…Peter wears sturdy boots with his trousers sensibly tucked into long woollen socks, Kath sports a racy Panama hat with a black band, and I have a rose pullover.
Along Amroth’s shingle beach, formerly occupied by Victorian houses but long since washed away, we looked out over the flat sand that reached around the frozen lava flows to Wiseman’s Bridge a mile or so away.
Behind us stands the New Inn, a farmhouse with a four hundred year history and now a smart pub, modern and gleaming white in the sunshine. Next to us is the marker post marking the start of the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path, opened in 1970 by the friendly Welsh broadcaster and Oxford history graduate, Wynford Vaughan Thomas. It tells us Poppit Sands are 180 miles away.
Fine weather, low tide, and a lively brown dog encourage us to walk this first stage of the coastal path to Tenby, 7½ miles away. Continue reading “Three Women, Two Men and Ruby the Dog.”
‘More than kisses, letters mingle souls’ ~J Donne
He paused over the paper wondering how to start the letter. It was hot. It was always hot near the equator. His fountain pen felt slippery in his sticky hand. Would this be his last chance? Would it solve his problems? With a bold stroke from a firm hand powered by a hopeful heart, he wrote:
‘Dear President Olanta,’ he always started with ‘Dear’ even although sometimes people were not necessarily ‘Dear’.
Sir, I am not guilty of the murder of Honest Nyrere. I beg you to take a look at the case. I have never used a gun and so my fingerprints cannot be on the weapon found at the scene of the crime. I was sleeping in my apartment two miles away at the time of the murder. The police arrested me on the evidence of a man, Alfred Chimbonza, who owes me money, a lot of money, although he’ll deny it of course. He is lying. Continue reading “Letters from Kolentawezi Jail”
…but it was too late. Gaudí died two days later, on June 10, 1926. Thousands attended his funeral.
29 February, 16ºC
We decided to take breakfast at a cafe on Calle Roger de Flor. Perhaps it was unsure of itself for it had emblazoned across its red banner which stretched across the double fronted property ‘Cerveceria Cafeteria Bar Roger de Flor’. We consulted the menu with helpful pictures and in poor Spanish we asked for two omelettes and two coffees. We took our seats across from a few workers in high visibility, yellow jackets having a mid morning break.
After breakfast, we wandered down the wide triumphal passageway Lluis Campanys – ‘A dog walkers paradise,’ said Marjorie as the third dog walker passed us. The palm trees made it feel foreign and the cyclists made good use of the wide, traffic-free pedestrian zone. Continue reading “Barcelona Days and Spanish Nights, 2017”
Then I saw a single Junkers, an angel of death in the sky…
Along with my older sisters Peggy and Joan, I lived with Mum and Dad in a two-room cottage at number 11, India Row, Monkton. We lived, ate and cooked in one one room and slept in the other. The living room had a table and five wooden chairs. Over the black range for warmth and cooking on the mantelshelf stood two photos and a clock. On the table, we kept the valuables tin with the money, the rent book and insurance documents and a bottle of whisky for emergencies.
I’ll never forget one night just after my fifth birthday. It was a bright night. The moon’s milk white disc loomed large over Pembroke castle and the flooded river looked like a lake of silver below the crumbling walls of the west tower. My father had just come home from working at Simonds moaning about something. Straightaway, as he changed into his Home Guard uniform for the evening, the siren at the police station went. Made by a machine that looked like a short, mediaeval siege gun, it droned that ascending atonal sound. It’s wailing output warned everyone for miles around jarring bones and fraying nerves. Continue reading “The Night I’ll Never Forget”
…he withdraws from a rucksack a royal blue Sri-Lankan cricket shirt
The bicycle has an iron frame. It is sturdy, and typical of old-fashioned, reliable Ceylon. We will travel a few kilometres along a gentle path by the river. We are sixteen, well-heeled British seniors on a holiday excursion. After brakes have been tested, saddle heights adjusted, and the most rudimentary instruction on the gears given, we are ready to depart. Tentatively the pedals are pressed down and it all comes flooding back in waves of nostalgia from the days of cycling to and from school long ago on traffic-free roads. It is true you never forget how to ride a bicycle.
Most people selected a helmet. Most, but I hear one comment: ‘I haven’t done this in years,’ and pointing to the helmet, ‘Are these things necessary? I’m not wearing one of those.’ Continue reading “Fat Wallets and Young Hopes”