The first surprise was the path over the common down to the road. It had vanished. We walked round on the lane. I looked up at where the path had been. I'd cleared it with a sickle. I'd even changed its route after a fire to protect a young hazel. But months of foot and mouth prohibitions had smothered It. Sheep have been stationary for months. Preseli sheep overwinter with the army in south Pembrokeshire where the Castle Martin firing range provides a warm haven for sheep and wildlife. Finally allowed to move they went through veterinary war and shearing before the village gleefully returned to normal, with hundreds of sheep pouring down the road en route for the hills. The dogs were careful as ever, the children as demented.

But the hills have changed. Sheep like to chew soft things. The whin has grown spiky and coarse in their absence. The grass has had longer to flourish, the usual topiary has grown shaggy. Walking on the lower slopes it's sensible to take a bearing on a known whin bush, but they've all changed their shape. The old familiar sheep paths are grown over. Most joyous of all, the peat flushes have hardly been touched. The neat little bog pimpernel is spreading itself with glee, small mauve flowers open to the sun. Ivy-leaved bellflowers, those precise blue trumpets proudly sounding their name of Wahlenbegia hederacea nestle amongst it. Marsh St John's wort, yellow, red-orange flowers and grey green leaves spread over the peat - all have bustled over the bog.

One area full of bog myrtle fills the air with scent. Some streams have dried up, but most run through the summer. Approaching one I spotted a beautiful demoiselle damselfly and again the delight of bog myrtle. I found one little plant clinging to the bank. There were no more. It alone was filling the warm summer air with a scent far beyond the reach of the most expensive bottle. On the stream were pond skaters which as Coleridge noted "throw a cinque-spotted shadow fringed with prismatic colours on the sunny bottom of the brook".