He pictured Afan now — tall and gangly, cropped dark hair, small sharp nose with a reddish tip, as if he had a permanent cold, and jug ears — my only resemblance to Prince Charles. Since Afan had been in touch, odd memories had come back to him, in the way that they do when the pool of the past has been stirred. He recalled sitting on Afan’s balcony in the hot dusk of a summer’s evening, drinking aromatic Munica Brune beer while his friend sipped absinthe: the sharp scent of ripe beef tomatoes, the sweetness of honeysuckle, the rippling silver river below and on Afan’s sound system, the Neath choir singing ‘Myfanwy’. He’d been happy that night, looking forward to seeing Ruth when he returned to London for a visit. That was just before she’d told him that she’d fallen in love with a man called Emlyn and their engagement was over.
Appropriately enough, ‘Myfanwy’ was a melancholy tale of unrequited love. ‘What was it that I did, oh Myfanwy / To deserve the frown of your beautiful cheeks?’ Yet for Swift, it summoned pleasant memories of tranquil, trouble-free times.
Chapter 2
The air freshened as Swift drove west, past Swansea and into deep green countryside. The fields were dotted with sheep, some with dark coats. He lowered his window and breathed in the aromatic scent of the hedges. When he stopped the car to stretch his legs, he leaned against a gate and contemplated a flock of Badger Face sheep, so called because of their distinctive black markings. They were comical. He took a photo to send to Branna. He missed her. His clothes were far too tidy and lacking food smears. A few of the sheep halted long enough to return his gaze, and then skittered away among mossy clumps of white saxifrage. The air was cool, the watery blue sky busy with pale grey clouds, and now and again, there were spits of rain. He recalled Afan once saying, ‘good summer weather in Wales is as rare as a hen’s teeth.’
He drove on, reflecting on the Tir Melys website. It was in Welsh and English, well designed and informative, albeit a tad smug and with a flavour of virtue-signalling:
Tir Melys translates into English as Sweet Land.
We are a thriving community of smallholdings on a fifty-acre site, with a central communal hub, the Bivium. Our aim is to be part of the ecosystem and work the land with respect. We see ourselves as stewards of the earth, not owners of it. We manage our sweet land innovatively and collectively, always with the aim of being self-sufficient.
Our popularity is such that we have no more space at present for new stewards, but we welcome volunteers and visitors. Be warned — if you’re a digital addict this probably isn’t the place for you! We have no broadband and no phone signal. (In fact, none of us has a TV). There is one landline in the community house. We find that we’re far too busy and content here to notice the lack of these things.
When he was six miles from Holybridge, travelling a narrow back road, he saw the sign to Tir Melys. It was a carved, oval piece of oak fixed to two robust posts in the ground. The name was in green, nestling among painted rosy apples, pointing to a gated lane with a cattle grid inside a black five-bar gate. Swift opened the gate and drove through, closed it after him and carried on slowly along the rutted surface. On his left, he saw a small, single-storey stone building, with worn steps up to a wooden door. It was neglected, with cracked glass in the tiny, high windows, and surrounded by brambles and tall nettles.
He’d had an email reply from Afan on Saturday.
See you on Monday. I live in Croeso Adref (Welcome Home) so once you’ve parked, take the main path. You’ll see the Bivium straight ahead. Go left and you’ll find me just off the path, on the right. Door’s always open. I’ll probably be out working, but I’ll be back by sixish, so make yourself comfy.
After driving along the track for a couple of minutes, Swift saw a sign to the car park: Please Park Here. We prefer to keep cars away from our peaceful homes. He parked in the small, gravelled space, near the only other vehicle, a red Land Rover, took the rucksack he’d packed from the car boot and followed the path marked by another wooden signpost saying Bivium.
The rough path was lined with a rosemary hedge and behind it, apple and pear trees laden with ripening fruit. In the silence, he heard the insistent drone of bees. He recognised the Bivium from the photo on the website. It was a semi-circular timber building with a curving turfed roof, set on a grassy mound of land which was dotted with dandelions, daisies and herbs. Steps led to the outer glassed veranda. He’d expected the place to be busy, but it seemed quiet. He could smell the sea now and hear it too, a distant whisper, just a couple of miles away, over the headland.
He walked on, his rucksack bumping against his back, past a round timber dwelling with a garden framed by tall sunflowers, then by a large, cultivated area full of ripe vegetables and a row of potatoes that had been dug up and left to dry.
To his right, down a slight incline, he saw a single-storey, traditional cottage, with a rough exterior like wattle and daub, a central door and two windows either side, the left one slightly open. The cottage was painted sky blue, with a turfed, bright green roof, in the centre of which nestled a squat chimney. Scarlet geraniums tumbled from window boxes. The vivid colours called to mind a child’s crayoned drawing, perhaps the cottage in the woods
