A very shorty story
The place where the sea comes
in is a wild remote place, at the bottom of slate grey, craggy hill sides. Covered
with green mosses and decaying grasses still burned brown form winter winds.
The little road, sometimes
found by tourists is still used daily by a few locals. It’s narrow and rough
from potholes that have spread across it from drivers trying to avoid them when
they first began to appear.
Hidden in over grown hedgerows amides the primroses are the tumbled down
remains of stone cottages. The owners and their families long gone, scattered
by Atlantic winds. Black rotting wooden beams
fallen in under the weight of neglect and water sodden thatch, windowless
frames reveal their empty insides.
A rusting old water pub
stands like a guardian on the bend in the road. Dry and silent now, echoes of
tin buckets filling and splashing down bare legs still vibrate the salty air. Around the bend through a
ramshackle little yard that’s been divided in two by the road. On the left the
little stone shed with its black pitch rounded roof, held on with blue ropes
anchored down by logs, filled with turf and an old fading bicycle.
The family home on the right
with white turf smoke billowing from the chimney, across the road like a
mist that drifts in, filling the car
with memories of days long gone.
Turning on to the bumpy sand
hardened road, that rises a little to tease you and makes your strain your
eyes, your head, and your body as you try to catch a glimpse of the sea.
You have to get out of the
car and walk the short distance to the pebble topped beach before you can stand
and take in “The place where the sea comes in”.
