Trip to the Gower

‘ . . . Among Early Risers, the wake failure rate hovered around thirty per cent, even amongst those who had been doing it for decades. About a third would simply pull off the Taser, roll over, grunt, and not stir until their contingency was burned away and hunger brought them floundering back to the surface. Early rising wasn’t for the weak-hearted  . . . ’

– Winter Physiology for the Consul Service, by Dr Rosie Patella

Flashes of light, incoherence, a shout, then darkness. But an unusual form of darkness. Not darkness as in nothing being there, or hibernatory darkness, thick, unyielding and timeless, but darkness as a heavy velvet curtain. I could hear and smell what was behind the curtain, but it had not yet lifted. There were whisperings of words unrecognised, then the rustle of trees and the sweet scent of a childhood Summer: freshly-turned hay, hot mud while dibbling with a stick in drying puddles, harvest, meadows.

Then, the darkness turned  . . . glossy. A cascade of disjointed images. Jack Logan embedded in the wall, partially plastered over. Moody, Mrs Tiffen, the Siddons and Porter Lloyd humming ‘The Lonely Goatherd’. And then, with a sudden short blast of static, I was sitting on Rhosilli beach beneath the shade of an orange-and-red parasol of spectacular size and splendour. Dominating the view was the wreck of the Argentinian Queen, the passenger liner now rusted and half-collapsed with gaping holes in her hull, nibbled by decades of surf.

I looked around and saw that I was not alone: sitting on the beach towel next to me was the artist I’d seen back in the Siddons. She was wearing a perfectly-fitting one-piece swimsuit the colour of Spring-fresh leaves and her large and inquisitive eyes were staring intently into mine, her jet-black hair moving in a breeze that carried with it the scent-memories of Summer holidays: sun lotion, ice cream and drying seaweed. Her name I now knew was Birgitta, and she gave me a captivating smile, then pushed some loose hair behind her ear. I could sense the intoxicating feeling of indivisible oneness, something that I had yet to feel in life – to know someone loves you, and to know you love them back equally; that you belong only with each other; that you are each other.

‘I love you, Charlie.’

‘I love you, Birgitta.’

The breakers boomed and a little girl chased a beach ball towards shore’s edge with a gurgle of laughter.

And then, I knew: for the first time since childhood, I was dreaming. I’d remembered them as being vague and hazy, but this dream felt more real than reality itself – I could feel the gritty texture in the sand, see the foam flecking on the waves, smell the salt in the sea air.