Summer mornings, summer nights…

A few days in Wales - impressions, dreams, thoughts. Don’t think, just write it down.

Wales. This corner, tucked away from the day-to-day that was once my bolthole, providing me sanctuary still - so hard to tell the dream from real here. No matter, I prefer it that way, a crossover between the everyday and the neveryday. Awoken by sheep outside my window, skittering along the lane as the farmer moves them to another field where the grass is greener. Greener grass; almost an entire day of sunshine, spent bone-achingly cutting my hedges (far too long left and on the verge of rebellion) then evening dining al-fresco - lasagne and salad - with my parents in the leafy lane between. Too much wine, then bath and an early night to sleep, dog-tired from the hedges, and awaking to see the sun set purple in the far distance of the sea and, later, waking again, to see it orange-red rise across the mountains. Long days, short nights, awaking yet again to birdsong, refreshed, and to a kittens rough tongued kiss “you are my family now” she says, pleasure pawing her pins into the skin of my neck; and yes, I am her family now. The secret sound of darting birds in hedgerow and the bright red-crested woodpecker spotted flashing for an instant at Poo-Stick Bridge. The standing stones, so close, seeming to never be seen in the same place twice, but with a little looking can be seen and touched and spoken to even, but never giving up their names - known. Dreams, with Puck’s Hill just a few steps away and that, as I am given entrance with a special knock, should wander down past midnight with the bottle of well-water in my hand and a song for Arthur to rise again. Same old Puck, same old me - and same old not-quite-dreams; flowers and fairy hats, not as plentiful as in those other years but still here to be worn if I choose to take a gambol. What more? The moon, the sea and the high mountains, the smell of the storm, the noise of gentle rain, the songs of far-off seals, the wind, the dipping of phantom whales, the seagull calling, a dragonfly gem on the water’s edge, the curling of the foxglove path, the singing, and a tap on the window in the dead of night.

Just a few days - what next?