All language subtitles for Wye Voices from the Valley BBC Natural World 2007 720p HDTV MVGroup EN Sub_Subtitles01.ENG

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.