Between Arrivals and farewells

For our guests, it is a time of long walks across the Black Mountain, lazy breakfasts, evenings spent watching the sun disappear behind the hills and days that seem to stretch on forever.

For us, August is measured rather differently.

It is measured in arrivals and departures.

One family leaves with memories of mountain walks and paddles in hidden streams, another arrives full of excitement, ready to begin their own adventure. Between every farewell and every welcome there is a quiet flurry of activity that most guests never see, yet it is one of the most rewarding parts of running Black Mountain Escapes.

Every cottage is returned to its own little perfection.

Beds are stripped and remade with crisp, fresh linen. Towels are folded into neat piles. Windows are polished until they disappear into the view beyond, kitchens sparkle, and every corner is checked with fresh eyes. We always try to imagine opening the cottage door as though we were arriving ourselves, hoping everything feels as welcoming as it possibly can.

And then there is the ironing.

Mountains of it.

There are days in August when I think I have become permanently attached to the ironing board. Pillowcases, duvet covers, tea towels, tablecloths and napkins seem to appear in endless succession. By the time one basket is empty, another is somehow waiting patiently in its place.

As another family arrives and another sets off for home, the rhythm of August quietly turns once more. Beds are remade, the ironing basket somehow fills again, and the cottages are gently reset for the next chapter. The dogs wait by the door, ready for another walk across familiar fields, while above us the swallows circle and gather, preparing for their long journey south. And so the cycle continues—arrival, departure, stillness and renewal—each one blending into the next like the changing light over the Black Mountain.

It is a rhythm I have come to cherish. However busy the day becomes, the countryside has a wonderful habit of reminding me to pause.

When the ironing pile threatens to win, I gather the dogs and head outside instead.

A walk across the fields has a remarkable way of restoring perspective. The dogs rarely mind where we go, provided there is something interesting to sniff and somewhere to paddle. The air feels fresher beyond the laundry room, and there is always something new to notice.

Back in the garden, August is beginning to show its gentler side. The roses have given us a glorious display through the summer, but many of the blooms are fading now and need cutting back to encourage one final flourish before autumn arrives.

The blackberries, however, have taken complete leave of their senses.

For reasons known only to themselves, they seem determined to conquer every available corner. They weave through shrubs, scramble over fences and appear in places I could swear they weren’t growing only days before. Every year I convince myself I’ve finally got the better of them. This year particularly they are quietly determined to prove me wrong.

Still, it’s difficult to stay cross with a plant that rewards us so generously. Before long we’ll be gathering bowls full for crumbles, breakfasts and jars of jam to enjoy through the colder months.

Above us, another family has been busy all summer.

The swallow chicks that filled the eaves with constant chatter only a few short weeks ago have now taken to the skies. Watching them swoop and skim across the fields is one of August’s greatest pleasures. Soon they will gather together on telephone wires before beginning one of nature’s most extraordinary journeys, leaving Wales behind for warmer skies many thousands of miles away.

The fields themselves tell another story.

Haymaking is finished now, and the neat rows of bales have long since been gathered away. Normally by this point we’d hope for fresh green shoots to appear, but this summer’s prolonged hot weather has left the grass holding stubbornly onto its golden-yellow hue. The hills seem softer somehow, their usual emerald tones replaced by warm shades of honey and straw.

Even the horses know when it’s too hot. Throughout the afternoon they gather beneath the shelter of the hedgerows, standing quietly in the shade while the sun beats down across the valley.

For sheep farmers, however, August brings its own concerns. Lambs need to keep growing well before they head to market later in the year, and without fresh grass every conversation seems eventually to arrive at the same subject.

“We could do with a bit of rain.”

It is a phrase heard repeatedly throughout August.

Nowhere is that more evident than at our local country shows.

Both the Llangadog and Gwynfe Shows are highlights of the rural calendar, bringing together farming families, neighbours and friends who may not have seen one another since last year’s event. There is no rush here. Conversations begin beside the sheep pens, continue around the horse rings and somehow find their way into every corner of the showground.

The young farmers proudly lead beautifully turned-out sheep into the ring, horse classes parade with quiet elegance, and the sheep shearing demonstrations draw appreciative crowds. There is something wonderfully Welsh about watching skilled shearers at work, preserving a tradition that has shaped these hills for generations.

The conversations drift easily between the weather, the harvest, the need for rain and the latest sheep prices at the mart. Advice is exchanged, stories are told and news is shared. It is as much a gathering of friends as it is a show.

As afternoon slips gently into evening, the atmosphere changes once more. The beer tent begins to fill, music and the sound of laughter carries across the showground. Families settle together, neighbours catch up over a pint and children continue to run happily between generations, enjoying the freedom that only a close-knit rural community seems able to offer.

It is impossible not to notice how safe it all feels.

Perhaps that is what makes these village shows so special. They are more than competitions and livestock classes; they are a celebration of community. They remind us that life here is built upon friendships, shared traditions and people who are always willing to stop for a chat or lend a helping hand.

Back at the cottages, another arrival awaits.

Fresh flowers are gathered from the garden, the kettle is ready, and in the kitchen the familiar scent of warm scones begins to fill the air.

Every new set of guests is welcomed with a batch straight from the oven, served with generous bowls of thick Welsh cream and homemade strawberry jam. It has become something of a tradition, and one I hope says, without words, “Welcome—you’ve arrived somewhere special.”

The strawberries themselves are another of August’s simple pleasures. A visit to a local pick-your-own farm is one of those summer rituals that never seems to lose its charm. There is something deeply satisfying about returning home with baskets filled to the brim, knowing that some will be enjoyed fresh while the rest will become jars of jam to brighten the darker months ahead.

Cottage Scones

Ingredients

● 450g self-raising flour
● 2 tsp baking powder
● 75g cold butter, diced
● 50g caster sugar
● Pinch of salt
● 2 large eggs
● 200ml whole milk (or buttermilk)
● Milk for glazing

Method

Rub the butter into the flour until it resembles fine breadcrumbs. Stir in the sugar and salt. Beat together the eggs and milk before gradually mixing into the flour to form a soft dough. Gently roll to about 3cm thick, cut into rounds and brush with milk. Bake at 220°C (200°C fan) for 12–15 minutes until beautifully risen and golden.

Serve warm with generous spoonfuls of homemade strawberry jam and thick Welsh cream.

Homemade Strawberry Jam

Ingredients

● 1kg strawberries
● 1kg preserving sugar
● Juice of one lemon

Method

Hull and halve the strawberries before placing them into a preserving pan with the lemon juice. Warm gently until softened, then stir in the sugar until completely dissolved. Bring to a rolling boil for around ten minutes, testing for a setting point on a chilled plate before pouring into warm sterilised jars.

There is something wonderfully comforting about seeing those ruby-red jars lined neatly on the pantry shelf, each one holding a little of August’s sunshine.

As the month begins its gentle drift towards autumn, I find myself hoping for rain—not enough to spoil anyone’s holiday, but enough to awaken the fields once more, to freshen the grass for the sheep, to fill the streams and return the valley to its familiar shades of green. Until then, August continues as it always has: full of warm welcomes, freshly baked scones, fresh linen, village friendships, birds preparing for distant journeys and the quiet satisfaction of caring for a place that so many people come to enjoy.