Endings of any sort are not always much fun. If you’ve ever had a breakup of a relationship then you will know what I am talking about. These kind of endings bring with them heartbreak, unless it is a breakup that you have instigated. Then, you might think of it as a good ending.

I am writing about the end of novels, stories or poetry and how you are left with some sense of mystery or place, dependant upon what has preceded it. However, naturally, read the preamble so that the ending makes some kind of sense to you

Don’t you just love the endings that leave you with a tasty morsel to encourage you to read on? In such a book as “Safe Haven” by Nicholas Sparks “Clem wandered up the stairs, sniffed him as he slept, and then paced in circles before finally curling up at the foot of his bed.” Aren’t you just wondering who, or what, Clem is? If you like one book by an author, you invariably follow this up with another. A sign of a good book is when you are desperate to read the next in the series. You read so avidly that you feel that you cannot put the book down until you get to the very end, and then you thump it down on your desk and say “Phew, I never saw that coming!” Obviously, quite a read.

There are the love stories that have the feel-good conclusion that radiates warmth and a wish that it would happen for you. But happy endings are usually within the pages of a book; hardly ever in real life. Here’s another from “The Last Song” by Nicholas Sparks. “She smiled, knowing he was telling the truth. ‘I love you, too, Will Blakelee,’ she whispered, leaning in to kiss him again.”

Rosalind in “As you Like it” by William Shakespeare says to conclude the drama “If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied not; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.” But it is not farewell because an avid reader of Shakespeare, or a member of the audience, will not want it to be the end. They will soon be looking out for the next play.

Quoting from “Remember” by Christina Rossetti the final stanza “Better by far you should forget and smile / Than that you should remember and be sad.” This is a noted poem that could be quoted at a funeral; but even though there is sadness here on this ending, there also is hope.

Another kind of ending is when you are watching a particularly dramatic series on TV and you really don’t want it to end. Thinking of this, makes me dream of Poldark – once I am in the grip of a series, I don’t want it to end. I just want to come under the spell of Poldark himself and run alongside him and experience life through his eyes. Again, this is not real but even each episode ending leaves me a little sad and wondering what is going to happen next. If the whole series is left on a cliff-hanger then waiting for the next series to start where it left off is pretty daunting. I shall not quote from a Poldark story but leave it to you to go and investigate this wonderful series.

I shall, however, quote from another classic – a book that thrilled my young mind when I read it aged 13. From Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. “So grouped, the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether it ever rises again, depends upon the reception given to the first act of the domestic drama called LITTLE WOMEN.” Please, reader, go and catch this book if you have never had it in your hands before. Embrace those endings for they usually lead onto new beginnings.


Don’t you just love beginnings? Beginnings of stories, poems, plays or even letters! Or you could like the beginning of a love story. Everything has a beginning. In this blog post I am going to touch upon some memorable and not so well-known beginnings in novels, stories, poems and love letters.

When I was a child, I was always encouraged to write letters especially if I had to say thank-you for a birthday or a Christmas present. What should I write and how should I start? This was always my question. Well, why not try “I hope you are well, as I am!” This then is how I started most of my letters as a child. Not today though. I would like to think that I start them more interestingly! As anyone who follows me on Twitter or Facebook will know, I love words; and I love how they knit together to cause the fabric of our lives to grow and expand and to make an interesting item. One of my favourite tweets is “A glance through my tweet collection will surely inspire.” See @SoOccasionNow on Twitter.

The following descriptive first few sentences came from the pen of Alan Bennett that wonderful and enigmatic story teller. “I ran into a snake this afternoon,” Miss Shepherd said. “It was coming up Parkway. It was a long grey snake – a boa constrictor possibly. It looked poisonous. It was keeping close to the wall and seemed to know its way. I’ve a feeling it may have been heading for the van.”

From Shakespeare’s “Love’s Labour Lost” we listen to the beginning from the King “Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, / Live register’d upon our brazen tombs, / And then grace us in the disgrace of death.” Such drama that is typical of this writer from centuries past.

