There’s something intrinsically melancholic about the grass at the edge of this car park on the Lleyn peninsula. If it were a dog you’d say it had a staring coat, speaking of some inward malady; an infestation. Well, if it’s an infestation of anything it’s time – minute worms if I was going to be a smart arse. The crowds have gone home – just a few Friday weekenders now. Ironically, of course, this is precisely what makes the seaside in autumn and winter so attractive. The empty shops; the pubs that only open at weekends; the absence of any diversions at all – even the occasional fairy lights are disconnected to make sure the last man made enchantment is drained into the sea.
R S Thomas, the poet, would have been pleased to see the back of us all. The voice, if not the mouthpiece of the English ruling class could stop shouting at the blackberry tourists and get back to nagging the butcher about labelling his wares in Welsh.
On the beach today we saw a kestrel hunting along the banks of tussocky grass below the mud cliffs. A pair of oystercatchers busily worked the edge of the waves and were moved on by a heron that perched for a minute and then flew lazily across the bay. To the west a brief band of clear sky illuminated a narrow strip of the tideline like Courbet’s painting of the end of time; and a brilliant turquoise sail jellyfish was silently ending its visit to Wales.
Summer’s gone – time to go home.