During this week the previous year my phone rang just as I approached Llangelynin Church, a call to inform me that my mother had passed away. I knew the instant it rang. I don’t really believe my mother hovers along with me as I ride through life, saving me from falls on the hillside and keeping my feet in a position of safety at all times, but I do like the idea of it even if only in symbolic terms, because this is exactly what mothers do. And then there was an occasion the previous winter where I actually did lose a stirrup and found it again in the strangest of split-second circumstances, so I feel entitled to the odd whimsical thought during this time of summer rain, rainbows, and humid mist.
Mum was cremated more than 70 miles away, and it’s a place I don’t really wish to revisit for the sake of remembering her as that would feel not only a worthless chore, but insincere. I’m not sure riding to Llangelynin church with a bunch of hedgerow flowers on the anniversary of her passing is especially more apt, because towards the end of her life Mum’s feelings about religion were gradually worn down to an angry indifference. But consecrated places are not always about the constraints of religion. More importantly she loved Wales, and all things flowering, despite her absolute refusal – towards the end – to believe she was ever knowledgeable of plants and once upon a time cherished a large garden. Remembering her at this peaceful, historical spot in the Welsh hills is surely the greatest symbolism of freedom after years of suffering the emotional and mental prison of dementia. Those years when the shadow began to move across her memory until the disease finally swallowed it whole, were the hardest years of all. I realise that collecting flowers on the way to the church whilst astride Storm, might prove problematic. As well as a lot of dismounting I imagine His Lordship might presume I was collecting some of these delicacies on his behalf. So I gathered the bouquet a couple of days before, from the ancient, abundant hedgerows by the church. Before too long I had a small bouquet of natural beauties; Harebells, Foxgloves, Heather, Valerian, Cranesbill, Rosebay Willowherb, Campion; Bracken for greenery, and for fragrance, my own Lavender and Jasmine.
The day of the symbolic gesture – the day I choose to ride to Llangelynin with my bounty – is heavy with low cloud and drizzle. I tie the flowers to the saddle with a length of pink string. Storm is remarkably respectful and gives it only a cursory glance. Undeterred by the worsening weather, we set off at a smart pace, fired by the importance of our quest. On the small rise of Craigfedwen where the landscape would normally roll in front of us for as far as the eye could see, visibility is reduced to a thick wall of mist, and the only sounds are those of muffled bleating. I think about the song my brother and I chose for Mum’s service, by Enya: So I Could Find My Way. Before too long I admit defeat – I genuinely cannot find my way today. The heavens burst wide open and progress across the open mountain is made not impossible, but miserable and uncomfortable. Saturated, I turn for home. The pony gives me some tremendous heart-lifting canters through the wet bracken, raindrops and an array of petals flying in his mane. Does he know? As a symbol of freedom and a nod to the joy of wild Welsh foliage, I reckon we still completed our brief. And I suspect Mum had the last say.