. Wisdom grows thick as ancient oak roots, spreading underground where no one sees but feeling everything.
This is the great paradox, the beautiful wrestling: body aging like autumn leaves, but mind expanding like universe itself. He knows things now—real things, true things. How love matters more than money-making. How kindness ripples through world like stones thrown in still water. How one well word can heal wounds deeper than doctor’s medicine.
Yet world-machine keeps grinding, making noise: “Too old, too late, step aside for young lions.” But well man knows secret truth—wisdom is not young thing, not hasty thing. Wisdom is patient fire, burning slow and steady, lighting paths for others walking in darkness.
Every morning he rises like warrior preparing for battle, not against enemies but against despair, against the small voice saying “finished, done, nothing left.” No! Life is great story still being written. Each day new page, new possibility for goodness to flow through willing vessel.
Well man at evening of life discovers morning never really ends—just changes color, becomes deeper, more beautiful. Like wine aging in cellar, growing richer, more complex, more valuable with time passing. His purpose not shrinking but concentrating, becoming pure essence of what matters most.
This is why every breath sacred, every heartbeat holy drum calling him forward. Not to great achievements world measures, but to small-great things: listening deeply to grandchild’s story, helping neighbor carry heavy burden, sharing hard-earned wisdom with anyone who stops to hear.
Well man, well life, well purpose—never too late for goodness to bloom, never too old for love to find new ways of flowing. Evening light different from morning light, but both beautiful, both necessary, both blessing from Creator’s generous hand.
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Not every summit must be reached to find meaning in the climb.
The Long Green Path
Imagine a place where time forgets to tick, where each breath feels like the first one ever drawn by the earth itself. This isn’t a fantasy—this is a glimpse into the sacred silence of an uncharted nature.
I’ve come to this valley often, though not always with my feet. Sometimes in dreams, sometimes in memory. Today, I sit with it in person—bones stiff, breath slow, heart quieter than it once was. Before me: hills that rise and fall like the decades behind me, green waves rolling into the mist. Beyond them, the snowcapped peaks—the place I always imagined I’d reach.
When I was a boy, those mountains were destiny. Pure, white, untouched. They looked like truth. I thought if I climbed far enough, lived right enough, worked hard enough—I’d stand on those peaks and see everything clearly. But life isn’t a straight climb. It’s a winding trail over hill after hill. Some were gentle. Others I barely crawled over. A few I never expected to survive.
Each hill behind me now carries a story. Some proud, others painful. Many I climbed with companions who are long gone. And still I moved forward, always believing the peak was just beyond the next rise.
But today, sitting here with knees too worn to carry me further, I understand something I didn’t before: those snow-covered heights weren’t a destination. They were a guide. A northern star to pull me onward. And maybe, just maybe, the journey was always the point.
The hills ahead are fewer now. Softer. Not less meaningful, just more peaceful. And I realize—though I may never stand atop the highest peak, I’ve walked far enough to see it clearly. Sometimes clarity doesn’t come from reaching the summit, but from understanding why you climbed in the first place.
The silence here is deep, but not empty. It speaks without words. And if you listen closely, it tells you: even the longest life is not about conquering, but about becoming.
I sit with the hills, and I sit with myself. Both of us older, weathered, beautiful in ways we never expected. The peak glows in the distance—not with regret, but with grace.
And that, perhaps, is enough.
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In this sweet season when the year unfolds its tender promise, when Nature, stirring from her wintry sleep, adorns the woodlands with her gentlest hues, I wander aimlessly along pathways where the bluebells keep their soft silent vigil.
How fair these azure bells that bow their heads in modest splendor! They carpet the ancient forest floor as a sea of heavenly blue, each delicate bloom trembling with the faintest breath of wind. Each one a miracle of divine craftsmanship yet humble in its transient glory.
I have looked upon the lapis gardens of noble estates and witnessed the ultramarine depths of mountain lakes, yet never do I find such perfection of shade as in these humble woodland flowers. They are not mere terrestrial blooms but seem messengers from the empyrean realm, bringing down to earth fragments of the firmamental blue that arches high above our temporal dwelling. Their celestial tint speaks to something eternal in the human breast—a recognition of beauty that transcends our brief existence.
