Fishing Boats (5)

I’ve been gloomy. And tired. And the prospect of going out into the cold dark is a challenging one. I do it though. Always. Today I walked from the Bar end to the harbour instead of the other way round. It was dry so I could walk on the Perygyl. As I approached there was a boat. A fishing boat. A proper one, as he said this morning at breakfast. They have to move slowly out of the harbour. And I watched as it passed me, high above it, not moving much faster than I was. How can I tell you how joyous such a sight makes me feel? What is it? It’s lights? Like Christmas tree lights, bright and glittery in a triangle, red, yellow and white. Or is it the gentle way it bobs and rides the waves? It was cold. No picnic out there at 3.00 am inĀ  the morning. And then, joy of joys, there was another one, close by its heels. This was full of lobster creels. It’s the hush too. Just the purr of the engine. No one talks. It is too early, thoughts are not yet formed. And the smell of diesel oil. A faint miasma, not like cars, innocuous. I stood and watched them pull there way towards the open sea.

Walking home a man was running along the main road. He was a hefty shape and breathless. He wore shorts. Was it a race, a dare? Two other men stood watching him.

Flat cleaned, washing done and coffee made. To work.

Is the sky as perfect with you?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.