Rhossili Morn (FreeRead)

The grass under his feet squeaked with the morning dew as he strode to the top of the hill. Rising above the curve of the horizon, the world unfurled below. Spray of sea, updraft of air, stark Pembrokshire cliffs tumbling to the waves that lashed the shore in tenacious discharge of cyclical dance; the tide was high covering much of the black rock home to so many oceanic creatures.

One of childhood’s delights, the crest of the downs overlooking this little corner of Wale’s Gower Peninsula was a revitalizing place. As a boy, he’d run ‘til shattered with exhaustion, gulping in great lungfuls of crisp air, stumbling along a path made rough by the hooves of the sheep that graze its meadows and gentle valleys. A tentative truce at best this confluence of land and sea was wild, stark, always inspiring.

On a brisk May morning it was heaven. Loose knit cable stitch scratched at his collar, whalebone corduroy trousers zha zhooming with each giant step. His face was hot with exertion, warmed with the memory of her.

Sleeping in, his wife of but forty hours had been the vision of peace and beauty as he’d slipped from the sheets, tiptoeing his way out through the warped door of room four, Wormshead B&B. Creak, the stairs had threatened stealth’s mutiny, but alas she’d remain asleep as he snuck out unseen by even Mrs. Connolly, the stout ruddy complexted Innkeeper’s wife. Savory salt tang of bacon wafted down the hall. He’d have to make his sojourn short. Breakie at eight.

Toppling one then the other, rumbling under handstitched quilt, they’d made love through the night barely a break to gather a thought, much less sleep. On a morning as glorious as this, he didn’t care if he ever closed his eyes again. Grandeur of God’s brilliant brushstrokes painting the dales with butter yellow gorse, sweet hint of new grass in his head, he’d nowhere to go but couldn’t think of a lovelier place to stroll as the last of morning’s pink haze lifted.

The sunrise of the second day as a married man felt even better than the first. He knew he couldn’t go forever without sleep, but he bloody well fancied trying. One last glance across the curve of Rhossili Bay, daybreak surfers already dotting the waves, he bent over to grab one of the shallowly embedded flat stones, prying it loose with the flip of a thumb. Well-practiced arm of youth, he threw it with but a flick of the wrist over the precipice. It sailed, a miniature disk away from the cliff, only to be slowed by a sudden uplift of air in its graceful decent to the tumult. Any sound of entry was swallowed by the brusque gusts and call of the gulls now launched stalwart against the wind. Peering back toward graveled road, he followed the slow serpentine bend of stone fence as it meandered to the Inn. Not a soul as he walked cliff’s edge; he was the sovereign of all before him, the master of none.

Around the bend of paved road atop the highest hill was his ancestral home. He could just imagine mum rising stoking the stove with peat letting old Lettie out the back for her morning romp. Old sheepdogs never die, they move to the quieter pastures of home and hearth. She still did a fine job of herding the grand nieceies and nephews in for Welsh pancakes, crisped brown on the rims, yellow gold rounds drizzled with a hint of maple so flavour intense it made the salivary glands at the curve of his jaw spring to life with the thought.

Mum would be taking care of all the family that still lingered; clearing the remnants from the bounty of the reception. Dad driving the old Rover into town to open shop for early morning customers dropped by for tea.

Was there a luckier man on earth than he to have the pleasure of kissing his new bride in the company of all he loved, overlooking the spring green hills and sparkling sea of ten thousand morning’s risings through the days of childhood and youth? Some people come to take the surrounding of their formative years for granted, no notice of the exquisite beauty in the everyday. As he trudged back up the road to the Inn gazing toward the rise at the thatched roof and whitewashed walls of his distant home, his heart swelled, chest aching in gratitude. He must have done something very good indeed to deserve such a gift.

“Good Mornin’ Aeron.” Mrs. Connolly’s cheerful voice saluted him as she opened the door at the side of the old building to enter the kitchen. “Come in, luv.” She lifted an invitational arm as he slipped past her. “How’s Misses Keenan, then?” Aeron turned to look at her, her mouth now hiked into a knowing smile.

“Expect she’ll be rising with the smell of your bacon sneakin’ under her door, Mrs. C.”

“Well ya best see to her then, man.”

Aeron nodded, smiled and made way for the stairs. Pausing at the landing, he peered out the small window facing the gravel car park. Nestled against the house was his little red Fiat, one of only three visitors this spring morn. Faintly reflected, an image of himself, hair now wildly askew with curls tossed about his head like some tempest at sea. He ran a remonstrative palm at his crown, calming the imbalance, then looked down across the landscape of his clothes and brushed them in satisfactory acknowledgement. Four more steps and he bounded for the door like a small boy headed to milk and biscuits. Reaching for the brass of the handle, he stopped a moment to draw more gratitude.

It occurred…Mrs. C. had never referred to him as a man before. He smiled and pushed into the room.