Conwy
In Conwy, an old woman's hand emerges from beneath an umbrella to reach for the tray of fish and chips. Her wheelchair is pulled up to a picnic table along the harbor front, but she's wise to the passing showers.
Eileen spots a fresh seafood takeaway, with cockles, crayfish, crab, whelk, and shrimp. A seagull engages with us directly when we find a seat on the wall by the crab pots. Its entreating squeaks and head cocks degenerate into muttering yuks and pacing when we fail to offer our morsels.
Pigeons moan from crannies in the Conwy Castle walls. On top of the turret tower, Eileen and I watch gray clouds roll down the valley towards us. Our hair stands at end, wisps lifted straight up by the static of the coming storm.
But the storm doesn't come while we're in the castle, though the wind tugs at my sleeves. It rains, but only a little, while we eat buttered white bread and potato leek soup in the cafe with the harried waitress. It's dry again waiting for the train, and shopping at Lidl.
It waits, like the dark, until we're safe in our little room back in Holyhead, to spatter at the windows: 8pm and the sun still up, but us already preparing for sleep.
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