Original subtitles

The Wye Valley is special to me.

I can't imagine living a year of my life without the river.

I'd be lost without it.

The river runs 157 miles from the mountains of Mid-Wales to Chepstow,

where she meets the Severn,

and anyone that doesn't fall in love with the Wye Valley,

there's got to be something wrong with them.

I made a conscious decision when I left school to become a farmer.

In the uplands it's not something you can be taught in a college.

You've got to have a love for the mountains and for the sheep.

The Wye Valley is unique.

The climate here makes it perfect for cider growing,

and that makes it perfect for me.

Fourteen years ago, I brought my bees here,

and I never left.

The Wye couldn't be a better place for me to make a living.

I'm lucky enough to live in the Wye Valley

within sight of May Hill,

where tradition says the best cider apples are grown.

I think that's because we have a relatively dry climate here

so we get a lot more sun, which means you get really good quality apples.

It's January.

That's when I start pruning.

You prune for crop.

The more apples you have, the better,

which means having a decent-size tree

with horizontal branches spaced evenly.

Once you get into January, February, the buds will start fattening up for blossom time.

You can tell from now where the big crops are going to be...

if the rabbits don't get them first.

The success of the crop is at the mercy of the weather in the valley.

At the start of the new year, we have a ritual in the orchard.

We light fires round the oldest tree and we toast it,

so that it bears heavy with fruit.

It's called wassail and it means "good health".

Some people might think it's strange, but it's an ancient ritual

designed to improve the crop and ward off evil spirits.

It comes from a time when they didn't really know why they had good crops and bad crops,

but even though these days we've figured it out, it's still important

to continue the tradition, as a sign of respect to nature.

Just as we toast our friends and wish them good health, we toast our trees.

After we've blessed the tree, the youngest boy in the village,

known as the tomtit, hangs bread soaked in cider in the tree.

This is for the birds to eat.

And then we make as much noise as possible to frighten off the evil spirits.

And then we drink lots of cider.

In January, it's time to really start the season

on the repairs of equipment,

scorching frames, scorching boxes, re-waxing frames, making up the new equipment.

If we've got any hives that have died out during the season,

if it has been some sort of a disease,

we'll scorch the box out, more or less as a sort of sterilisation,

so that we're not introducing anything in the following year.

Some of the damage we get is just normal wear and tear.

We also get a fair bit of damage from things like woodpeckers.

Woodpeckers will put a hole the size of your fist through each of the sides of the boxes

and everything else in-between, if they're able to,

cos they're after the larvae plus the bees themselves.

Woodpeckers are a problem during the colder weather,

when the bees are fairly dormant - they're very slow.

If they tried it in the summer, the bees would deal with them.

I'm on a deadline.

Soon the weather will warm up and the bees will wake up from hibernation.

The quiet days of winter will end and we'll all be on the move again.

KETTLE WHISTLES

I'm a ghillie here on the River Wye.

As a ghillie, I look after the ladies and gentlemen that comes to fish here,

and through the non-season you manage the river.

The river's changed over the years.

It looks the same from above, but underwater it's different.

It's still a good fishing river,

but the number of salmon is down.

They've been hit hard by disease and pollution...

but they seem to be making a bit of a comeback now.

We have started the season later to make it easier on the spring fish.

Now March 3rd is when the salmon and the trout season starts.

And you're getting your kit ready,

like you could be making baits, making sure all your rods and reels are up to scratch,

all ready to go for the salmon fishermen again.

Right throughout the winter, I make lures quietly.

I enjoy doing it.

I love the old country life, and I'll be watching telly and making these quietly.

I love the Wye. I love and breathe the Wye, because I've always looked upon it as my river.

It's the first main river my dad brought me to.

I've been fishing it since I was seven.

I just love the Wye.

I says to the gentleman that I work for, I says, "You own the river, but it's my river."

And that's the way I look upon it.

I love and breathe the river.

The weather makes a big difference to us.

If it rains up in the headwaters, Elan Valley, Llangurig,

anywhere up there in the headwaters,

that water will take a day and a half to reach us here at Ross.

I need the water to rise for the salmon to run up the river,

so it affects me,

it affects the birds,

it affects the animals and everyone that lives along it.

Whether she's in a good mood or a bad mood, it affects everyone.

I suppose as the crow flies,

we'd be about ten miles from the source of the Wye.

It is a beautiful place to live.

I'm sure a lot of people would want to swap me in the summer...

