Dyffryn made the (national) news because it was targetted by a freak, brief storm yesterday. The wind exploded like sea breaking a sea wall, then there was thunder and heaven rending lightening and almost as soon as it started it stopped. It was very like a tantrum.
Ancient woodland was blown down and a tree fell across the railway which made it newsworthy, I guess. The urge to gawk was huge, this photo the reward.
(No one was hurt)
Everywhere was grey today but the sea left this surprise high and dry.
The world was black and white this morning. It wasn’t snow. Colour leached from sea and sky and trees traced patterns making things plain.
My sister gave me a map of the world big enough to dive into. It was going to be for my son, currently in Canada, but he says he’s enough maps. I love it.
The old people’s Christmas party went swimmingly. The ukulele player caused heads to rise, and some joined in the carols with gusto. One sang Away in a Manger then wondered why she was there. One, diminutive and 108, or so they said, remained aloof. A new comer to the feast who had been quite somebody in the community in her day, had caused her to slump in a sulk so she wouldn’t even eat. We tried to persuade her to join in, ‘Father Christmas is on his way.’
‘Bugger Father Christmas!’ And with that she curled up like a dormouse and slept.
Indulgence does the heart good, especially with family.
When I was training as a nurse and on geriatric secondment at an old workhouse in the East End of London, a cry could be heard most days echoing in the large lobby from the depths of one of the wards. ‘Cake, every day, cake.’ Over and over. The tone was flat, the voice deep, the complaint, I think, was of monotony.
The view from the window as the train pottered back to England was sublime. We were going up river but not into the heart of darkness, or even of for a Whitsun Wedding, it was for a jaunt and afternoon tea and it wasn’t till we neared Manchester, after long leaves-on the-line-delays, that there were any back to back houses.
Today on the radio they spoke of Larkin.
That Whitsun, I was late getting away:
Not till about
One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday
Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out,
All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense
Of being in a hurry gone. We ran
Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street
Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence
The river’s level drifting breadth began,
Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.