Llandudno, hold me

Waves of tranquility tease rocks, as well as my periwinkle painted toes, balancing on Llandudno’s shore. The spray of sea salt cools down sun scorches sizzling upon my skinny ankles. My urge to wade beneath the water reminds me of the many times, during my infancy, curiosity taunted me closer towards the shiny blue depths before my mother yanked me from stumbling too far. 

A time when my nose, not yet bumped, and cheeks, void of any blemishes, covered themselves ruby with the Welsh golden rays. Smudges of sun cream stained the straps of my terracotta bathing suit, embedded with white roses, due to my mothers constant application of it. When she felt enough protection smothered my flesh she began breaking off pieces of a jam sandwich and dividing them between herself, my sister, my brother and I. Every now and then Beatrice, my sister, would wiggle her outstretched fingers towards us, while sunbathing on an worn polka dot beach towel, as a signal for more food. Seems strange to look back on all those summers she attempted to teach me to sunbathe, promising one day I would enjoy it, only proven useless as no matter how hard I try boredom overrules me. Shifty eyes of Percy, my brother, would jump from mother to buried pieces of sticky bread in sand salivating at the chocolate bar visible at the bottom of the bag. He never did get away with it, only, on holidays mother was too overjoyed to accept a ruined day of arguments. Meanwhile I would munch away not giving thought to much other than the sheet of wonder straight ahead of me. I believed, even with the lack of swimming ability, launching myself into the chilly sea would bring more peace than any other moment on earth. 

Over fifteen years later I find it quite ironic my adoration for the sea considering the family I grew up in had never learned to swim, myself included. I suppose some would testify it sums my family up all too well, to visit the seaside refusing to experience the sea. But the pull of Earths blood at the bruises of my feet is enough for me to enjoy. Besides, we knew plenty of other ways to have fun. My gaze flutters over a small group of children, sat sending boisterous laughs at a man blowing balloon animals, causing a lump of nostalgia to rest within my throat.

 One particular summers evening Percy and I plonked ourselves in front of a ‘Punch and Judy’ puppet show at the centre of the promenade. Having spent the entire day spending her pennies on rigged teddy machines and sticks of rock candies, mother sat beside our grandfather on a bench not far from us. Close enough to notice our every move but not enough for us to hear the words leaving their mouths. After each hit to Judy’s wooden body, thrown by an obnoxious Punch, the kids surrounding us would burst into hysterics. The complete opposite to Percy and I. The lids of our eyes fell near to a soft shut while shoulders hunched of exhaustion, Percy using the last of his energy to devour our favourite Welsh fudge. With my sleepy state the high pitched noises from the makeshift stage were beginning to prick at every nerve of my body. In an aim to keep awake, I would stare at anything but the silly show. From the wail of greedy seagulls to the band playing on an odd placed platform near the sand. Attention finally making its way to the father and daughter on the memorial bench, questions clouding my younger mind. 

Can granddad enjoy the scenery with his blindness? 

Does mum describe every detail, of the boats ending their trips, to the handholding lovers starting theirs? 

Can they hear the absolute foolery of this awful play? 

Do they feel the same second hand embarrassment I feel for the man behind the decorated board? 

You would never believe Donald was blind. His call for adventure and the outdoors putting anybody’s petty problems to shame. I found him most endearing. From the way he waltzes over concrete with his walking stick to the tenderness he gifted my mother, even at her grown age. He was a clever man, residing in North Wales with the upmost peace and quiet, offering the odd response to nonsense when he felt necessary.

 I never did find answers to my questions. 

At the start of Donald’s funeral service, nearing ten years ago, I watched on as some of the visitors cried. Observed while friends greeted old pals and family members warmly embraced loved ones they hadn’t seen for years. Back then the nosy side of me caused blank looks to be served, toward all those I didn’t recognise, not realising the effect Grandfather had on his community. Eyes only pouring once met with the funeral car, doused in lemon coloured lilies, that held the stilled body of the man who would lightly touch against my cheeks in search of my smile. Weary fingers of my mother clamped my palm, a face of pure and utter pain coming in to my view. Hands that usually held my own with comfort were in need of severe support that I was afraid my smaller ones would not be able to give. Yet, we held on to each other for each other. After a whole service filled with sobs of agony, as well as shaky laughs, Mum suggested all the kids went off to the arcades. Jonathan, another one of my brothers, managed to place that cheeky grin of mine back along my cheeks with the ‘Woody’ stuffed toy he won from a claw machine afterwards. At the time, we were over the moon believing he had practically won gold from a game designed to steal. We pranced between the elder couples on the promenade with new found childish glee, that just came so naturally when in Llandudno, while the adults reminisced in a tea room at ‘The Grand Hotel’. If I close my eyes, and concentrate, I can still hear our screeches of needed joy. 

“D, ya okay?” Beatrice chuckles at the jolt of my shoulders, it seems I had momentarily forgotten I’m not alone. 

“Yeah, just thinkin’.” The longing in my voice is evident yet I’m pretty sure neither Bea or I know a sole reason. Am I pining over times of ease or craving a call for a new home? Hell, if I could build a house right here on the shore I would fail to hesitate. 

“We’re gunna grab some fish and chips, comin’?” 

I link an arm through Bea’s as we walk towards the others beside the greasy chip shop. Old enough, this time, to take as many deep breaths in and store as much of the place I can in my lungs. Pulling out my camera to take the odd picture of my nephews, kicking chaos at a strangers day, not forgetting to sneak a couple more of the view. Able to capture everything I once caught as a younger girl. A glance at my mother stings my eyes as she focuses on the scene before her with the same amount of grief she held the day her beloved father passed, as well as the freedom she beamed during the summers spent here. 

I’ve always found it strange how the seaside town could bring a sense of serenity once given by a loved one.