Halfway down

Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!

These words, from Shakespeare’s play King Lear, are spoken by Edgar as he peers over the edge of the cliffs at Dover.

Kenfig is plagued by ghosts.  Things have reached epidemic proportions. Ghosts in the fields, in the pubs, on the beach, in the houses, in the machines. Shrieking in the slacks, knocking on the windows, whispering in the walls.  Indeed, Kenfig could even be said to be haunted by the ghost of itself.

First light. A sky the colour of a starling’s egg. As I lace my boots I notice a solitary gilded cloud in the north-east. It looks like an Elizabethan galleon.