SANCTUARY
I write this in a quiet garden overlooking the sea. In Wales. There’s something about Wales that speaks to my soul. Maybe it’s something to do with it being the land of song, of the Bards, from Taliesin to the Thomases, Dylan and R S. Maybe it’s the echoes of Arthurian legend and Merlin. Or maybe it’s the mountains and the coastline. For a small country Wales has a lot of both.
Whatever the reason, there’s a strong pull, a sense of place. Not the same pull as the Lake District of the Yorkshire Dales which simply feel like home, but a sense of welcome and acceptance. There are those who say the Welsh are insular, inhospitable. Not my experience. I’ve always found the opposite, the famous ‘welcome in the valleys’ – and I’ve been visiting Wales with some frequency since I was a boy. Maybe that’s the attraction.
Sitting in this garden, in the sunshine, I am joined by a new friend – a robin. A robin who always comes to say hello, hops as near as any bird ever has, treats me like a long-lost friend. I’m told by the neighbours that Peg, as she is known, treats all visitors the same – hoping, no doubt, for the food we do not give her.
This feels like a sanctuary, a welcome break from all the commitment’s and busyness of life. I’ll be back home and in the swing of all this by the time you read this but for now the sanctuary holds and refreshes me.
Sanctuary white roses in full bloom remind me of home hedgerows stitch together fields of green robin greets me from chair arm perch church bells summon but the sea exerts a stronger pull