A more gentle beginning and full of sunshine is this from William Wordsworth’s poem Daffodils:- “I wander’d lonely as a cloud / That floats on high o’er vales and hills, / When all at once I saw a crowd, / A host of golden daffodils.” What a bright light heralding the dream of Spring and the buds of new life.

If you want love, then this letter written in 1912 should suffice. “To: My widow. Dearest darling – we are in a very tight corner and I have doubts of pulling through – In our short lunch hours I take advantage of a very small measure of warmth to write letter preparatory to a possible end …..” Written by Robert Scott to Kathleen Scott.

A woman writer from 1949 wrote “I am obliged to begin this story with a brief account of the Hampton family, because it is necessary to emphasise the fact once and for all that the Hamptons were very grand as well as very rich.” This snippet from Love in a Cold Climate by Nancy Mitford is rather long and one would have to read further into the book to gather the richness that it hints upon.

I shall conclude with a bible quotation “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” This came from the beginning of John’s gospel 1:1. As perhaps is widely known, the bible is all about communication.

Space does not allow me here to elaborate any further. But if you have a favourite #beginning, please comment as you wish.

The Abergwili Critter

Abergwili Critter

Shoulders hunched, schoolboy gangly tall, blazered but medals missing. Crinkly Steptoe smile with a protruding lower lip, moulded into shape by the constant use of an s-shaped Sherlock Holmes type pipe. Using his thumb to push in the tobacco, he cannot wait! His eyes dart hither and thither, eagerly awaiting his smoke! Grinning from ear to ear. What is he doing? Moving in for the kill, he is just about to take over the conducting but he is gently dissuaded from doing such an act of outrage. The band tunes up, the conductor calls everyone to attention and the swish of the baton heralds the commencement of the first jazz number, a hearty tune. Already feet are starting to strum in time. The drummer applies his trade with gusto and the Saxophone players, all three of them, wave their flagged instruments in honour. The critter moves away.

An amazing fifty years of The Tiger Who Came to Tea and never came back!

It is 50 years since The Tiger Who Came to Tea was published and its author, Judith Kerr, was welcomed onto the Tata stage at this year’s Hay Festival by an enthusiastic round of applause. She was very clear in her diction and I am sure the smile never left her face, even when she was describing the dark days that brought her and her family out of the clutches of Hitler to England.

The interviewer, Clemency Burton-Hill, a Hay legend, asked her, “Did you have any idea of what was going on?” Judith replied, “I did not realise. My mother told us. My father had left by the next train.[] He wanted my mother and me and my brother to be out of the country!” A pause while she thought, and then “We were told that we must not tell anyone that my father had left.” Judith left her pink rabbit behind in Germany. But she said, “I got over pink rabbit!” who then became the inspiration for her story “When Hitler stole Pink Rabbit!”

However, it is a famous cat that we associate Judith Kerr with and that is Mog who got into all kinds of scrapes and adventures that are well documented and have enthralled children for decades. “Mog was like all cats, slightly mad. Being able to go out through a cat flap and totally unable to come back in!”


Mog was part of the family. She did this funny thing of sitting on my lap. She nudged the pen with her nose!” Judith went on to say “She used to only sit on my lap when I was writing about her.” It seems that Mog was the inspiration and “All the various madness of these various cats I stuck on Mog!” Judith said that she liked drawing more than writing, and added “I am feeling my way with writing.”

After the war ended, she attended art college and was advised to get a trade! “One of the tutors at the school of art said ‘Why don’t you do illustration? That’s a trade!’” So, she learned to “draw, which was the one thing I really needed,” and yet, she added, “The only exam I’ve ever failed was book illustration!”

It is never too late!” said Clemency and the audience laughed loudly. “People go on and on” with a wry smile, as she is about to turn 95! Clemency said, “You appreciate life …..” Judith Kerr agreed, “I did not talk about them (tigers) eating people.” Judith said that her daughter liked the tiger story and always asked for it, “Talk the tiger!” This explains why she told the story so many times and she added “I put in things that she liked!”

Clemency explained about Judith’s dry sense of humour and, back stage, had said to her, “We can always fall back on Hitler!”

