I met my neighbours by the stone sheep pens; they were bringing the ewes with twins into the fields by the house to keep a close eye on them. A ewe is refusing to budge; one dog cuts off her escape route whilst the other is flat to the ground, moving forward like a crocodile. She turns to face him, stamping her foot defiantly, but gradually backs-up, her lamb close by her side. Dog and ewe are nose to nose, no more than a foot apart. Hywel is calling to the dogs – a stream of words, some soft others harsh, to which they instantly respond. Leaning on his crook, a newborn lamb under one arm, he looks totally at ease – a man in his element.

I have been spending time with these men over the last couple of years trying to understand what it takes to farm this wild and obdurate place. They are patient with my questions, my ignorance of the obvious, pleased that somebody is taking an interest they say. If you look out of the window anywhere in rural Wales you will see the work of such people. Three thousand years ago there would have been a ‘wildwood’: some kind of fluctuating continuum of forest, scrub and wood-pasture; then gradually humans got busy felling, burning, cultivating and grazing with domesticated stock – we began to shape the land. Over time only some of us, farmers, did that work and by the beginning of the last century they had fashioned a diverse ‘cultural landscape’ which was both productive and rich in wild and human life. It was the archetypal countryside for many people: hedged fields, grazing animals, small woods and farmsteads.

This farm is still like that, if a little on the wild side. It is certainly not typical anymore and, in truth, like most hill farms, would not be viable without subsidies. Rough, high and wet it is too demanding for all but the indigenous Welsh Mountain sheep. It is also very beautiful (if that is how you see the world): craggy woods plastered with mosses and lichens, rock strewn ffridd dotted with ancient thorns and crab apples; a hurtling mountain river along one boundary and up above, a wild moorland of heather and bog. Along with their forebears these men and their sheep have shaped it this way from the post-glacial ‘wildwood’.

What has also evolved over the 2000 years of farming is a human culture rich in knowledge, skills, language, custom and mutual understanding. These two men go about their work with such understated ease, seemingly oblivious of their expertise. To see them work is to experience how they belong here; a hand-in-glove fit between people and place. Looking around this farm I am reminded of how much of the wildlife and landscapes we treasure have arisen because of agriculture – mostly as an unintended by-product. Is this place an anachronism or a model for a more intentional future? It is becoming clear that society requires other things, the so called ‘ecological services’, from the land as well as food, including a rich and beautiful countryside – for which it must be willing to pay. Could farmers come to husband wildlife and landscape with as much pride and skill as lamb or beef? It would mean a big shift in attitude for some and acquiring new expertise for many, however it could help ensure the future of a distinctive culture, for which we would all be the richer.

This piece first appeared in Natur Cymru magazine in April 20017