The pebbles devoured the succulents, one tasty morsel at a time
When I was a kid I used to go with my family to north Wales. The beautiful clean fresh air I remember now, the skies, big and blue. We would pass through Snowdonia you see, and head to the magical, mystical island of Ynys Môn. A gently undulating place, the mountains visible in the distance, but too far to block the sun. Here were some of the finest sands in the whole of the United Kingdom. Wide, yellow and not too soft, not too hard. Perfect for beach cricket. The smells and sounds are with me now, and thrill me as my absurd diseased head cannot remember where I was this morning, yet can sense the excitement of progressing along that long long drive to my grandmother’s wonderful, idyllic farmhouse, stopping every so often to argue over who would open each next gate.
Of course we would head to the seaside town, home of my aunt. My wonderful aunt. She would take us to our favourite shop and buy me those amazing and absurd sweets. Every single one a different shape and size. Every one exactly like a pebble. They were almost as hard as a pebble too, and I’d spend hours sucking the succulent pebbles. I often wondered if I had in fact collected a real one. I don’t think I did.
And here I sit, broken and crushed, empty and destroyed, wallowing in a far distant but deeply happy time. Oh to be there now.