Time was, I began last week’s blog, when I would have walked down to Whitesands on my own from St David’s. And time also was, I’ve been thinking, when, during years before that, I’d cycle away from our house when we lived in Fishguard, finding roads I hadn’t been on before and carrying on. I don’t know how this passion for discovery began. But I did love it. For instance, you’d come across lovely views that made you stop and admire. Or you’d happen across sights that would make you wonder about the people who might be involved.

Some of those memories have been prompted by seeing my brother Richard and sister Ann in Mathri this week and the long talks we had. One that continues to return to mind – and I’m sure I’ve written about it here before – was when I cycled down into that little valley on a road near Fishguard where I hadn’t been before. At the bottom of the road was a small white house – or was it a pair of houses? – with a stream running across the bottom of the garden.  Anyway, as I stopped for a bit of a rest, I saw the sight which imprinted itself on my mind and imagination and that no doubt will be there for the rest of my life. As I stood there, astride my bike but probably not in obvious view, a young man came out of the house. In his hand was a bunch of dead daffodils. And what did he do with these daffodils? Did he throw them into a dustbin or onto a heap for recycling? No. He continued to carry them as he got onto his bike, which was propped against one of the houses and, still carrying the daffodils, cycled out onto the road and rode away. (more…)

Time was when I would have walked or cycled down to Whitesands from our house on the edge of St David’s and, when I got there, I’d probably have found no-one at all on the beach. So I’d have had that glorious expanse of sand to myself (glorious expanse when the tide was out). Nowadays it’s hardly ever like that. All year round, on Christmas Day too, visitors come from all over the place in their camper vans and appropriate togs and what’s lovely is that they all appear to be having a marvellous time. Their dogs too (except in high summer when they’re banned from Pembrokeshire beaches). Bounding across the abundant sand (abundant when the tide is out), the dogs make momentary new friends with other dogs and then bound on. What’s less lovely is that, retaining the memories of having the place to myself, I often wish that time had not moved on. (more…)

It can be a dismaying feeling. The husband of a friend has died. You really don’t know what to say except for a lame ‘I’m so sorry’.

Another friend is in turmoil. She doesn’t know what to do. Shall she finally move to the country? She’s thought about it for years. Has she finally got the courage or the means to do it now? You really can’t say much that is helpful. Instead, you just listen.

You enter a Cathedral. The roof is high, the pillars that hold up the roof are mighty. The quiet inside the building is awesome. You don’t want to speak. Nor do you want anyone to speak to you. In every sense, the building brings you into its silence. (more…)

Portrait of George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) by Francois D’Albert Durade, 1850

These days, I sometimes don’t get out of bed till coffee-time. This is because I have an increasingly strong sense that, unless there are appointments to attend or other particular things that have to be done at home, it doesn’t really matter what time I get up. Meantime, there’s lots of reading to do. How much time is available for this on any particular day fluctuates. But compared with my past life as a working storyteller when an early get-up was almost always a necessity, having time to sit in bed reading is a wonderful luxury. Or dare I admit it both to myself and to you reading this blog, it has become something of a necessity.

What I’m reading at present is Adam Bede, one of the big novels by 19^th century writer, George Eliot. What a mixture of satisfactions and tragedies the characters’ lives prove to be. And how well-drawn those characters are. The book is full of incident as it traces the ups-and-downs of their lives and as I read, I am both admiring and pitying their travails. I started upon Adam Bede at the suggestion of my good friend, the translator Margaret Costa, the person I call my Book-Pair. It was a suggestion I welcomed for I’d previously read other George Eliot books with great pleasure and admiration. I don’t know why this one had got missed out.

Like so many 19^th century novels, Adam Bede is both long and demanding. It moves between scenes of rural contentment to others of imminent tragedy. And imminent tragedy is where I am right now as one of the events in prospect is the hanging of the main female character. Oh my goodness, will this actually happen? Or will she be saved in some way or another? With such cliff-hangers as part of this long novel, perhaps it’s not surprising that I’ve spent a good part of recent mornings gripping my copy in apprehension at what might transpire.

As crime novels regularly do, Adam Bede (which is no crime novel) keeps you on your toes as to what’s going to happen to its main characters. Also in my case, in between times of reading, it keeps me wondering about my own reading. I studied English Literature at University. How come I didn’t get round to Adam Bede? The answer, I suppose, is that, not even including the recently-published novels I get to read as a member of my Book Group, there’s been so much else to turn to.

At least I can honestly say that I’m glad I’m a reader. Poetry, essays, biography, novels … toss them in my direction and I’ll at least pick them up and give them a go. And then, of course, quite apart from reading,  there’s no lack of other things to do. On Monday this week, for instance, there was the evening at the London Welsh Centre in Gray’s Inn Road to celebrate St David’s Day. It was a most enjoyable time. Wonderful Cawl a chan- traditional lamb soup and plenty of singing.Paul and I wore daffodils from our garden and its quite marvellous to be able to report that both are still blooming today as if they’d freshly opened. No shriveling or wilting or brown bits despite a whole evening at the London Welsh Centre in  and the several days that have passed since then. Amazing!

PS: The sunflower from our garden is here today as a tribute to the people of Ukraine whose national flower it is.