..but in the winter it can become a bit of a problem.

But, you know, you can't have everything good,

you've got to have some bad days, as, I guess, in any part of the world.

I like my Welsh sheep. They're bred to survive this environment.

Nothing else would survive so well.

I wouldn't say they're stupid, but they do rely on us,

so we have to supplement their feed at the end of December right through till May,

until they go back to the mountain with their lambs.

In the long, dark winters, it's a pleasure to see the kites.

They're a beautiful bird.

They're common to us, but we still appreciate them

and try to look after them the best we can,

make sure nobody disturbs them.

Hard winters affect the kites.

They are scavengers, and with the new legislation that's just come through now,

that all dead animals have got to be picked up, even off the hillsides,

it's becoming increasingly difficult for them.

Fifteen, twenty years ago up here,

we would get snow that lasted weeks - snowdrifts, everything.

The climate is getting warmer now, though.

It seems to vanish as fast as it arrives.

I suppose it's good for me in a way, the milder winters.

But the harsh weather we do get now is coming later in the year, end of February, end of March.

That's when the ewes are heavy,

and that can cause problems with lambing...

..so it's a relief when it finally melts.

It's March 3rd, start of the salmon season today.

I'm out fishing myself...

..testing the water,

seeing if there's any fish around.

I've been waiting all winter for this to start again and looking forward to a good season.

Hopefully, conditions will be good enough to allow us to have a good season.

It just remains to be seen.

If we could have a wet spring and fill the dams and the water table,

it'll hold the river up for a far greater time for us, for the season.

It's early spring.

We bring the sheep into the sheds now to lamb, so that we can look after them.

We wait for them to give birth.

I've probably delivered...

tens of thousands of lambs in my life,

but it's still a joy to see a new, healthy lamb arrive.

I love lambing,

although it's a busy time of year.

We're up 24 hours a day with them all the time.

We've got 500 ewes now to bring in

and lamb them within the next two or three weeks.

Veronica and I work as a team during lambing.

When I'm catching forty winks, she's out in the sheds doing the work, and vice versa.

Lambing kind of marks the start of spring for me.

The cold days of March are over and the valley seems to be waking up.

New lambs are born.

New life is springing up everywhere

and we've got the summer to look forward to.

The kite chicks are hatching.

Everything's on the move.

Even the grass, that's starting to grow.

Summer's coming. You can smell it in the air.

My favourite bit of the year would be early spring,

when the day's starting to get warmer and longer and the blossom's coming out.

It starts really in April, although a lot of cider blossom comes out in May.

It's been a really wet May.

The really heavy rain seemed to wash a lot of the blossom off.

It's a key time for us.

We need mild weather for pollination,

because the bumblebees and the honeybees work so much harder.

This time of year, we get blossom weevils, who'll be laying their eggs in the buds,

which then will hatch into maggots and eat the buds out before the blossom can come out.

Because we don't spray a lot of the fruit,

especially in the old orchards, we rely on birds to keep the insect populations down.

We put bird boxes around the farm for the blue tits and great tits, to keep them happy.

I love seeing the birds in the orchard, better than any pesticide.

I know how hard they're working for me.

I have another spring workforce - the honeybees.

They're really important to ensure a good crop.

There are a lot of apple trees out there and the more bees we get, the better the pollination.

So a friend of mine, Gareth, brings his hives here.

It's a good working relationship we have.

They supply the labour, I supply the pollen.

I normally bring about a dozen colonies down here to Mike's orchards.

Nature quite often does the pollination quite well,

but on those off chances of a bad spring,

me going in there with three quarters of a million honeybees is

a pretty good insurance policy for a cider grower.

May was very wet.

Now it's getting hot and dry.

The sheep are coming down off the hill to drink.

The lambs are beginning to fatten up nicely.

I was worried about the kites with all the rain in May,

but their nest seems to have survived and the chicks are doing well.

You can see him flapping his wings and getting them ready for take off.

There's been a pair of redstarts nesting in my tractor.

I didn't know what a redstart was when I first saw them.

I had to look them up. They're a handsome bird, though.

I've been watching the chicks, nestled in just by the radiator,

Mum and Dad going in all day long with insects.

They seem to be doing well - better than my tractor, anyway.

We start shearing in June.

There's a good slot of weather now, warm and dry.

Hopefully, that will continue until Barry, our shearing contractor, comes here to shear the sheep.

We need to get the 500 ewes and lambs off the hill, put them in the sheds ready for him to shear.

