Hollow ways and hilly ways

Delivering food parcels on a Friday takes us to the outlying village of Puncheston/Casmael, a settlement so rural that chickens wander across the street and tractors almost outnumber cars. The local launderette is in a stone shed and the pub is called The Drovers Arms. For  this was once a stop-off point on the  route taken by cows and sheep driven east towards the livestock markets of the Welsh border.

A skein of paths and lanes like this one connects the village with the drove roads above. It's not really a hollow way,  more  an overarched causeway through soggy ground leading down to a ford across a small river, and then the pub. In the distance here the dog is waiting beside an old marker stone that indicates - who now knows? A friendly pony  with a half-grown foal briefly checked us out. Up on the hill we found an assortment of grassland  mushrooms: yellow spindles of club fungi, furry brown Lycoperdon (wolf's fart) puffballs, red and orange waxcaps and tiny hallucinogenic liberty caps - in case you didn't already feel high enough.