away, far away, in the face of the beautiful Pembrokeshire coastline. A lot of it driven away by the rain and howling gales. Bracing. And oddly soothing: timeless ripples in the sands, big expanses of sky over our heads, wind that roared and whipped and buffeted, the clicking sound of shingle being washed over and over by the tide. Astonishing sun bursting irrepressibly through frowning clouds.
Collecting shells and pebbles, my coat pockets becoming temporary portable shrines to the sea. I’m still finding sand in them.
“Now behind the eyes and secrets of the dreamers in the streets rocked to sleep by the sea, see the titbits and topsyturvies, bobs and buttontops, bags and bones, ash and rind and dandruff and nailparings, saliva and snowflakes and moulted feathers of dreams, the wrecks and sprats and shells and fishbones, whalejuice and moonshine and small salt fry dished up by the hidden sea…” Under Milk Wood, Dylan Thomas.