And there in the shadowed wood, the beech trees offer up their fresh young leaves, translucent as finest parchment when held against the vernal sun. How tender is their green! How perfect each unfolding leaf, emerging from its winter bud with a slow and patient certainty that speaks of quiet confidence in renewal. These infant leaves, untouched by summer’s hardening rays or autumn’s gilding hand, possess a purity of essence that stirs within the contemplative mind a sense of wonder at creation’s ceaseless cycle.
What blessed communion exists between the bluebell’s heaven-reflecting hue and the beech leaf’s innocent green! Together they form a harmony that no earthly musician could compose, a visual poetry that transcends the feeble efforts of human verse. In their glowing presence, my soul, so often clouded by the vapors of worldly care, finds refreshment and illumination, as if some divine voice speaks through these simple woodland treasures, reminding me of truths profound yet easily forgotten in the tumult of our busy days.
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In the distance, beneath a sky so dark it seemed to swallow thought itself, stood the lone structure — a barn, perhaps, or some forgotten monument to a purpose no longer remembered. It was painted in an orange hue so violently alive that it seemed not to belong in the world at all. It was as if it had been dropped there by mistake — by a careless god or an exhausted architect of realities.
The field stretched endlessly, yellow and unyielding, like a dream that refuses to end. You could walk toward that building forever and never arrive, each step echoing the quiet futility of your journey. And yet, something in its starkness beckoned, the way a memory calls without context — not with clarity, but with gravity.
You might say the barn was waiting to be judged, silent and complicit, holding secrets behind its small black door. Perhaps the occupant inside was neither farmer nor fugitive, but a bureaucrat of dreams, tirelessly cataloguing every lost thought you’ve ever had, every version of yourself that you abandoned in moments of doubt.
Or, on the other hand, you could insist that inside there is a jazz record playing in an empty room. A cat stares at the wall. The air smells faintly of tangerines. And somewhere beneath the floorboards, time folds inward like origami, repeating the same quiet collapse over and over again.
In this image, the world does not end. It simply pauses — just long enough for you to realize it has always been quietly impossible.
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Behind falls I stand, curtain of light, rushing sound, moment lost in time.
Henrhyd Waterfall, the tallest waterfall in South Wales, is a stunning hidden gem in the Brecon Beacons. Tucked away in a lush wooded valley, it takes a short but steep walk to reach—but the effort is well worth it. The 90-foot cascade is especially impressive after heavy rain, creating a powerful curtain of water that you can even walk behind. The surrounding area, part of the National Trust’s Nant Llech nature reserve, adds to the secluded and peaceful feel. Whether you’re visiting for photography, a scenic walk, or just to enjoy the natural beauty, Henrhyd Waterfall is a must-see spot.
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The blue boat sits alone, Quiet on the glassy sea, No ripples, just the tone Of stillness setting free.
Taken at Fishguard quay
In the city, Isabelle’s palette was dictated by quarterly reports. Her canvases were billboards, her medium, marketing slogans. She painted desires, not dreams. Once, art had been her sanctuary, a place where she could lose herself in colour and form, but now it was a transaction—each brushstroke carefully calculated for maximum impact. The aggressive red of SALE, the sterile blue of TRUST, the shimmering gold of LUXURY—they weren’t colours, they were commands.
Her studio, a pristine white cube perched above a canyon of concrete and steel, was as lifeless as the work she produced. Outside, the city pulsed with a restless urgency, but inside, she sat staring at her latest commission, feeling nothing. Had it always been like this? Had she always felt this hollow? She couldn’t remember the last time she painted something just because she wanted to.
When she first saw the cottage in the online listing, it was nothing more than a blurry thumbnail, yet something about it stopped her scrolling. It wasn’t charming in the way holiday rentals usually were. The walls leaned slightly, weather-beaten and unapologetic. The loch behind it stretched out into the mist, quiet, infinite. It was not picturesque, but it was still. And suddenly, stillness was all she wanted.
The journey there felt like shedding a second skin. As the train rattled away from the city, the skyline fading into the distance, something inside her loosened, though she wasn’t sure what. At first, she kept reaching for her phone—out of habit more than anything—but the further she got from mobile towers, the quieter her mind became. It wasn’t just the absence of notifications, emails, deadlines. It was a deeper silence, like a pond settling after a stone has been thrown in.