Judith talked about her current cat, Katinka who she described as “quite mad!” “I got her about a year before my husband died. It is now just Katinka and me!” So, Katinka’s Tail – another new story about Katinka who is “fed on demand” should be worth snuggling down and devouring!

Regarding what she read, she explained that she only liked fairy tales. “I did not really want to read about the real world.” She said that since she was widowed, that she has “done more books in the last twelve years than before!”

When asked “How long does it take you to write a whole book and illustrate it?” she reminded the listeners, “As I have said, I have got quicker at it. It used to take me almost a year but now I can do it in seven or eight months.”

Another question “What is the next book you are planning to make?” She replied, ”I have finished one and it is coming out in October. I am not allowed to say what it is!” Her favourite book that she had written? “I like one called My Henry which is a bit different from the others.” With that wry smile again, she added, “The next one that is coming out is quite good.”

Beavering Badgers

A rare and unique chance to view some beautiful creatures availed itself and a few of us took the opportunity to be led deep into the heart of the ancient parkland known as Dinefwr. These are my badger musings from within the cabin overlooking one pure, green and bumpy sett. Giggles and chattering had to be stifled from the minute we entered the secret place, the Hide.

As the whispering faded into the evening, we could hear the “Whoo, Whoo, Whoo” from a feathered resident in a distant tree. But then Badger Woman Sarah spreads a blanket of peanuts over the grassy hillocks and sleeping tree trunks. We, the occupants, listened keenly. Breeze rustling the fern, no more standing to attention but wavering. Looking up, I spot oak leaf starred leaves, dribbling from branches. So much to interest us.

Climbing back up through the fern, fringed bank, over knobbly anthills, Sarah rejoins us. We wait patiently. I glance over and notice curly, twirling ferns, unfurling their fingers in anticipation. Were they, too, awaiting a badger gathering? Overhead, there was the distant sound “Caw, Caw” – perhaps a belligerent crow?

We did not have to wait long. Peeping out, we had our first view of a small badger. It peeks out one long snout, sniffs the air. Sneaks back in. Not time yet. Snuffles some more and peers out again. Is the coast clear? No, not yet. It creeps back in again.

Squeak, Squeak, Squeak” another bird yet again breaks the silent breath of the inhabitants, not the badgers, but the human onlookers. This bird heralds the impending arrival of a lone badger. Long and slinky, this badger snuffles for dinner, spots a solitary peanut and heads for it. Then, not long to wait. Badger No. 2 peaks out, its white stripe much sharper than its brother’s. Moving in parallel they shuffle around the hillock, browned and dry from recent sunshine.

Then, soon we spy another badger, I shall call him No. 3, slinking out, circling its way around. The badger turns around and looks back the way it has come. Facing the front, it snuffles again, close to the ground, dusting its snout as it goes. It backs up the brown sandy bank side, definitely in reverse, and disappears, almost silently. But here comes another brother, or a cousin maybe? No. 4 meanders under the dead tree trunk that is suspended, almost in mid air. It snuffles around in the undergrowth, good pickings here, unaware of a bird tip toeing around above its head. The bird, no doubt, spotting a tasty morsel, maybe another peanut, is oblivious, too. We have seen four badgers, their fur the colour brown that sludges moodily into grey dust. For a minute, they all disappear back into the holes from whence they came, whether under a bark or near the bank side.

Another hole, and yet again here we see a badger, not sure of the number, but I suspect that it could be No. 1 again as the stripe on its head is dirty white. One wonders whether the holes are like pot holes in the road, ready to trip one up? No, not these badgers, eating their peanuts, they do not think they will fall down any pot holes, if they can help it! And so, we have seen four badgers in this group and a loner smuggling its way around on the left side, near to bracken, foxgloves, and long grasses walled up the edge, framing the hideout.

Frolicking in the tufty grasses and disappearing again, badger No. 4, recognisable by its fanned out tail, blonde and beautiful, whispers to itself unaware that badger No. 3 whose tail is bushier and not so contoured, is munching one of the last peanuts behind him.

