The meaning of ancient sites, such as Pentre Ifan in Pembrokeshire, has been lost over time, but they’re truly alive in this writer’s imagination
After I die, I want my ashes to be scattered in Pentre Ifan’s shadow. The scatterer will have to wait for a rare, windless day. It’s on those still days that the nearby hawthorn trees, the ones most exposed and bent nearly lateral by prevailing westerlies, can break your heart. They look ridiculous, like blown birthday candles perpetually being extinguished, gusted over to one side. When there’s no wind, you wonder why they don’t spring back up straight. But they never do.
The hawthorns grow at a respectful distance to the west of Pentre Ifan. The horizon behind them is hitched to the sky by the largest “mountain” in west Wales: Carn Ingli, the Hill of Angels. It’s just 347 metres of ancient shield volcano, but it has a big reputation. They say if you sleep on its summit, angels will whisper their secrets in your dreams. Another version says the Earth will speak to you as you sleep. I’d rather hear what the bedrock has to say.
