There’s something about a crow on a Welsh mountain that feels older than the landscape itself. You’re not imagining that sense of “crow lore” — they carry an atmosphere, a presence, as if they’re not just in the world but somehow aware of it in a way we aren’t. Humans observe; crows appraise.
Up on Mynydd Twr, aka Holyhead Mountain, with the wind coming in off the sea and the light shifting over the rocks, a crow’s call feels like a message sent across realms. They’re social, yes, but there’s a deliberateness to their communication that makes you wonder what’s being said. A friend in the distance, a reconnaissance of the walkers with their sandwiches — it’s all part of a pattern we only ever glimpse the edges of.
Otherwise they are oblivious to our human realm. They move through our presence without deference, without fear, without the slightest sense that we are the main characters. They’re busy with their own networks, their own hierarchies, their own mountain politics. We’re just passing through.