A lone, miniscule, green insect inches its way around on the ledge in front of my silent pen, winds its route around my notebook and disappears into a convenient crack. Perhaps he is wondering what is happening? I suspect he is too small to be interested.

Scurrying back in, the badgers disappear again for a short time; maybe the food supply has run out? But not for long, here they are again, one scouting off over the hillside, its own territory. Agile and speedy, they skim over the debris that is fallen branches, gnarled by long time silence and sleep, scurrying into their own hiding places.

I wonder what their corridors are like, underneath our feet, silent as the grave, no whisperings here. Do they link and twirl and pass over and under each other? I imagine that their pathways must be like secret underground trails linking to others’ burrows!

In the distance, there is the cawking sound again and a rotund lorry rumbles through the peace as it traverses its way along the road perhaps only a mile away to the west.

But my attention is brought back to the three badgers around the arch of a crescent tree trunk, girthed brown and spangled. The branch appears to hover over the youngsters. Yet again, we see snuffling and pointed snouts tunnelling the ground pushing out morsels of tasty pickings. But No. 2 has spotted a snifter of a peanut, only one, perhaps, and this lying on top of the gnarled trunk. It is soon devoured; this is one adventurous badger. Its brothers, not so daring, are under the trunk nosing out their own findings. Their brown grey sludgy bodies and fluffy caramel tails brightened by evening sunshine. We see them tiptoeing around the sun speckled grassy bank; and it is not even twilight. Their nose to tail, tail to nose, formation proceeds slowly but then they turn in, snout to snout, brothers in arms, or so I like to think.

Foxgloves, nettles and fern jostle for attention to the left of this most rustic scene, framing the edge as we glance down into the dell. One badger scrambles up, I have forgotten its number, and scratches its hind quarters, sniffs, scrambles some more and drops over the bank. I again wonder about their colour. One side steps and pushes, with a friendly shoulder, its brother out of the way as it has spotted yet another peanut.

Over our heads, I can hear the hum as a bee bumbles perhaps heralding the sun going down. And so as I glance sideways, I spot the rhododendrons, pretty with lots to love, but unrequited on the part of others, I fear. I hear the distant baa, baa of a sheep in the pasture of the valley and I notice how green everything is here. So bright, leafy and hillock green. Maybe not fifty shades but a more realistic number could be identified, if I could be bothered to count! The long grass is wafting in a breeze that has started singing its tune and we wonder if the show is over?

So as we, the tired seers, walk back we notice the magnificent White Park group grazing in what remains of the evening sunshine. Their gentleness adds to the atmosphere and the mystery of the historic parkland. And yet more abandoned trunks, their silent bark shaped into the dead wood that is home to tiny creatures, lead us back through the deer valley with new fawns silently visible. As I walk, I spot more knotted branches, hurled and twisted around and left to wink at no one in particular. And we hear, but can hardly see, the birds fleeting past on their journey to say the day is silently moving towards its evening conclusion. The show is indeed over.

Facebook – Friend or Foe?

Talking to networking buddies, I said that I needed to “get to grips with Facebook” – How would I do this? I have thought about this since and I have retained the status that I dislike Facebook as much as I love Twitter.

I then gave some thought as to which social media platform would be more suitable for my business www.so-occasion.co.uk. Which is best for promoting my business? Which brings in the most work? What should I use? What social media platforms are best for connecting? Like a security blanket, which am I most comfortable with? What scrapes and leads should I avoid? What are these lists all about?

Well, after a few weeks of pondering, talking to other social media contacts, and business advisers, I have been told that there is no need to be on every social media channel going, I just need to pick the ones that are suitable for me. I find that Twitter is more business orientated and “of the moment” and suits my purposes more than any other channel. I also like to dip into LinkedIn which is useful for professional purposes.

However, I realise that a lot of small businesses may only have their Facebook page and not an actual website as this seems to be the norm these days. So their Facebook page needs to be up to the minute, pertinent, and have all the information that is required to be found quickly and without any navigational problems.

