I guess the lesson is: Don't believe everything you read. Nothing remotely edible at the old Penrhyn Gate to the Steelworks in Port Talbot. But I bet they did a great bacon bap in their day.
Luckily 12 Cafe in Taibach came to the rescue with Cheese and Potato Pie. The next day Tambini's in Margam fed me a Ron Evan's Mince and Onion Pie and a Custard Slice.
There are stories everywhere I look: this writing under the bridge, the old ruined chapel on Mynydd Margam, and this gravestone in the Holy Cross graveyard in Taibach:
Lost at sea: a phrase that conjures stories, real and imagined, language powerful enough to transport us to the storm-wrapped deck of a ship, the hollow left in a woman's life. Powerful enough to be grateful for the nearness of our own family.
Hungry Writing Prompts
Write about a lie.
Write about a wall.
Write a list of the last 10 things you ate.
Write about standing at a graveside.
Write about what's close to you.
Gerald ought to do it, she thought.
Or Iris, if she weren’t living abroad, as far away from her as she could get.
The steps down to the road were steep. Someone should put up a rail. She looked back at the church. She stumbled. She fell.
“Mum?” It was a woman’s voice.
“Iris?” No, not Iris. That woman with her claws into Gerald, then. Calling her Mum. No right to call her Mum.
“Mum, you really shouldn’t be visiting graveyards on your own. Now look at you.” A concerned voice, yes, but would she visit Gerald’s grave if he went first?
“I’ll get you some tea.”