“A bird the size
of a leaf fills
the whole lucid
evening with
his note, and flies”
Wendell Berry
Sabbath Poems VI, 1996
Shifting Baselines That Heal
Sometimes shifting baselines take you by surprise—and then blow your mind.
Last week, I visited a remarkable place: a rewilded valley near Carmarthen, home to what might be Wales’s closest answer to a full rewilding project. It belongs to Dr. Nick Fox—a falconer, scientist, falcon breeder, and long-time friend. At the heart of this place, now the site of The Bevis Trust, lies a large lake created not by nature, but through vision, effort, and time.
It’s hard to believe that just 25 years ago, this lake didn’t exist. It was once the soggy bottom fields of a tired dairy farm, leaking slurry and silage effluent from poorly engineered agricultural infrastructure into the valley and stream below. Now, below the redundant silage clamps, lies a broad, clean expanse of water, encircled by woodland—home to beavers.
An Evening of Stillness
We were invited as guests of the Llanteg and Amroth Renaturing Community—a small group of us: Caz, Georgina, Theri, Jack, and myself—hosted by another Jack, a volunteer with the Bevis Trust.
The Bevis Trust is a not-for-profit company that promotes the conservation and sustainable management of the farmed countryside to enhance biodiversity. Established by Nick, the charity seeks to raise awareness of the challenges facing nature and those working in agriculture. One of its central questions—passionately posed by Nick but often ignored by political decision makers—is: how can we produce food while still sharing the land with wildlife?
In practical terms, the Trust manages a 270-acre livestock farm, over a third of which now consists of woodland, lakes, and ponds—most restored or planted in the last 30 years.
We arrived just after 7:30 on a still, bright evening. Green plastic chairs were lined up along a muddy bank, softened by recent earthworks near the dam. Just as we settled in, a beaver crashed out of the water—spooked by our arrival—and disappeared into the undergrowth of a small island opposite us. The beavers were coy that evening, and we waited nearly an hour before, at last, one appeared—gliding across the lake, its brown head glowing in the amber light.
First impressions? Enormous. You can’t see their full length in the water, but according to the Beaver Trust beavers can grow to 1.3 metres and weigh up to 30 kilos. That’s a rodent with presence.
The Birdsong of Vespers
And then—something else filled the evening: birdsong. Layered and rich, it rose and fell with the fading light. When you sit still without phones, without distractions, the natural world can rush in with overwhelming intensity.
This was nature’s vespers: blackbird, blackcap, willow warbler, chiffchaff, robin—all calling into the dusk.
It wasn’t a huge species list, but the quality and volume of song was astonishing. The blackbird, immortalised by the Beatles; the blackcap—sometimes called the “northern nightingale” for its flutey song; and the robin, that steadfast sentinel, singing even in winter. All of it punctuated by the twittering of swallows and the chatter of house martins as they skimmed the lake for insects.
A Place Made, and Remade
What struck me most, sitting quietly by this lake, was the realisation that this place is entirely made. Thirty-five years ago, it was just an idea—a “twinkle in the eye” of Nick, its creator. I know this because I was there.
In the mid 1980’s, as a teenager, I worked summer holidays on Nick’s farm. Some years later in the 1990’s I remember the Himac excavator and Steve the ‘diggerman’, gouging out the clay bottom that would become the lake bed.
This land, once poor pasture for cattle and little else, is now a sanctuary—for birds, for beavers, and for trees. What could feel more sacred?
Grief in the Landscape
But beauty rarely arrives unaccompanied. This lake holds personal meaning for me. My wife and I camped beside it in a log cabin during our honeymoon. Years later, we swam here with our children, especially our son Malachi. The last time we swam as a family was in 2012. He is no longer with us.
Loss changes the texture of a place. And yet, returning—especially after years of estrangement from Nick—offered something like healing. Forgiveness, of myself and others, isn’t easy. But it’s part of rewilding too. A restoration of what was broken.
As Wendell Berry wrote, there are sacred places and desecrated places—and perhaps this one has moved from the latter to the former.
Harmony and Fragility
Just before nightfall, two small family scenes added grace to the evening. First, a mallard mother ushered her ducklings across the glowing water—their tiny bodies catching the light like sparks on the surface. Then a family of greylag geese paddled past in perfect formation—parents fore and aft, eight goslings between them. A vision of symmetry. Of peace.
But harmony is fleeting. We were reminded that in some years, otters arrive and decimate the waterfowl population—every gosling and duckling taken as food. Beauty never comes without risk. That’s the truth of wildness. It heals, but it also humbles.
The Sacred in the Made
What does it mean to restore a place?
For me, it means this: to sit beside a lake that didn’t exist a generation ago, to be overwhelmed by birdsong, to glimpse a beaver at dusk, to forgive an old friend, and to remember a son lost too soon.
Rewilding isn’t just ecological. It’s emotional. It’s relational. Sometimes, it’s spiritual.
And sometimes, it’s all of those things at once.
This lake wasn’t always here. But now, I can’t imagine the valley without it.
Literature cited:
Wendell Berry The Day Collected and New Sabbath Poems. Counterpoint Publishing, Berkley, USA. page 170