Cwmdonkin Drive

Subject: Cwmdonkin Drive

There's a quietus in the valley as the rain continues to fall,  the bedraggled sheep in the field look as unhappy as the people on Cwmdonkin Drive, staring with unfathomable patience at passers by. The clouds form an impenetrable barrier to the upland light, encasing us in a greyness which clogs the soul. The sea, as flat as a pancake spreads out like a layer of butter on bread reflecting what little light there is and making the bay seem enchanted with its dappled texture. Small boats sit patiently waiting for the tide to bring them life again, released from the mud of their nights slumber they gently pull at the anchor as the gulls swoop and cry their mournful banter. 
It's Sunday morning and the wet streets await the first people to tread their way to the corner shop, shaking off the rain as they enter, "a loaf of bread and the newspaper Mrs Jones". " Yes he's still in bed, didn't get in until 2 this morning". The opening salvos still to come will take us to lunch time when the doors to the houses open and the men troop out to slake their thirst and, for a while, escape recrimination. 
In the Market the traders open the shutters with a rattle, more time to spend looking for an opportunity. The goods are commonplace, a mixture of food and gadgets, the bookstall with its display of secondhand books, hand me downs to titivate the reader.
The smell of fresh baked bread, the smell of the fishmonger, the blood red sight of meat not long passed, as the animals who contemplated their future standing forlornly in the rain soaked fields not far away. There are the trinket sellers and the meat and two veg cubical's where the food is functional and not in anyway artistic. The place is thronged by women who carry their shopping bags with indefatigable optimism, there's always a bargain to be had as long as you stay sharp witted and what ever you do, don't get in the way of a bargain.
The ice cream shop in Mumbles is doing great trade even though it's cold and raining. They drive from miles around to sample the rich creamy ice cream, sold in the tub they are expensive but the trade goes on summer and winter, a chance to spoil yourself and be reminded of your childhood, the one treat your parents could provide. 
The pier is shrouded in low lying mist, the supports, barnacled and exposed wait the arrival of the next tide whilst the holidaymakers stroll along seeking that taste of having left the shoreline in an adventure to reach the end. The amusement arcade with its old fashioned, push halfpenny coin extravaganza or the futile wrestle for a prize from the heap behind the glass, only to see it invariably drop back into the heap. Simple fun for simple honest people.
The cyclists, skateboarders, runners and pedestrians politely share the path which boarders the sea. To the left, the sand and the mud, to the right the busy traffic, people ever moving like demented ants, ever going somewhere to nowhere. 
This path has a life of its own. It resembles that space where we are free mentally to make of life what we wish, to ignore the bustle to our left and drink deeply from the ebb and flow of nature to our right. When the tide is in the salt water replenishes  the little creatures which lie waiting in the mud, it creates that elemental metronomic pulse, the movement of the waves, developed as energy in some far off ocean and now deposited on the beach. Another of natures wonders. 
Often it's the case that we are too busy with our own thoughts, our own energy pulse of self absorption to notice what's around us but harder in Wales not to take notice since at every turn it's there to amaze and delight depending on your fancy.