Silver on the Tree by Susan Cooper

“Mean annual rainfall a hundred and fifty inches, high up. Only place that didn’t die of the drought, back in nineteen seventy-six. Bring a raincoat. See you tomorrow.”
    He and Will climbed into the back of the car, and the Land-Rover roared away.
    â€œA hundred and fifty inches?” Simon said. “That’s impossible.”
    Barney hopped happily round in a circle, kicking a stone. “Things are happening!” he said. Then he paused. “I wonder if Will should have said where we were going?”
    â€œThat’s all right,” Jane said. “He said John Rowlands was special.”
    â€œSounds a touristy kind of place anyway,” Simon said. “I don’t suppose it’ll be any help at all.”

•  
The Bearded Lake
  •
    There was no rain at first, though clouds swirled over the blue sky like billowing smoke. Silent for want of breath, they toiled up the long winding lane that led from the village of Aberdyfi into the hills. The road rose very steeply, climbing out of the broad valley of the Dyfi estuary, so that whenever they paused to look back they could see, spread beneath them, a widening sweep of the coast and hills and the broad sea, with the silver ribbon of the Dyfi River snaking through gleaming acres of brown-gold sand left by the falling tide. Then another bend in the lane cut away all this southern view, and they were left climbing towards the mountains of the north, not yet visible.
    High grassy banks enclosed them in the lane, banks as high as their heads, starred with yellow ragwort and hawk-weed, white flat heads of yarrow, and a few late foxgloves. Higher yet above the banks, hedges of hazel and bramble and hawthorn reached to the sky, heavy with half-ripe berries and nuts, and fragrant with invading honeysuckle.
    â€œKeep in,” Will called from the rear. “Car!”
    They pressed themselves against the grass wall of the lane, dodging the prickly embrace of bramble shoots, while a bright red mini whipped past in a tenor snarl of low gear.
    â€œVisitors!”
Bran said.
    â€œThat’s the sixth.”
    â€œWe’re visitors too,” Jane said.
    â€œAh, but such a superior brand,” said Barney solemnly.
    â€œAt least you are walking on your legs,” Bran said. He resettled the peaked Swedish-type cap he wore over his white hair, and gave it a resigned tug. “All these cars, they are like flies on a sunny day, this time of year. And because of them, up in the wild places you find not just the sheep and the wind and the emptiness now, but little wooden chalets for people from Birmingham.”
    â€œNo way out of it, is there?” Simon said. “I mean there don’t seem to be many ways left of making a living, round here, except tourism.”
    â€œFarming, too,” said Will.
    â€œNot for many.”
    â€œTrue enough,” Bran said. “The ones who go away to college after leaving school, they never come back. Nothing for them here.”
    Jane said curiously, “Will you go away?”
    â€œDuw,”
Bran said. “Have a heart. That’s years away, anything could happen. Power stations in the estuary. Holiday camps on Snowdon.”
    â€œWatch out!” Simon said suddenly. “Another one!”
    This time the car was pale blue, chugging and coughing past them like a small tank. Two small children could be seen fighting in the back seat. It disappeared round the next bend.
    â€œCars, cars,” said Will. “D’you know there’s even something on the Machynlleth road called a chaltel? A
chaltel!
Presumably a cross between a motel and—” He broke off, staring at the road ahead.
    â€œLook at that! Golly!” Barney grabbed Jane’s arm, pointing. “Whatever are they?”
    Paused halfway across the lane a few yards ahead of them were two strange sinuous animals, as big as cats but slender-bodied. Their fur was