What I do not like about Facebook is that you have to ask fellow businesses to “like” your page. I hate this. It smacks of a friend in the school yard. “Will you like me? Will you be my friend?” We do like to keep up with those we know, and I believe that this is okay as far as friends are concerned. I have friends on Facebook from my primary and secondary school days and from my early working life as well as more recent. It is good to keep up with them. I have also found Facebook to be useful to keep on top of events in my local area, if that is of interest; and for networking and group purposes.

Other possible negatives concerning Facebook is that it lays your “soul bare”, if you would let it. It shows what you are interested in, whether you like cats, dogs , wildlife, or even gardening. To me, this is something that I may not wish others to know about me. I like to leave a little bit of mystery surrounding my life and I do not tend to put many photos on the site, if I can help it. I am not a firm advocate of preening myself and showering my personal life into the public domain. But I realise that if I am to succeed in my business, I do need to talk a little bit about myself. But, for now, I shall keep this to Twitter and promote my business that way.

Cwmdonkin Drive, No. 5

A fine day for a hike up a steep, breath blasting hill, that leads to Cwmdonkin Drive. No 5 was nearly at the crest, overlooking the Cwmdonkin Park that had Dylan Thomas spouting out, loud and shrill, over the red chimney pots of his 1920s’ Swansea home town.

I arrived at the gate, peeked over, re-arranged my wind-swept hair with one hand, whilst patting my chest with the other, and blowing out wind chimes that set my breathing back to a normal rhythm.

I took my time reading the info just inside the gate, as my interest had already been sparked. I had discovered Dylan in my teens but had written some text about him in my later years whilst attempting my BA degree in Trinity College, Carmarthen.

I knocked the door and quietly walked into the hallway. I heard voices. There were a couple already in the front parlour listening to the tales that I would a few minutes later, be imbibing. Geoff, the house guide, ushered me in and gave again the story to my stealing ears. I hoped to digest hunks as I explored but there were little crumbs left for my own writing. It was all for Dylan, who was born, and later scurried around in this house. His early life was hunkered about this place where he garnered the husks of his later published work. I was mesmerised by the visions he would have seen from any window he cared to look out of and from the whisperings around him; and so he created his scribbles, hidden in pages and turned over from prying eyes.

To sit in the front parlour where straight-backed aunts and uncles of Dylan’s had sat and where Dylan himself must have hovered, on the edge, behind half shut doors. In those days, parlours were for gatherings of family, perhaps when a wedding or a funeral was to be attended. I tried to imagine the Christmas of Dylan’s Story and that parlour where many tears were shed.

I ploughed upstairs to the room where Dylan was born in 1914, a large bay windowed comfortable place. From here, I wandered around the other accommodation from the cherry carpeted landing. The room that held my attention the longest, was, of course, his bedroom. What a mess! Just like, as I imagined, lots of boys’ rooms still are. Bits of paper and sweet wrappers everywhere. Crumpled notes, and the spent matches and empty cigarette packs that would show that he was no different to other boys of his generation, experimenting with that illicit habit (hidden no doubt as a boy, but on display as he became a man). The room was much as he would have left it, during his adult years with the fag-ended Players discarded into a corner. In this room he wrote his sea shaker poems and the tales of the horse-back hills in the villages of his relatives. These seeds of verse from his twenties would have been watered and eventually germinated into the writings of his later life.

The room was just as if he had stepped out; almost as if he would he be back any minute. I gathered up the information with my modest eyes, as if Dylan himself had spread it out, for me only.

All through the house, Dylan’s sense was there for me to see, in all its glory. There were the pots and the pans of the domestic, the dark knobbly keys of the Underwood typewriter, the shiny black piano where his sister practised her scales, and the wooden desk where, sitting beside her, their father would have marked the ink-blotched exercise books, one by one.

I concluded my visit by standing still and imagining the sounds and smells of Dylan’s 1920s’ Swansea and dreamed of exciting phrases that I could create, if only I had his imagination, but I left them “among the cigarette ends and the glasses.”