The cottage smelled of damp wood and time. It creaked when she walked through it, like an old thing waking up. There was no WiFi, no signal. Just the steady lap of the loch against the shore, the whispering reeds, the occasional call of a distant bird. At first, the quiet unnerved her. She found herself pacing, feeling the itch of a life spent in perpetual motion. Her mind kept trying to measure productivity, to assign value to this pause. What are you doing? Wasting time? What if they forget you? What if you come back and there’s nothing left?
On the third day, restless and aimless, she wandered down to the shore, her boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. The loch stretched out before her, a perfect mirror of the grey sky. And there, in the shallow water, rocked a small blue boat. Faded, chipped at the edges, the kind of blue that had been softened by years of wind and rain. Something about it pulled at her. It wasn’t just a boat. It was a contrast—a quiet rebellion against the greyness of everything around it.
She crouched by the water’s edge, picking up a smooth grey stone and rolling it between her fingers. She thought of the screens she used to touch every day, the digital world she had lived in. The cool weight of the stone was real, solid in a way the city never was.
The next morning, she woke to the sound of rain, soft and insistent against the slate roof. She stood by the window, watching the loch blur and ripple under the downpour. The blue boat rocked gently, unfazed. It was such a small thing, and yet she couldn’t look away. The colours before her weren’t the ones she used in the city—no neon, no artificial sheen. Just deep, shifting greys, softened greens, the quiet persistence of the blue.
She picked up a brush without thinking. Not the sleek, expensive sable she used for client work, but a worn-out one she found in a drawer. There was no canvas, so she used a piece of driftwood. She didn’t try to replicate the scene exactly. Instead, she let the colours guide her, pulling from something deeper than observation—something she had ignored for too long. The grey of the sky bled into the grey of her exhaustion. The green of the hills became a longing for something real. The blue of the boat—steady, resilient—was a hope she hadn’t known she still carried.
When she stepped back, her breath caught. It wasn’t a masterpiece. It was raw, uneven, imperfect. But it was hers. A tear slid down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away. It wasn’t sadness. It was something closer to relief.
Not all days were easy. Some mornings she stared at a blank page for hours, frustration gnawing at her ribs. Some nights, the city’s voice whispered in her ear, reminding her of deadlines and expectations, of the career she was leaving behind. What if you never make it back? What if this is a mistake?
But then there were moments—standing by the loch, feeling the wind in her hair, watching the way light changed the water—that made it clear she was exactly where she needed to be.
Her work began to shift. She stopped thinking about what people wanted and started painting what she felt. She no longer cared about marketability. She cared about honesty. The colours on her brush became softer, more grounded, pulled from the land around her rather than the demands of a client brief. She painted the hush of the loch at dawn, the weight of the rain-heavy clouds, the steadfast blue of the little boat that never drifted too far.
She wasn’t painting products anymore. She was painting silence. She was painting solitude. She was painting her way back to herself.
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The chieftain has spoken. A great tomb must be built—one that will stand for generations, a place where the spirits of our ancestors may rest in peace. I, Caradoc, have been chosen to oversee the task. It is an honor, but also a burden. The stones are vast, heavier than any man should be able to move. How can we, with mere hands and ropes, shape such a monument?
I wish the fair folk would aid us. The elders say the Tylwyth Teg, the fairies of the hills, move stones with ease, whispering to them in a tongue only the earth understands. If only they would come to our aid, lift these great rocks into place, and spare us the toil ahead. But the fair folk are fickle, appearing only when they choose. We must struggle on without them.
Day 5 – The Stones Resist Us
The men are weary. We have stripped the strongest oaks to make rollers, twisted the toughest hides into ropes. Yet the stones barely shift. The great capstone, the largest of them all, refuses to move. It is as if the land itself grips it, unwilling to let it rise.
The night is cold, the wind howling over the hills. I swear I hear laughter in the dark, soft voices on the wind. The fair folk are watching. Do they mock us, or do they test our resolve? If they wished, they could lift the stones as if they were feathers. Yet they remain silent, unseen, leaving the burden to us.
Day 12 – The Earth Swallows Our Efforts
The rains have come, turning our labor into a futile struggle. The earth drinks the water greedily, turning to mud, swallowing our stones and filling the pits we have dug. We lose men to exhaustion, to wounds from failing ropes and shifting rock. The tomb fights us at every step.
