The Furnace Fields

The little town of Burry Port in West Wales used to have an oasis. A tranquil patch of green and wood next to the streets and clusters of houses. During my childhood it was almost magical, and even retained some of that charm as I grew up. It was a place one could go for the kind of peace which only the countryside can provide, where songbirds and splashes from frogs in the pond was the constant background noises.
There were four fair sized meadows, overgrown in places like a wild beard, and here and there oak trees and beeches stood, lush fodder for the ever present green woodpeckers. And of course there was the pond, filled to the brim with newts, frogs and pond skaters, that zipped across the waters surface. Reeds skirted the edge like watch towers and every Spring would bring masses of frog's spawn, eagerly collected by myself and others.
I adored the place, it instilled in my younger self a passion for nature which I have never lost, and I am forever indebted to this tiny haven for wildlife. In one field patches of ferns grew, deep and rich, perfect for catching crazy children intent on throwing themselves from trees. It also had 'tunnels' of brambles which would take us to different areas of the town if you followed them, one ended up coming out on the top road.
I often howled in delight at the looks of older people being totally suprised at the sight of a group of children, suddenly appearing out of the hedgerows, shrieking like red indians. Those portals were invaluable in games of hide n' seek also, or playing truant from school. Parents had little hope of finding their wayward offspring in the wooded jungles.
In the farthest field, if you ventured down a steep bank, you would find a well, where fresh water would always be running. In summer months it was bliss! After a day of tree climbing and dive bombing ferns, there was nothing better than feeling that silver water on your skin and down the parched throat. The doubters insist that fairytale gardens only exist on pages of books, but I know different.
But alas, nothing is sacred, and it is with a sad and bitter heart that I must report that the Furnace Fields are no more. Man, and his vulgar quest to erase nature for the sake of building even more shabby estates, has seen to it. The ferns, pond, trees and birdsong are all encased in cement, and where glorious stills of wildlife stood now are tombs of families and car pools of oil.
Man, the utter vandal.