23/11/2025
A stopover on the coast. Brightness, then the clouds drifted in again.
Gingerbread houses in fading colours, more film set than town.
(W (The Whisper): “Hollow… empty…”)
Buoys growing in the estuary, masts above, like thorns.
A street musician filling the whole place with eerie distorted sound. Piano? No, a guitar.
Black dogs leaping from the waves. White dogs, leashed, obedient.
The Sacred Iron Spring: desecrated, sealed, concreted, padlocked.
(W: “What did they lock in?”)
A waitress: “I once poisoned my father.” As it turned out, nothing criminal, but why did she say that?
There used to be a railway line. Gone. Now even the model-rail shop closing forever; an old man, his grandson, the last day. We bought some carriages to cheer them up.
(W: “The line moults… something returns.”)
The Fountain of Light, a spiritual shop, vanished.
(W: “Springs dry. Lights go out.”)
Leaves down. Autumn mostly over. But brightly clothed party goers from Lampeter still flocking in.
Twilight is coming.
We go home.
