 Long long ago, the sheep that roamed the Welsh hills were no ordinary beast. They were said to carry powerful magic in themselves and in their wool. They were old, wise and clever as the mountains, protectors and speakers of the land and trees, they stood by the oak forests for many years. Their wisdom kept the earth safe, their softness calmed storms, they warded off evil spirts for centuries and magic emulated from each fibre of their wool. Over the centuries, as the land was worked harder and harder, the sheep shorn again and again, more lambs taken to the slaughter, the magic thinned. Too much of their magic wool was repeatedly taken, too many hills burdened.. too many sheep ignored and used. The power in the flock started to fade, and so we have sheep as we know today- soft and silent, unexceptional some would say. But even now, some locals still tuck a tuft of wool into the shoe by their door before the first frost. Found on a fence or caught in a hedgerow, it’s said to guard both the land and the mind. It’s also a quiet nod to the old ways — to the threads of ancient magic that still linger in the hills * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  Magic is something I’m still trying to understand. I believe it’s as old as time and exists objectively, seeping through—into the mind, into certain places, into feelings, objects, interactions. As children, we live alongside it more. As adults, we have to choose to believe it’s still there. The Mawddach estuary feels like a place where that veil is thin. Walking through the woodland, it feels like you’re beside it for a moment, or brushing against it. Sometimes it’s just a smell in the air, or something caught in the morning light. I arrived at night, and the next morning saw the land in full autumn from my window. I felt excited for the first time in a while—the kind of excitement you feel as a child. The landscape left me speechless—something I won’t forget. My sense of wonder was stirred and it felt like seeing the world after a long absence. Walking shaped my days. Time warped… an hour felt like a minute, four hours felt normal. I’d find pockets of light that felt like early morning or twilight in the middle of the day, frosty and soft. The estuary itself was so dramatic and constantly changing, a living thing I sat with each day from my studio window. It felt wise, full of stories, like the mountains around it. A ladder leaning against a mossy stone wall, like an invitation into another world. Pulling wool from fences and pylons, stuffing my pockets with it. Cutting my fingers on brambles. Jumping streams and falling in. Half skipping, half walking. Singing myself down a mountainside after getting lost. Stumbling upon old relics—ruins, remains. Old stories and new ones. Songs. Sunlight bending strangely. Moss, beautiful moss. The simple act of making sandwiches for hikes, looking after myself. Life drawing, portraits, laughter. Strange sheep in ancient woods. Everything turning golden in the late afternoon. Inspiration coming out of my ears. Everything was quietly buzzing. I found myself in a rare, self-contained calm where childlike excitement and inspiration were uninterrupted. I could follow ideas in my head and on paper, experiment, play. It felt like an intangible space that rarely exists in adult life. I keep wondering whether it’s possible to live there forever, or whether it’s somewhere, like magic, you stumble into and remember that it exists. Miranda Collis website
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