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.

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