At dusk, I leave an offering—honey, fresh milk, and bread—on the highest stone, a gift for the Tylwyth Teg. If they have any mercy, if they still care for the deeds of men, let them aid us now.
Day 20 – A Change in Fortune
Something is different. The rains have ceased, the ground has hardened. The men move with renewed strength. Today, we raised the last of the uprights, the stones sliding into place as if the earth finally allows it. Perhaps our offerings have been accepted, or perhaps the fair folk simply tired of watching us struggle.
Tonight, as the fire crackles, I hear the faintest laughter again, carried on the wind. A whisper, almost playful. Did they push the stones when we were not looking? Or did they merely lift our spirits, lending us unseen strength? I do not know. But I feel their presence all the same.
Day 25 – The Final Stone
The capstone rests upon its pillars at last. A gateway between worlds, standing as it should. The tomb is complete. The men cheer, but I say nothing. In the silence of the evening, I sense something beyond us, something watching.
Perhaps it was never just our strength that built this place. Perhaps, when we were at our weakest, unseen hands helped us. Or perhaps the fair folk simply wished to remind us—magic is not only in the whispers of the wind, but in the determination of men who dare to move the unmovable.
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A lone traveler stands beneath the towering yew tree in the churchyard of Nevern, Pembrokeshire. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and resin, and the soft hush of wind through the branches is the only sound. A second figure stands beside them, clothed in a long woolen cloak, feet calloused from the road, eyes bright with devotion. Though centuries separate them, they see the same sacred place, feel the same weight of history pressing on their shoulders.
“Do you see?” The medieval pilgrim gestures toward the Bleeding Yew, the deep red sap weeping from its bark. “They say it bleeds for justice, and it will not stop until the world is fair.” Their voice is heavy with belief.
The modern visitor runs a hand over the rough bark, watching the slow seep of crimson. “I’ve read about it—some say it’s just a natural phenomenon, something about the tree’s resin reacting to wounds. But still… standing here, it feels like more than that.” They hesitate, then add, “Maybe it does bleed for something. Maybe it always will.”
The pilgrim nods, satisfied. “Come. There is more to take in.”
Me and the great Celtic cross
Together, they walk toward the Great Celtic Cross, its weathered stone rising 13 feet defiantly into the sky. The pilgrim reaches out, tracing the loops and knots carved into its surface. “This is eternity,” they murmur. “No beginning, no end. Just faith, winding on forever.”
The visitor studies the carvings, fingers brushing lightly over the stone. “It’s amazing. To think of the hands that made this, how many people must have stood before it, just like we are now. Even after all this time, it still stands.”
“As it should,” the pilgrim replies. “A signpost for those on the road to St David’s. A beacon for the weary pilgrim.”
Just outside the church. The Vitalianus Stone, carved into a pillar in Ogham and Latin the words “VITALIANI EMERTO” suggests the resting place of an important man named Vitaliani. The two languages hint at ancient connections between pagans and Christians. Its inscriptions whispering secrets from the past that we may never understand. The pilgrim kneels before it, tracing the letters. “He was a leader once, a man of faith and strength. His name endures in stone, even as his body has long turned to dust.”
The visitor leans in, examining the Latin and Ogham script. “It’s strange. We carve our names into things, thinking it will make us last forever. But in the end, it’s the stories that survive, not the physical marks.”
The pilgrim smiles. “You understand.”
Inside the church, cool air wraps around them, thick with the scent of wax and old stone. On one of the windowsills, they see the Megalocnus Stone, where the marks of the older tongue carve deep into the rock. Megalocnus is referenced as far back as the sixth century, affirming the stone’s age. The visitor shakes their head in wonder. “This writing—Ogham—it’s like the language of the land itself, growing up from the stone.”
The pilgrim rests a hand against it. “We mark the world, and the world marks us.”
On another windowsill, they find the Pilgrim’s Cross, shallowly etched into the stone. The modern visitor touches the carving, feeling its rough edges. “So many hands must have traced this over the years.”
“I made my own mark,” the pilgrim admits, voice quiet. “And those after me, and those after them. We all do. All hoping to pass through life, to the next, peacefully.”
They pause before the Norman-era Rood Screen, its carved wood forming a delicate boundary between the sacred and the earthly. The visitor runs their hand along its surface. “It’s so intricate. So much work must have gone into this.”
