Tuesday: Rain, rain, go away...Oh. You did.

From the corner of the comfy couch, Carmarthenshire, Wales


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The wet windy morning of sheeting rain helped some people sit down long enough to get a bit of work done, even though they still lapsed into looking at properties on the internet and trying to plan an interesting overnight trip somewhere in Wales. By the time the work was finished, the rain had turned to the misty variety and the wind had gone wherever wind goes.

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A walk into town passed through the indoor markets and ended up at a cafe above a craft shop overlooking the town square. The back of a statue of an undoubtedly noble person faces the cafe (if a back can face), and to the right loom the black ruins of a castle though which public servants pass on their way to lunch. There are slots through which archers defended the alleyway between PCs and panninis.

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The cemetery slides up a hillside, a small chapel with a red door anchoring it at the foot. The recent fashion for marble means that it is tempting to overlook older stone engravings which are relatively indecipherable while the more modern headstones look freshly minted and are easy to read. The finely cut and self-controlled wording, often picked out in gold, somehow speaks of trying to contain the messy grief behind it all, but doesn’t fool anybody. Placed by the headstones are flowers, plastic and freshly cut, sometimes both in the same bouquet, some colourful, others serene, some blown over, glass domes protecting browning posies, three slightly puckered deflating balloons with stars on them and the remnants of wrapping paper, and most wretched of all, soggy stuffed animals and garish disney characters on tiny graves in a desperately sad cluster of impossibly small plots at the top of the hill. It took a few moments for the meaning to sink in.

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Here graves sport small marble cubes on which are written tributes from family or friends, neighbours, workmates, or drinking buddies at the Boars Head Inn.

The 20 year old soldier died in June,1945.

Cemeteries are always places to contemplate the strangeness of the cycle of life, which, of course, isn’t a cycle at all for each individual. Children who are 82 when they die, their parents 73 and 81, all buried together.

I wonder if it’s OK to step off the footpath in my wanderings, out of respect, then notice that the whole place, including mounds, has had its grass slashed by a ride-on mower.

Time to head home because tonight dog training is on. Tomorrow I head to Tenby but without technology so won’t write again until Thursday.

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