The Joy of Being
One of the quiet pleasures of staying at Glyn Shepherds Hut is that, once you’ve arrived, there is very little reason to use the car again.
Many of our guests don’t.
They park when they arrive and leave it exactly where it is until the day they return home.
Instead, they explore on foot.
Over the years we have documented around twenty walks that begin right outside the door. Some wander through the forest. Others climb into the hills. Several lead to quiet lakes, each with its own character, each offering a different kind of stillness.
There is something wonderfully liberating about travelling at walking pace.
The world reveals itself differently.
You notice the scent of pine after rain. You hear birds long before you see them. Sunlight filtering through the trees becomes something to pause for rather than something glimpsed through a windscreen. The journey itself becomes part of the pleasure.
One of our favourite places is Llyn Bychan.
It is not dramatic.
It does not announce itself with sweeping views or famous landmarks.
It simply waits.
The first thing we notice whenever we arrive is the quiet.
Not complete silence, because nature is never truly silent. There is usually a gentle breeze moving through the trees. Occasionally a buzzard circles overhead. Every so often a fish breaks the surface of the water before disappearing again, leaving only a widening circle of ripples across the otherwise still lake.
There is remarkably little else to see.
That is precisely why we enjoy being there.
Florence, of course, has rather different priorities. While we stand watching the water, she is already splashing enthusiastically after another branch, completely absorbed in the simple pleasure of retrieving whatever has been thrown into the lake. Somehow her joyful energy makes the stillness around us feel even more complete.
We return throughout the year.
Spring brings fresh birdsong.
Summer stretches long into the evening.
Autumn quietly transforms the woodland.
Occasionally winter lays a sheet of ice across the lake, beautiful to admire from the shore, reminding us that some things are best appreciated rather than disturbed.
The seasons change, the feeling does not.
It seems to me that we spend much of modern life trying to fill every available moment.
There is always another message to answer. Another task to complete. Another reason to hurry somewhere else.
Even when we stop, we often reach instinctively for a phone, a podcast or the news, as though silence itself has become something to avoid.
A quiet lake asks nothing of us.
It doesn’t expect us to achieve anything.
It doesn’t ask us to be productive.
It simply invites us to sit for a while.
To look.
To listen.
To breathe.
Perhaps that is why so many of our guests mention these walks when they leave.
They don’t usually tell us how many miles they covered or how many photographs they took. Instead, they say something much simpler.
They tell us how peaceful they felt.
How rested they felt.
How different they felt.
Perhaps the greatest luxury we can offer isn’t the hut itself, or even the mountains that surround it. Perhaps it is something much less tangible.
The opportunity to leave the car behind. To explore at walking pace. To sit beside a quiet lake with nowhere else to be. And, for a little while at least, to remember the simple joy of being.