I was in the Green Desert of Wales, eating chips that were greasy and tinned carrots cooked in sugar. The heartland. It's all right, we didn't come to cause trouble. Here we can cover our tracks, here you won't be dead too. Too stubborn. Maybe we could have saved them, who knows. The mess...wasn't your fault. You did everything you could.
Bounded to the north by Gwynedd, Denbighshire and Wrexham, clinging to the west by Ceredigion and Carmarthenshire fly to the east by Shropshire and Herefordshire; and to the south by Rhondda Cynon Taf, Merthyr Tydfil, Caerphilly, Blaenau Gwent, Monmouthshire and Neath Port Talbot.
Llywelyn the Last, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, Gruff Lly, my last leader, not theirs. Met his death in 1244, falling....falling....escaping from the top of the Tower of London. This window to death bricked up and still seen by eyes today.
Do you not see the path of the wind and the rain?
Do you not see the oak trees in turmoil?
Cold my heart in a fearful breast
For the king, the oaken door of Aberffraw
The valley with its patchwork fields that lie like a hotchpotch quilt across the land, dotted with sheep but no souls. No souls for a day. The fairy tree, the swing, field one and field two and mind the nettles, because they sting. I thought one day the poplars would fall and land crashing onto the barn, the greenhouse, me.
The heart of Wales cut off from its lifeline from the rest of the world by the Beeching Axe, the reshaping of the railways, but the Wye Valley taxi man keeps on, ferrying.
Water-breaks-its-neck with the tall willowy man, and the three girls in matching dresses, across the old stone arched footbridge with views down into the waterfall gorge.
Sensible footwear is recommended and do not beat a dog with a stick.
Dead flies in the windowsill, the pictures on the walls, same questions asked, and the room with the dresses, always out of bounds. Boiled eggs by the Rayburn and Panda Pops right up high. And the ominous what is poisoning you poster on the fridge.
The visitors book in the dusty church where we saw the man that was not there and an untended grave.
Heather and gorse. Lucky and spiky. Badger sets at midnight.
My grandfather's namesake said see this layered sandstone among the short mountain grass. Place your right hand on it, palm downwards. See where the sun rises and where it stands at noon. Direct your middle finger midway between them. Spread your fingers, not widely. You now hold this place in your hand - the six rivers rise on the plateau on the back of your hand.
I hold it all in my head.
