Borin By Name, Boring By Nature

I have parked at the gloriously named Sodom Covert near the village of Bodfari in Denbighshire (SJ0971). Deluge over, I have decided to walk a section of the Clwydian Range along the Offa's Dyke Path and the Clwydian Way.

The first section of the track heading towards Graig Tremeirchion involves a hack through some rather overgrown gorse before emerging out onto a fresh pasture bursting with buttercups. Very little bird wise apart from a pair of Ravens kronking heartily from a nearby pylon.

Reaching Graig Tremeirchion the habitat improves as the path moves through some old deciduous woodland. I find a nice open spot and listen. Song Thrush, Robin, Blackbird and Great Tit, but nothing else, so I decide to find another listening post. Before moving off, I bend down to tie my bootlaces and as I do so, I notice a beautiful small bluish flower that my cumbersome size twelve stompers had nearly trampled on. Flowers are not my strongest suit, but I think it is probably a Monk's-hood.

The remainder of the trial to the halfway point at Moel Maenefa is rather uneventful, although the local Denbighshire farmers seem to have taken a leaf out of their Cheshire brethren's book and elected to erect numerous electric wires across public footpaths. Very considerate.

As I reach Moel Maenefa and the Offa's Dyke Path the sun begins to burn through the fug. A nearby Garden Warbler interprets this as nature's invocation to sing and perched atop of a gorse bush begins to fill the coconut-scented air with its benedictions.

If it wasn't for its lovely song, the Garden Warbler would probably steal the crown of Britain's dullest bird from the Stock Dove. With its drab appearance and unobtrusive nature the scientific name Sylvia Borin is very appropriate.

Proceeding to Cefn Du, another of the shaven-headed hills in this area, the route takes me along a lane flanked by some mature hedgerows. Whitethroats are in abundance here and I can also hear the faint song of a Yellowhammer; Redstart too, irregularly sounding its scratchy trill as it moves through an old oak tree.

I am soon back at Sodom. Still no fire and brimstone, just something else of biblical proportions falling down from the heavens: rain.

Until later.