It's hot, hard work, but we love it.

The wool no longer makes us any money.

It just about covers the cost of shearing.

We need it dry for the wool to be packed up and sent away and we also need it warm for the sheep.

It must be a great relief to have their winter coats taken off.

When I first moved up to the Wye Valley, the first year,

I got calls for 120 swarms of bees, to go and sort them out.

Last year, I had one call.

We've had a problem with a disease, called varroa, that kills the bees if it's not treated.

There are very, very few feral colonies left.

One thing about the weather at the moment -

with all this warm dry weather, the bees are really, really busy.

It's amazing, going out at four o'clock in the morning

and they're as busy as they are at eight, nine, ten o'clock at night sometimes.

You're sat there on the riverbank,

you just aren't watching the rod, it's everything that goes on around, and it's relaxation.

One of the things that I think is a terrible shame is we have Wye Valley Walk up through here

and I see them walking up the far side there with their heads down, and they're seeing nothing.

Now, what a waste of a good walk in the country.

The whole idea of going for a walk in the country is that you see the wildlife.

Kingfishers here. Lovely!

I got two pair nest here every year.

I won't tell you where they nest, I won't tell anyone.

In July, you'll see 'em fishing hard.

It's nice.

It's been an awful summer for the salmon fishing.

It's been too warm and no rain.

The river's so low, lower than it's been for a number of years, definitely.

I find it very frustrating,

and there's nothing you can do about it.

There's no rain down here, there's no rain in the mountains, so it's rubbish.

All this dry weather's fantastic.

Although it rained in May, it just didn't rain at all after that.

With it having been a relatively wet early spring, we're hoping that

this will have set the heather and made it a good crop.

By the look of the heather up on the hillsides,

it looks good.

So I load the hives into the truck, turn the stereo up and away we go, me and a million bees.

# Oh, Heather, honey

# Warm as the sunshine

# Oh, Heather, honey

# Your love is so fine

# I've been here, I've there

# I've been around

# And I've fell in and out of love

# Most every town

# But the girls I knew were not like you

# You're a different kind

# Heather, honey Now, can't you see

# You're blowing my mind?

# Oh, Heather, honey

# Warm as the sunshine

# Oh, Heather, honey

# Your love is so fine... #

Heather moors finish the season off for us quite well, in that

if there's a crop to be had, it's a premium-value crop.

Heather honey is one of the better honeys for us during the year, and it's a premium price,

and if we don't get the crop, we at least get the bees fed for the winter,

which, for us, is probably the most important part,

because we need the bees in good condition for the spring.

I really love these lingering summer evenings up on the moors.

The days are long and the work is hard, but just to be high up there,

with the birds and the scent of the heather, it's a place where all the elements come together.

It's magical.

It's September.

There's only a few weeks left of the season.

It finishes on October 17th,

and I'm still thrashing the river for a fish.

If I catch none this year,

you still can't beat getting up at dawn on such glorious days as this,

to put a fly on the water.

Nothing nicer. Nothing can beat it.

The mists arrive this time of the year,

when the air is cooling, and the river temperature's holding.

I personally believe it's not a good time to fish

until the mists are lifting off the water.

You don't seem to catch many fish when the mists are down.

When the mist starts to lift, that's the time to start fishing,

and so we get down here, lovely at dawn,

to catch the mist going off, so we're ready,

because that seems to be the best time

to have a chance of catching a fish.

Timing is crucial in cider making,

in that you must press the right apples at the right time.

Timing is everything. Too early, the taste won't be right.

Too late, and the birds will take the crop.

This year, with it being so dry, I was really worried about the crop,

but because the mild weather went on so long,

I've ended up with really good, large, juicy apples.

The only influence for flavour in the ciders are the variety.

A blend of two or three varieties

is almost always superior to a single variety.

I've got about 40 varieties of apples,

so each barrel of cider can be different to the next,

because there's different varieties in it.

One of the nice things about being a cider maker

is I do get to do quality control,

which means I do have the temptation to drink too much.

All in all, it's still fairly healthy, as long as you're careful.

Because it's a natural product,

it doesn't taste as alcoholic as it is,

and, erm, we find you have to keep warning people,

because if you're not used to it, it can be quite dangerous.

You press the apples at the right time,

that's the most important element,

and then you put the right ones together.

The more years I make cider, the more interesting it becomes,

and the more combinations there are to try.

At this time of year,

we're getting more of a problem with wasps and hornets,

predominantly in the organic fruit farms.

