Archives for the month of: June, 2013

It was Rob’s idea to get up at three to catch the early train. I was delighted to love someone so exciting and he couldn’t believe he lived with someone mad enough to agree to something so bonkers.

 

DSC_2037We walked to the station in almost-light and intermittent rain, road puddles shone soft. At Dyfi Junction a man sat wild on the bench surrounded by estuary, with jumper damped by rain and night and wind; he leered a merry grin and gave a vodka bottle wave, with clouds gloaming all about.

 

When we reached Ynys-hir it felt like we’d been clubbing all night – we were hungry and stiff and shivered an hour in each hide with tupperware and thermos, gazing glazed at gleaming water and the chink of pale blue sky over the far away sea. It was too cold and rough for birds though they sang all around in the willows and rushes. Ducks and curlews beaked about in the dykes and we didn’t see otters.

 

We left at a sensible hour when the blue chink had swelled up-river magnificently scurried by wind clouds, and waited for the bus with sun on our skin, slightly delirious.

(If you like my blog, you might like to vote for me to be a Penguin Wayfarer – see ‘There’s An Earthquake in My Boots’ on http://www.ajourneyonfoot.com – voting ends midnight Monday 24th June!)

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The heat is thick, sound hangs heavy. A pair of cyclists pass and their tyre crunch waits in the air minutes after they’ve gone. I’m going to camp in the dunes and it feels like the desert.  A jackdaw flies low, with loud slow wing beats. Gulls sit dotted about the salt-marsh where the mud is cracked barely moving, waiting. A hairy caterpillar crosses the boardwalk, grit sparkles between the treads and the sea does too, distant, far out, low tide.

HeatThe water left behind gleams lazily flat and still.

Another cyclist comes, wobbles, climbs off his bike. He is old and brown and wants to see my painting – his name is Enrico Planes and he lives in Burry Port. His Spanish father was a boatman he says, who sailed to St Dogmaels and fell in love with his mother. Enrico Planes has never been to Spain. He has four children, eleven grandchildren, and two great grand children. ‘Be careful on that bike’ they say, ‘don’t go too far!’. Enrico Planes remembers a day when you could drop a line in from here and pull out sea bass, or mackerel or flounder. Enrico Planes says when he meets people like me he wishes he was 30 again. He grins a white tooth smile which is all hot Spain, and pedals away.

The crunch of his tyres linger. Insects buzz. A thin warm breeze stirs the marram.