the trips

☘☘☘

 

i write to you from a sleepy village in a corner by the sea, visible from my hometown if looking across the pond. the people who live here have a soft twanging accent and a strong sense of community- the air is brisk and light and the houses have been laid out in neat rows from red brick. on first approaching the house, a large stack of stairs must be travelled down into a small valley, and the green surroundings are vast. it's not a long walk from the train station. in fact, it's actually quite pleasant.

the house itself is a regular build from the outside- what you'd picture of a healthy upper-working class estate- and so its charm lies inevitably within. currently, i sit cross-legged atop a reddy-brown leather sofa and a lengthy "fake persian" rug is sprawled completely unparalleled to the polished hardwood flooring. a log burner situated on the wall near the centre of space chucks out relentless and domineering heat, promising a steady fire if nourished with freshly chopped birch wood. they're tree surgeons, you see. the men of the family, the household. they go out to country estates, manor houses, family homes- anywhere with a large tree that needs maintenance- sometimes in pouring rain, sometimes in sunny climate. they are rewarded with scorching mugs of tea or coffee, and they climb up to the tops of these great trees and then they begin. 

the garden of the house has a chicken coup, and gertrude the chicken waddles about gently plucking and clucking. a baby grand piano is in desperate need of a tuning, but when i tickled its ivories last night with a sample of a piece ive been working on for quite a few years, it was well-received. with soft sighs, Jazz the black lab sleeps aside his master, and behind them is the main centerpiece (in my opinion) of the room. there must be at least a hundred books. if not more. the library is a long-accumulated collection of everything from bukowski and nick cave biography to a bowie bible and other fiction novels that also fill my own stacks at home. there doesn't appear to be a clarifying order to their situation on the shelves, and some are horizontal rather than the vertical rest of them. 

the owners of the home are both kind individuals with uncompromising moral values and quick wit. they are hard workers, and their son is much the same. his room is blue, like most young men's childhood rooms, and in it lies a crappy old notebook with seasoned notes of old. the most imperative note of all, and in fact perhaps the most poignant, is one that has been re-read every time the home has been revisited. it's a note that soon shall turn two and a half years old, and it's contents start out dreary and even quite morbid. as the letter progresses, though, it becomes optimistic and introspective. the pages are well-thumbed, and the words are cemented in the mind of its recipient after so many studies of it. 

yesterday i was taken through the cardiff markets and i purchased a wide-brimmed fedora in a shade that has been termed "red-velvet", "maroon", and "red". it rests on my brow now, and has done throughout the morning. i reread the note for the second time in my life with the hat shielding the sun rays from the page. the first time, of course, i had just finished writing it. my signature is large and flamboyant to close my speech, and a small "x" posing as a kiss resides politely underneath. even then, it was written with a certainty. i just did not yet know it. 

as well as the market, i also happened to be shown a very large and well-equipped museum with historical memorabilia and other such interesting facets- such as some truly exquisite claude monet works (see right pour exemple). we skirted through the whole thing in just over an hour, and compared to Bristol's tragic effort, we found it to be exemplary. the streets of cardiff were also wonderfully filled with the welsh, and the majority of them were celebrating a triumphant result for their chosen football team. the atmosphere was lively and jovial, and their spirits were surprisingly welcoming. much better, in any case, than london.

we travelled up on the wednesday, and we stayed overnight in a little hotel near the bustling centre. the hotel itself will soon be closed down, and so we were the last ever people to check in. and hence our memory shall haunt its halls for the continuing years- and our thunderous laughter will continue to reverberate from its walls in our stead. originally, i had planned to come alone- i had a ticket to see my most favourite ballet Giselle in the london coliseum theatre and a tattoo appointment in tooting the next day, but a chaperone was welcomed when offered. 

the ballet was one of the delights of my so-far short life, the pointe shoes emitting ominous slight thuds as the ballerinas each took on the role of ghostly haunted widows and loves that had been wronged. our leading and titular character happens to die of a broken heart, and when at the end of the first act she fell to the floor in her final dance, the curtain too fell and we were aghast in awe at the magnificence of the sport. even he, my escort, found it to be truly wonderful and couldn't believe the majesty of it all. i'm paraphrasing, of course. the real marvel, too, was the live orchestra that accompanied the dancers. 

the following day we progressed to tooting, and i was inked by Ramona Marquez. for those of you who don't recognise that name, she starred in a series called Outnumbered where she played a small girl called Karen who was fantastically hilarious. the tattoo is of an iris, my most favourite flower. she was kind to me and we chatted for the two hours that she worked, and we got on very well. she said i should come back for more and i think perhaps in the future i might. we considered it a success, and we headed into trafalgar, where we found Downing Street, several statues of note, and most importantly Westminster Abbey. we sat in on Parliament for an interesting debate- the home secretary Yvette Cooper spoke well, and the house of commons was enjoyed highly by us. 

the next day, i showed him Weston-super-Mare. i had a gig, and it went extraordinarily successfully, with the boy who i learned guitar with for many years turning up (to my happiest surprise) and a sweet fresher who id recently befriended from bristol came all the way on the train just to see me. of course, the whole family came too and supported in true Dennett fashion. and now we are here, in Rhoose. and we are by the seaside. and the boy i wrote the note for sits beside me in pajamas and eats shortbread. and he sips at tea his mum just made. and he smiles. and he laughs. and he tells me that the two years of rereading a note and harbouring an unrequited love were worth it. and so perhaps this small sleepy town in wales shall be frequented by us often. hows that, Tom?

sincerely, the caravan girl.