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Lottie Williams

On the jap fringe of Carmarthen, within the village of Abergwili, is Bishop’s Palace – a spot of magnificence, historical past and religion.

And on this delicate November morning, with a glass sky of solar, he’s operating, veering off the trail, passing the traditional field tree that dwarfs a terraced counterpart shut by.

He circles the monkey puzzle, seems over his shoulder, then hides behind the London aircraft, urgent himself up in opposition to the camouflage bark. I bend my knees, slink low to the bottom and sneak throughout with the stealth mode solely moms know.

‘The place has he gone? I can’t see you.’ I elongate my remaining vowels for impact.

‘Peekaboo!’ he shouts, a pink flash immediately showing with arms held extensive, hood coming up and down.

Shrieks fill the air. I chase him throughout the grass in direction of a cluster of maple timber. They’ve shed most of their leaves already, naked branches waving to the gingko nonetheless coated in a sheath of yellowy inexperienced and softening the air like it’s Might.

However our days are shortening now, the extensive grin of summer time a hazy reminiscence, and the bottom has change into a topography of crackle. Drying maple leaves have piled in a come-and-get-me mould of burnished toffee, amber gold and butter. Splodges of lime mulch by.


He’s grinning, kicking the fallen leaves again up in direction of the sky in a tornado of cinnamon litter. There’s a second when the leaves change course, a second once they lose human fuelled momentum, dangle, after which slowly float to the bottom in a dry cascade.

He scoops them up with digger arms and throws them in a fountain arc. They rain down on high of him. An earthy scent, disturbed by play, masses the air between us. For a second it’s nonetheless. It smells of Autumn.

He seems as much as the branches haloed in sunshine, simply in time to see a dying leaf lose grip. I attain up for him, catch it because it floats by the air, place it safely into his coat pocket.


There as soon as stood a tree in Carmarthen on the nook of Previous Oak Lane and Priory Avenue. Everyone knows the saying,

When Merlin’s Tree shall tumble down,

then shall fall Carmarthen city.

Hearsay has it the oak tree was poisoned, after which it decayed. After which it died. Regardless of this prophecy, in fact, Carmarthen nonetheless stands and Merlin nonetheless sleeps below the inexperienced blanket of his hill within the valley.

Caerfyrddin. A wizard’s fort. A small fragment of the previous oak is endlessly immortalised behind glass. Exhausting and dry. Cracked and fractured. It has calloused knobbly growths and whizzened fingerprint swirls.

Youngsters are unable to press their palms in opposition to it, can’t really feel its 4 hundred years of reminiscence. They cease and look, are informed, ‘this was a tree,’ hold strolling.


Right here, historical past lies deep beneath our ft below the foundations of the brand new city that was constructed across the previous city – that was constructed on high of the unique city.

Priory Avenue nonetheless runs alongside the identical route because the Roman settlement Moridunum, the proper identify for this Sea Fort.

Within the city centre, simply up from Darkgate and Nott’s Sq., Carmarthen Fortress stands proudly on the hill that overlooks the River Tywi. The proper place for a Medieval lookout.

We cross the brink stays below a gray stone archway, then flip proper. He runs to the far finish, down the few uneven steps, and appears out over the river and floodplain. His palms, these infantile palms that sculpt towers of Play Doh, construct Lego sentry gates, color in flags, now lean in opposition to the chilly stone.

I’m wondering if he can really feel a connection.

Do the rocks pulse with what has been earlier than – a rhythm of dashes and dots – dots and dashes – throughout this marked stone? Will his heart-line and head-line hint again, run from his heat palms and fuse with the fissures, centuries previous. Can he bind pores and skin with lichen, develop roots together with his ft, create no starting or finish with the earth?


I catch as much as him, wrap my arms round his chest, push my face into his hair. His candy hair, tender and smelling of honey. I maintain onto him for just a bit longer than I imply to, want his life-line may hint forwards in time, ship us religion.

We glance under to the place trade has sprung up throughout the basin, watch a prepare slowly pulling into the station. A pink mild provides warning additional up the monitor.

‘Granny’s prepare.’ He factors and smiles, understanding the place we meet my mum when she arrives from Yorkshire.

County Corridor sits beside us, its bulk boasting tall chimneys, hulking roof, and plenty of, many home windows with white, white frames.

‘Tadcu Tumble painted these,’ he says proudly.

We watch a kayak skim the river. Seagulls relaxation by the reeds, some trip the air, one seasaws the water.


Reminiscence simmers within the currents of the Tywi because it winds its means round city.

Up right here on the ramparts, his eyes hint centuries. He imagines the vessels unloading sugar and vinegar, iron and coal, on the marina.

The woody scent of ginger wafts up from under, carried on a number of hundred years of breeze. It clouds the air tan, pricks the hair in his nostrils, mixes with salt from the ocean.

An outgoing tide sculls coracles and sewin however the river not flashes with the pilgrim shimmer of an Autumnal migration. As an alternative, UberEats roams the streets.

Simply previous the marina, the Tywi adjustments course and heads south for the ocean. Its banks, now velvet brown and tide-smoothed, start to widen, forsaking the contorted twists of a slower westerly journey. From our home we will see the river, a glinting mirror of the Heavens that sits in static movement, sure for Carmarthen Bay.

However down on the financial institution, it boils and churns. Pulled upstream and downstream by a relentless tide it strikes rapidly. Erratically. A menace of swirls rip the shore.

That is the place we come to trip our bikes, on the flat path throughout the floodplain between the leisure centre and the marina.

‘Watch me,’ he cries, ft whizzing, spokes spinning. Be careful, I silently pray.

The water can rise and spill over the paths, licking the wetlands with its silver tongue of brine. It uproots Harribo luggage, takeaway cartons and 7up bottles which were seized by the mud. Now let loose, they can also be part of the sewin on a pilgrimage again out to sea.


Later at residence, I empty his pockets.

Autumn is pulled out and lays upon the desk: a wooden pigeon’s feather, as soon as fused and easy with the energy of every strand it has pulled aside like a jagged dagger; a chunk of tough bark, maybe oak; a brittle leaf, now disintegrated into many darkish flecks like roughly floor espresso beans; a bit cup, no acorn; the maple leaf that I caught, casting a yellow glow from the inside darkness of his coat.

I take my little wood field, rigorously place the items in – shut the lid.

I shall reserve it for when he’s older, a reminder of what Autumn was like.

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