Ynys Môn day.

Planting trees at the Marram Grass on Tuesday was fun. The snowfall was fresh on the mountains across the Straits, and the wind was keen. Between us, the volunteers planted around 400 trees and my friend and I managed a respectable twenty or so before the cold really started to penetrate. The hens picked and nib bled at the dust, while Liam and Ellis’ Jack Russell rooted for imaginary moles and rats, digging holes too deep for our trees. The soup was out of this world, obviously carrot with other wonderful ingredients and spices, and we left as the clouds darkened dropping a payload of hail. What shall we do next? Neither of us keen to relinquish a day out but equally unwilling to freeze again. We visited Porth Cwyfan and braved the beach; looked at shells, the black rocks and the church on the island surrounded by choppy waters. From our angle the church and headland seemed to curve into the landscape, leaving the eastern end exposed to the  tide.

Then to Holyhead and the breakwater. My friends and family love walking the breakwater but I never see the point: walking a distance only to turn back. It was black and blue and cold: the youngsters were out in the eight foot trainer boats which looked as if they were made from large hankies and plywood. I am told Dion was in the raft, and each tiny trainer boat flipped and turned on the blue waters and I marvelled  at the skill and resilience of the sailors, some of whom are already international competitors

I love  ferries and ferry towns. They are places of movement and change, but now frequently, conflict and despair. They are gathering places. And I wanted to write something about these mobile land bridges that effectively link countries. I wanted to write how the light was filtered in silver layers. But this is what I wrote.

Don’t stand still for the world to change.The horizon changes faster while you straddle the dawn and dark. The sky changes too; silver on gray and blue drawing weather patterns above; shaping the ways sea birds call, then leaving their answers in the scurl of the tide, and in the line of debris dragged in moon’s shift. The stars shuffle too, clock bound and earthbound cycling in on each other then outwards star-crossing us, like roads in straight lines in a landscape of diversions.

It was a lovely day because of the weather. And a spring tide so high  – layered with colour and light – it seemed larger than the landscape.

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