A first for me – #WiREHour host

I was recently thrilled and privileged to be asked to host #WiREHour on the social media channel Twitter. This was an exciting first for me and I bounced with joy! Sarah of @smacdesignsUK and of @CarmarthenWiRE who usually hosts asked me if I would take over as she was unavailable that evening. A #Hour is a time allocated to connect with other businesses and @WiREUK take this as their cue to operate #WiREHour every Tuesday evening between 6 and 7 p.m. It is for ladies under the Women in Rural Enterprise umbrella to join in some business chat! What could be more fun? Some interesting conversations ensued and some good connections were made. As I have a passion for creating tweets under the character limit of 140, this was a wonderful opportunity.

Have you a passion for anything? Words and phrases, and how they link together, fascinate me and I adore creating wonderful, expressive jaunty tweets especially for small businesses.

I run my business So-Occasion from a beautiful, but shabby-chic cottage in #Dinefwr (note the #hashtag there!) and my idea of joy is creating interesting and quirky tweets suited to any business that would request my help. I gather the information required for the tweets by discussing this with the business concerned, and by looking at their website, their Facebook and Twitter pages. I sit at my desk overlooking a quiet and secluded courtyard thinking up different ways of saying the often mundane. By creating unusual phrases, these can add a dynamic slant to the business. I can also write longer pieces if this is something that is required. The tweets are created for the business but there is the opportunity to change them around or repeat them. The phrases can also be cut and pasted into any other social media strand, provided that they fit the criteria. I like to step away from less interesting words and be really expressive with adjectives that bounce off the screen! I also have a special joy for dreaming up new #hashtags.

I may be a small organisation but my heart is there for other small businesses that I may network with, or meet on my journey through #WomanInBiz #WiRE and other networking strands. My strapline is “Promotions with #zing; words with #panache.”

I think my business is rare in the way that I create tweets, straplines or snippets. I love how words click together like an individually created necklace. Each word has to connect with the next!

If I hear a newbie in social media utter the words “I don’t get Twitter,” my eyes light up and I really want to help. I am poetic and hope that I am an inspiration to anyone who may stumble across my words. I want to be able to make an impact on how micro businesses promote themselves and if I have helped them in any way to get their message across in a quirky and stream-lined way, then I have a happy heart. I have a lively and joyful spirit that will not be quenched.

Monologues – Straight Talking

I have an interest in monologues especially thinking about Alan Bennett’s creative work. I particularly like the one voice phenomena and the fact that the speaker tells stories which keep the listener focussed and entranced. I also like the fact that monologues often have a wry or bizarre twist to the story. The bulk of the story has to captivate the listener and create an avid anticipation of what is to come. Hopefully, the theme will enhance their experience.

I like so much what Bennett says – “Your whole life is on the other side of the glass. And there is nobody watching.” (Alan Bennett). But, of course, we are all watching, avidly, wondering what is going on in other people’s lives. Isn’t that the handle of a writer? Being nosy and watching other’s antics!

It is useful to see where the characters are headed and where their stories end up. Some plots are simple but some are more complex and will confound the listener.

If there is some element of dialect in the monologue, or if the speaker is talking about another person’s conversation, this adds to the dimension. Therefore, the dialect is a useful device to relay other people’s conversations. To introduce some rhythm into the voice and variation in the tone of the speaker adds to the pleasure for the listener.

An interest in the late Victoria Wood’s work has appealed to me and I admire the fact that her voice was a strong feminine tone and spoke directly to the women in the audience.

A monologue enables the listener to keep abreast of the story as there is less movement on stage and any background noises will not distract from the monologue itself as could happen in a dialogue.

I have always been interested in monologues and I hope that you are, too.

Craft 302

Imagine the world

Imagine the world was something I could resonate with; here I sat in the Coffee Corner of the Friends’ Café in the Hay Festival imagining the thoughts of those around me. Diverse images mulling around in the minds of the gentle folk sipping their particular coffee brew. My literature and creative mind was thrilled to be observing the thinkers and the book devotees whiling away a half hour or so. There were people milling everywhere here including a presenter whom I recognised. I left him to his group perhaps discussing old and ancient objects. The eyes darting everywhere; this was one person only half listening to his friends. There was a seam of good looks about him, his face determined and as sharp as the curios he may have handled in his time.

