It’s a bright autumnal afternoon, many cars are headed for the city. It is a Saturday after all, time for browsing shops, spending money, drinking tea. My partner and I join in, as we pull up to that American coffee chain and waste precious pounds for the temporary joy of a seasonal tasting coffee. But we order to take-out, keen to venture out of the Swansea’s stagnant streets, for want of someplace less confined.
We drive out through the red lights, staggered slyly through the town, by-passing on to the open road which curves out around the bay. Turning right at the Mumbles, we join on to country roads, where we wind around the hedgerows, sense of freedom in the air. There are signs spaced out in every direction, trying to lure us down their path, ignorant we keep on driving to our desired journey’s end.
In time we pass through Port Eynon, a village of white-wash, distinctive but discreet. Here we wind up by the shoreline to stretch our idle feet. Vast tidal banks retain the strand, whilst wild hounds bound across the sand. Dunes of grass adorned with wildflowers, while tiny dwellings line the foot of the cliffs.
My boots steadily fill with granules of sand, as I venture over dulse cushioned rock pools and troughs. I run along then, wind whipping through my hair, daring to step into boundless retreating waves. There’s a heat on my back and turn swiftly around to find the sun baring heavy; a terrific radiance of piercing light engulfing my view. My eyes narrow at its strength, I pause in its wake, all aware of intake of salty air.
I survey a landscape in miniature, the many microcosms that breed under the elements; all the living fauna that thrives from this scene. I am captured by the perpetual and ethereal beauty that stands before my eyes. Travel to me is very much idiosyncratic, but who said it need be foreign in distance? For travel to me is foreign, so long as it be in spirit and mind.