Camping Site

Signs have been attached to the railings at the harbour end of the Prom. Well, I say signs, they are actually laminated pieces of paper that have been tied to the railing uprights. They have been somewhat battered by the wind, and have curled into each other becoming virtually unreadable and consequently easy to ignore. THIS IS NOT A CAMPSITE, they state, but a car park. And there then follows a long list of dos and don’ts – such as the imperative to get rid of what they call ‘grey water’ elsewhere. He was pleased when I told him, having developed what he admits is an irrational hatred towards mobile homes. I secretly think that they look rather cosy and harbour fantasies about hiring one with him (he’d have to drive) and just driving off somewhere, our home carried with us, like a snail. Though I think America would be more fun, our island being rather limited in size and freedom and open road.

He’s just gone for his walk. The moon was still gracing me with its glorious presence this morning, though a hazier one, caught behind cloud.

I’m to write today. I hope it will come. I want that encompassing.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.