Ten years ago, I'd never seen a hornet.

This year, we've got a couple of hornets' nests,

very local to where we've got bees.

This is a bit of a worry, because they can invade the hives,

kill the bees and larvae, and steal the honey.

Towards the back end of the season, there's not the nectar out there.

We've got hives full of honey,

and then sometimes it just looks like an easier target,

and if they find a hive that's weak, or having a bit of a problem,

they'll go in, and they'll take advantage of it.

The wasps are going in,

and they're primarily looking for honey, for nectar,

for sugar. Colonies are full of it.

Often there's uncapped honey, that probably smells wonderful to wasps,

and if they can get in there, they will.

Then, at the end of the season, we narrow the entrances down,

to give the bees a bit more of a chance of defending themselves.

If a wasp tries to get in, it's a bit like a gatecrasher at a club -

the bouncers, the guard bees, can usually defend the colony,

and it'll take two or three bees to see off a wasp.

If a hornet decides to come in,

it takes a lot more bees to defend the colony,

and quite often, if a hornet wants to go in,

it's pretty successful in getting in there.

One of the most satisfying times is at the end of the year,

when you're bringing the boxes of honey back.

You're never quite sure what you're going to get,

what the bees have been into and harvesting.

I used to really enjoy honey,

and I still like some of the honeys that we extracted,

but I think it's probably like one of those people

that work in a chocolate factory.

The first ton was all right, but after that, you tend to go off it.

One thing that can be said about honey,

it really sums up all autumn colours.

It's an amazing process.

Sometimes I feel like an alchemist.

During the winter, we try and bottle more creamed and set honey,

around a ton or more of honey a month,

which would be about two to three and a half thousand jars,

depending on the size of the jar.

It's October.

It's coming to the end of the season.

The rains have arrived, but they've arrived too late for us.

The salmon have finally got the rise in the water they needed,

so they're running up through us now, not stopping.

The clock's ticking,

they've got to get upriver to spawn. I hope they all make it.

But our season's over.

This year, it started off well,

and a lot of people had caught the same amount of fish

as we'd caught last year,

and we thought, "Great, it's on the up, we're gonna do well".

But unfortunately, May, everything changed.

We had a good rise on the river, which we expected salmon to come,

and they didn't.

And it's the first time that has ever happened

in the 28 years I've been on this beat.

We never caught a fish after May this year.

I've gotta say, it was a disappointing season,

very, very disappointing.

It's been a good year this year. The lambs have gone off to market now.

They've not made a bad price at all.

We need to get the ewes ready now to be mated,

to start the cycle once again.

We're shearing their tails to keep them clean, and we worm them,

and give them a vitamin dose as well, ready for the winter.

It was one of the worst springs we've had for a long time.

The beginning of summer was cold and wet,

and then we had one of the hottest, driest summers

we've had for 20 years.

But once the end of July came, we had the rain,

the ground was warm, and we had grass right up into the autumn.

It's been a really good time.

It's increasingly getting harder to make a living

on small hill farms like ours.

Our product, price-wise, is going down, but everything we buy goes up.

I really enjoy what we do. We love it.

We were born to it, I guess. It's a hard life,

and we don't get much financial reward,

but, you know, we wouldn't swap it for anything else.

Hopefully, we can survive.

It's a nice feeling when you finally finish picking the last fruit.

You can sit back and relax, and try the first of the ciders.

They're still a bit young, but maturing nicely in the barrel.

The orchards are quiet now,

and there's only a few apples left on the trees.

I like to leave these for the fieldfares and the redwings.

They do deserve it after their long migration.

Traditionally, you shouldn't tap the ciders

until you hear the first cuckoo of spring,

but I think it's always wise to do a bit of quality control.

Autumn's coming later these days - November, December.

Times are changing.

Can't fish for salmon, but there's still plenty to be done -

clearing the banks, keep the river flowing nicely.

I love this time of the year,

especially here on our beat, because, well, just look around you.

Look at the changing, and the colours of the leaves.

It's absolutely fantastic.

If you went to a carpet shop,

you'd spend a fortune to buy the same thing,

which I can look at every day for nothing.

There are few places in Britain as beautiful

as the Wye Valley in autumn.

The river seems to reflect that thought.

The beauty shines back from her surface, and she turns gold.

It'll be a few months before I fish for salmon again, sadly.

So I'll have a few days off, myself,

take the wife off, so she remembers what I look like,

and look forward to next season.