I took her a small bag of things. She was asleep when I got to her so I placed the bag quietly amongst her store of carrier bags underneath her umbrella. Four seagulls were squawking around her. I chased them away. One of her bags was full of groceries. I could see a pack of four green apples and a tin of something. Is she selling them or are they handouts from the food bank she sleeps in front of. If so, why a tin? Where can she cook? I fretted about what to take for her. What does she need? Am I being generous enough? Would she think me silly? I tried to do what felt best – some biscuits, a home-made flapjack, some tangerines, a pack of tissues, some hand gel, a face cloth, a sachet of shampoo (where does she go to clean up?) and some creams. Oh and a hair band. I wanted to give her something nice. What would I want if I were her? And then I fretted that she wouldn’t be there. But she was. It makes sense, being there. She is near civilisation, for what it’s worth. Keep her safe.

They are going into administration. My heart bleeds for them. They are a nice couple. Nice people. I am fond of them both. I have stayed there many times and was always looked after so well. It was their dream. And it’s broken. What will they do? What can we do?

She is selling smoothies on the street, he said. They can’t open their upstairs restaurant just yet, I think next week they can. But meanwhile she is being entrepreneurial. Good for her. I like her. She never knows my name but we chat. There is recognition.

So much change. So much fear and loss. A clear sky. Not brilliant blue like the Continent but it will do. It will.

I sent it. No word yet. Fingers crossed it will be alright. I did my best. Don’t we all?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.