Beware the Gwyniad

The mice have paid the slugs to eat the bait before they are tempted to have a nibble

There is a lake twenty miles to the north of my home where the Gwyniad lives. 22,000 years ago as the last glacial period came to a welcome end this plucky little whitefish was left stranded in Llyn Tegid, or as the English prefer, Bala Lake. The species is found nowhere else on Earth now, or at least wasn't until a few years ago when some of them were scooped out and popped into a nearby lake. Some scientists had noticed that population numbers were dropping so it was thought best to double their chances of survival and give some of them a new home. Let's hope they make it to the next glacial period.

The town of Bala perches at the north-eastern corner of the lake where the River Dee flows out from it, off to Chester and the Irish sea. Apart from the lake, Bala has one high street and a church wherever you happen to look. It also has a reputation for being a bastion of Welshness. Welsh is the language you'd hear on the street. The parish church advertises a Welsh-language-only service followed by a bilingual one. All the signs are Welsh first then English.

One of the very few butternut squashes in my polytunnel

Luckily for me, it also has a ystad ddiwydiannol (don't bother trying to read that backwards, it's Welsh for industrial estate) with a unit that advertised chainsawing servicing and repairs. For my trusty saw, or should I say untrusty, had once again given up on me and, no doubt daunted at the remaining piles of wood that need sawing, simply refuses to start.

On Monday I made the journey to Bala choosing the scenic route which confusingly is also the direct route, being several miles shorter than going via Dolgellau. It does involve climbing over the highest mountain pass in north Wales, however, which is rather wonderful for its views at the top. You can even get out at a little car park there and once finished taking in the panorama, be informed by a small sign that test drivers of Austin cars used to hurtle along this self-same single lane track.

The wooden-steepled mediaeval church of Llanbrynmair which I visited for the first time last Sunday

So the chainsaw people took my chainsaw into the back and pretty quickly got it roaring away. A few minutes later it was back on the counter. “Yes it's fixed” said the man, “he's tuned the carburettor and replaced the fuel filter.” I handed over the required number of pounds and after a short mosey around Bala, went home. Of course, the infernal machine still refuses to start. I called them up and spoke to the guy who'd worked on it who told me rather gallingly that it had started pretty easily for him. I hung up. Thankfully in rural Wales, like deep space, no one can hear you scream.

The wood pile grows ever larger