It does make me wonder. The thought of leaving my local quarries with their graffitti and glass - and the magical names that promise so much... but only give back that which you already had. The Darren, Mountain Ash, The Gap, Trebanog, Llanbradach...I've eaten tuna fish in them all and chased the stupid little numbers like it matters to anyone. And Ogmore, my precious Ogmore…where the pixies play and call you upwards and onwards to escape the impending doom of normality. A narrow tidal window in a rush-rush world of 'I want'…and a spanking wet fish on the face of your ego for your troubles. The peg-rusted golden brown of a Wintour's Leap and the dead fox that is Shorn Cliff. And the sloping shelf that I call the Avon of Enlightenment...all twisting and pushing and smearing and 'what ifs' as you go for the check-mate. The Indigo verticality of Pembroke…friendly in-cuts, biting footholds, sun and washing machine sea…three star everything for your sore hands. Friendly, friendly, friendly…she's looked after me and killed some. And her little brother Gower where you can hide from anything and anyone but yourself if you know where to look.
All under 2 hours away. You know, you're right. I should stay. I mean, what happens to all your chalk marks too?
Question: What do people do to get by and live in Natimuk and is the lake dry?! |