Elan Valley

I drove up on Boxing Day. No other cars at the first dam. The reservoir was completely still, the kind of stillness that only exists when there's no wind at all and the temperature is near zero. A sentinel tower at one end was doubled perfectly in the water, surrounded by amber bracken hillside. The reflection was sharper than the original.

The copper dome turret on one of the dams was releasing overflow in a clean arc — water leaving one body of water and rejoining it. I stayed with that for a while. The three stone arches below it showed every decade of weathering in the close-up: iron oxide blooming outward from each fixing point, the limestone between them gone grey and porous.

From the drone, the river below the dams cuts through the moorland in long curves, the valley floor rust-coloured with dead bracken. A single conifer stands on the bare slope. A parked van in the distance gives the only indication of scale. From up there, the dams read as features of the land, not additions to it.

Red kites circled most of the afternoon. I don't know how many — they drift in and out of view without announcing themselves. No other company. The birch trees at the water's edge were reflected in the dark still water, the frost on their branches making the image sharper than any summer equivalent.

The aerial showed the road winding through, following the contours of the older landscape beneath the reservoir. You can see where the valley is drowned.