An Alternative Writing Retreat
Between the villages of Dinmael and Tŷ Nant in north Wales, there is a half-mile stretch of road that has been closed to vehicles since 1997. It winds along the side of a short leafy gorge above the river Ceirw, and remains open to visitors without advertising its considerable history…
I’d been drawn to it, when it had appeared one day in the middle nineties, bursting upon a patch of wasteland on the way to Roman Road, where my favourite morning market had offered cut-price clothes. My mother and I had gone to the market every now and then, and we’d punctuated our chilly trawl down the long, stall-congested street…
One summer, my father took us, Rob and I, to the Orkney Islands, to see the Viking burial sites, Pictish and Neolithic ruins, and to do some fishing. I was still in primary school – year five, I think. The first evening we arrived, we watched three locals unload their catch from a small motorboat onto the boggy shore of the lake we were staying on…
This single, run-on, car crash sentence is posted prominently at least a dozen times. It appears on trees, on lamposts, bolted to walls. One copy of it, a little faded and rusty, is even tucked away amongst the bushes. It is clear that a great deal of time and energy has been expended in the crafting and installation of this sign. But what does it mean…
Walsall railway station doesn’t really exist. I was once mesmerised by the dark polished floor in the vast booking hall, and in awe of its wrought-iron canopy. Now whatever’s left has been swallowed inside a shopping centre named Saddlers as commemoration of a vanished industry. The usual shops – Poundland, Claire’s Accessories, a Costa Coffee…