Two Weeks Today

I look at the clock, it is still early. I lie embraced in the silence for a while, letting my mind wander freely. Reality dawns, two weeks today I shall be waking up to go to the airport. Two weeks today I shall begin the journey that I have waited and planned for for the past year. Quietly I get up and slip out of Vicky's house heading for the beach.

The sky is overcast as I walk for the final time to the cove. I take my time, as carefully, I make my way over the jagged rocks to the sand. There had been a time when I would have raced over them, two children in tow, loaded with bags and picnics, drinks and towels, body boards, buckets and spades. Many summers had been spend down here hiding amongst the crevices, hidden from the tourists that invaded our shores and swarmed our main beaches. Our cave is nearly full of stones, a bare foot of head room remains at the back. How the moving tides change things over time. So many things change over time.

Feeling slightly confused and perturbed by the dawning realisation of the near completion of my past life, I leave the sea to manipulate the shore of the beach and head into town.

47 years ago I had been born in this seaside town. Born in the second bedroom of no 63 Mary Street. Although I lived my first few years in London and Scotland, I have no real memories except those of growing up in Porthcawl. My bedroom on the top floor. The nursery school at the top of the hill and their compulsory mid-day naps. Walking to big school with my Grand-father. Adventures with Ruth Wilson who lived across the back lane.

I had been to school here, worked here, married, lived and divorced here. My children had spend half their lives here, going to school, playing with friends. They too had grown here. I had taught them to Pier Jump as my mother had taught me, throwing themselves off the pier wall in true Porthcawl style.


I stood looking at the pier, the harbour, the light house.

Two weeks today I will be driving to the airport. Two weeks today I leave.

To be honest I left Porthcawl ten years ago following my divorce. The past few years in the heart of Wales have been busy to the point of manic obsession as I created a home for the children and myself, held down four jobs as they worked their way through University and School, bought land and workshops with Mark and travelled my way through various continents on our yearly sabbaticals.

Now it is my time. The children are settled in their own ways, Tramp, my beloved Lurcher passed away last November. Mark and I are following different paths and the opportunity of a life time has been presented to me.

Life on an Island in the South Pacific.

Over the past year I have put things in place to enable this huge change to happen.



The house is now in my sole name, the Workshop is now Marks.



The land where we played and camped has been sold, my belongings have been given away.



One smallish suitcase is all that remains of my life history, that and a guitar that I will one day learn to play!



I walk for the final time along John Street, looking at the unfamiliar shops. So much had changed already. It is time to move on.