Before the countryside was shut down we had a sunny walk through the Pentre Ifan woods. This area has been wooded since the 12th century. With its many meandering streams and steep declivities it was best left to willow, oak and ash. In the 1960s it was turned into a conifer plantation which was subsequently neglected. As the board tells you "this effectively destroyed the natural habitat". For humans it also obliterated the natural contours of the land because it was impenetrable. Now the national park has taken over the wood. They started by cutting conifers. During this period the public was naturally urged to stay away. To gain access broad pathways were opened up. Once we were allowed to return we encountered an unrecognisable wood. There had been one footpath marked by a stone. Now you see the stone and struggle to orientate yourself.

All deciduous trees have been left standing, but where did the path go? The one you walked along with the dog's gloomily slinking behind: no smells, only uneasiness. The Brothers Grimm could have been collecting stories. No sounds. Now you bound along broad paths, discover pools, carry on to connect with yet another path, well-signposted to fresh delights. On the edge of the wood there used to be a cobbler's cottage. Naturally he planted snowdrops and they multiplied. There are primroses, lesser celandines and daffodils all looking after themselves. Daisies are flowering on grassy paths. A hazel bush has extravagant catkins flourishing their ripe potency surrounded by small, brilliant maroon female catkins.

Now you can see the flowers in the lanes, but not in the woods. If you're a farmer you cant move your sheep off their winter pastures. The land they're on may be waiting for potatoes to be planted or for a spring refurbishment for visitor's caravans or whatever, but the sheep stay where they are. This country relies on agriculture. And tourism. So perhaps we shouldn't be so shocked to see a pair of walkers, booted and rucksacked, marching over the land. But we are.