“Devotion is in the small detail as well as the bigger view,” the pilgrim replies. “In all things, we find the divine.”
At the 700 year old Medieval Baptismal Font, the pilgrim dips their fingers, letting the cool water trickle over their skin. “A new beginning,” they whisper.
The visitor hesitates, then does the same. The water is cold against their fingertips, sending a shiver through them. “Some things never change,” they murmur.
Outside, the old Sundial catches the last light of the afternoon. The visitor laughs softly. “Hundreds of years ago, someone stood right here, checking the time by the same sun we’re looking at now.”
The pilgrim nods. “And after another thousand, others will do the same.”
A short walk uphill leads them to the second Pilgrim’s Cross, carved deep into the rock behind the church. The view stretches below them, the land rolling away toward the river. The pilgrim kneels, bowing their head in prayer.
The visitor stands in silence, breathing in the crisp air. “It must have been hard,” they say at last. “Walking so far, carrying all your hopes with you.”
The pilgrim exhales, voice full of quiet conviction. “Hope is never a burden. It is the reason we walk.”
As they walk toward the ruins of Nevern Castle, the shadows grow long. The stones stand witness to battles and prayers lingering in the air.
“Time is strange here,” the visitor muses. “It doesn’t feel like it’s passing. It just… is.”
The pilgrim smiles. “At Nevern, time doesn’t pass—it pools around your feet.”
The modern traveller, now seeped in the church’s history, looking down to their feet, feels a pull to join the age-old pilgrimage. Looking up, they see the ancient pilgrim is making their way–fading into the distance. “God bless!”
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The Brecon Beacons loomed in the distance, their snow-capped peaks smudged by a veil of mist. I snapped a picture from the base, and the image felt as though I was staring at an unattainable dream—a far-off cathedral built for gods, not mortals like me.
Brecon Beacons January 2025
The peaks seemed untouchable, enshrined in a kind of holy fog, as if they were hiding some secret I wasn’t meant to know. But what else could I do? I tightened my laces and started walking.
The trail began innocently enough, a gradual incline, a whisper of mud clinging to my boots, and the wind humming a tune, as if to say ‘this place is not for you’. Step by step, the Beacons grew taller and stranger. The snowline hovered above me like an unspoken threat, a reminder that everything good in life comes with its sharp edges and cold hands. I wondered if I’d even make it. I wondered now why I’d started at all.
Somewhere just below the snowline, I stopped to catch my breath. That’s when I saw it. A deer. Small, delicate, its legs like question marks frozen in mid-thought. It stared at me for a moment, eyes wide, then leapt away into the trees, vanishing like a memory you can’t quite hold onto. I watched the spot where it disappeared, as if waiting for it to come back and explain itself. But it didn’t. And why should it? Some things are meant to be glimpsed, not understood.
Snow-capped peaks above, Cold trials test weary feet— I walk through the doubt.
The higher I climbed, the thicker the mist became. I felt like I was walking into a dream, one of those nonsensical ones where the setting changes as soon as you think you’ve figured it out. The snow crunched under my boots, and the world shrank to the size of my next step. The peaks I had seen from below were gone, swallowed by the fog. For a while, I thought I might be swallowed, too.
It was harder than I thought it would be, and I wasn’t sure I’d make it. But isn’t that how life feels sometimes? Like you’re staring up at some impossibly high peak, the path ahead hidden in mist, and every step forward feels like a gamble. But still, you keep going. Not because you’re sure you’ll make it, but because there’s nowhere to turn back to.
Then, suddenly, I was there. The mist broke like a spell lifting, and the summit unfolded in front of me. The snow glittered in the sunlight, and the peaks stretched out like an unrolled map. It was vast and beautiful and sharp-edged, and for the first time in hours, I felt like I could breathe.
Looking back down the trail, I thought of the image I’d taken at the base. That distant, unreachable peak was now beneath my feet. The mist that had seemed so impenetrable was gone, burned away by nothing more than time and effort. I thought about the deer, how it had stopped just long enough to remind me that there is beauty in the world and how it had raised my spirits to keep going.
The walk back down was easier, as it always is. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how the summit had felt. Like a small, personal victory. Like proof that the peaks in life—the ones that feel impossibly far away, hidden by fog and fear—are often closer than we think.
You just have to keep walking.
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