Two young ladies sitting nearby were speaking Welsh one to another, keeping alive the language of the principality despite being close to the border of England. My daughter, a journalist; shuffling her papers and finding her notes. Is she writing a story?

What are people thinking about when they are here? A white haired elderly guy, his short, but bouncy, locks brushed neatly over his ears and with shiny white eyebrows atop his tanned face, is reading the Telegraph. It is Saturday, and so a lot of people are engrossed in reading the paper of the day, the paper of the place. Of course, it is the Daily Telegraph, what else! They have sponsored the event since 2011. He is obviously a seasoned Festival goer, as he has the Friends’ lanyard adorning his cream summer jacket. He pushes his jacket aside as he makes room for his paper. I cannot help but admire him and with his purple shirt, he is on trend for this event. I am unable to describe the lady he has with him as she has her back to me. She nods now and then, as he looks up to give her some vital news.

I am blessed by the simple things as I am sitting at this silver topped table, adorned with a flowery jug imprinted with snowdrops. In the jug, is a display of flowers of Sweet William and Gypsophila spreading their heavenly tiny petals across the table.


A young group are chatting amongst themselves; not one is reading a newspaper. Instead, they are tuned into their iPhones or laughing at something that only they can understand. Lots of auburn plaits and fudge-coloured pony tails in this chattering gang.

An Italian football fan with his sun-drenched face is wearing a blue t-shirt that is evidently his country’s colour. He, too, is deep into the Daily Telegraph perhaps studying the teams for the up and coming EURO 2016 Football Tournament! On the edge, a lonesome guy, rucksack backed, looks around obviously scanning for someone. But no, he doesn’t see the friend and turns around. No coffee for him yet.

I spot more Friends with their tickets enclosed Kangaroo style in their laminated pouches. The newspaper is being read avidly amongst this group, passing supplements along to their friends, “Have you seen this?”

A man, grey braised, trips over the lip of the entrance, smiles and whispers to his companion. A young man stares into the distance while the energetic waiters and waitresses bustle about, collecting the fallout of the coffee liaisons. I am scratching to ask which interesting folk they have already bumped into today, but I question not!

Palm fronds reach high over dipped heads and up to the glamorous sparkled curtain that is ribboning above the coffee beakers. There is indeed a calm and inspiring atmosphere blossoming, definitely here, as well as all over the festival site.

Chatting away on his glossy, green mobile is a guy in his mid fifties. He is wearing a striped green and black shirt to match his phone. His glasses are moving around as he crinkles his face with the conversation. He is so animated that he is oblivious to what is happening, even when his coffee cools before him.

It may be a coffee meeting place, but the champagne flows here too. There is a giant bottle cooling, and the orange sloping bucket tempts the viewer to come forward. But perhaps it is too early for this tipple?

There are ladies walking by, sharp blouses peeping from under their tailored jackets. They walk in, two by two, smiling and heading straight for the baristas. I notice a navy jacket above an expensive navy chintzy shirt with creamy hearts. Her friend has a neat short jacket too, but more of a curtain fabric, sprigged with herbs, leaves and ferns trailing off into a beige background. Her hair, being bobbed, seems to match the curtained look.

Some middle aged ladies, lattes in hand, approach the table next to me, and sit down. Out comes their A4 notebooks and they begin to discuss something very important. Could they be journalists, I mused? Again, very stylishly dressed; one with a navy and white striped top with a blood red side-buttoned skirt. Her companion sports a navy cotton summer dress with black sandals.

A tall girl, in her 20s, weaves through the tables, wearing black converse shoes, red a-flared short skirt and a black long sleeved t shirt. Her brown, shiny hair sails to her waist. With her sunnies on her head, she picks up her phone to text a friend.


My latte has been drunk, I have made my notes, and I am packing up and moving onto the next stage of my day. My listening ear will be tuned into Bryony Gordon who is a writer for the Telegraph, and she proves to be wildly enthusiastic in her presentation of her latest book “Mad Girl” and passionate about her subject. I have enjoyed my time Imagining the World in Hay.


Promotions with #zing, words with #panache / Hyrwyddo â #steil, geiriau â #swyn