Our favourite bench was vacant on the morning of that sunny day in June earlier this year. We tarried for a while, admiring the broad view back towards Caswell Bay and, further to the west, a tantalising glimpse of Pwlldu Bay storm beach and the ominous bulk of Pwlldu Head thrusting its dominant presence out to sea from the south Gower coast.
The bench, set onto a concrete plinth a few feet from the path that clings to the Gower coast, is but one of many places of rest, usually with name plates of those departed, often accompanied by a short phrase explaining why the person commemorated admired this part of south Wales. I reluctantly find myself briefly imagining my name and the dates bookending my life similarly displayed.
We were on the point of rejoining the path to make our way to the next bay, Langland, when we noticed a large group of walkers strung out along the path between Caswell Bay and our bench, like a giant necklace of different coloured beads of various shapes and sizes, occupying most of the route we had just taken.
‘Let’s wait until they’ve passed,’ said A, ‘before we continue.’
In the event, as we waited, the group of walkers approaching and then passing us grew longer and longer. After exchanging several ‘good morning’ greetings, we engaged a group of young women in conversation. They explained that the group was a ‘mostly Muslim group of hikers.’
‘Many of the group have never left the city to spend time in such beautiful surroundings,’ said one of the women.
We got the impression that several of the group were from Birmingham, giving us the opportunity to swap stories about the city where A and I used to live.
After bidding farewell to the group of women, there were several other opportunities for brief conversations with some of the hikers as they passed our bench. The warmth and joy of the walkers was heartening and obvious in its sincerity.
The tail end of the group came into view eventually and we fell in behind the back marker, a young man with some kind of short-wave radio for use, we assumed, to communicate with his counterpart at the head of the group. Our brief conversation with him, another resident of Birmingham, revealed that he home-schools his children: perhaps he is dissatisfied with his local schools.
I cast a glance back to the bench, picturing C and his wife, L, as they sat there barely one year previously. C is no longer with us, the second of three friends to pass in the past 18 months. Their passing, all men a year or so younger than me, taken together with my health problems during the spring of this year, has changed my perspective of life and its inevitable vicissitudes. It is as if the shadowy finger of mortality has pointed in my direction, issuing a warning and a rebuke.
The loss of friends and the recovery of my health have given me pause for thought and reason to reflect. As 2023 nears its end, recent events have caused me to vow to be more accepting, ignore trivial problems and value the simple joys of life: a good walk; a meal at a favourite restaurant; immersion in a book; above all, the sight, touch and companionship of my wife of 50 years. Her constant support during my period of ill-health is beyond measure.
We part company with the end of the group at Langland Bay; I didn’t ask as to its end point. Either a full car park or several coaches awaited the hikers further along the coast, perhaps at Bracelet Bay.
We bade goodbye to the back marker and made our way back to Caswell Bay over the tops to drop down to the coastal path near the now empty bench. I thought of C once more, his widow L, and the other widows of friends recently departed. I cast a sideways glance at A: I could not bear the thought of leaving her in similar circumstances.
My mother often said to me that, as a child, I told her that I would live to be 100. I may not get there, but I will do anything to hold dear to togetherness for as many years with A as are given to me.
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Coming soon: Reflections Through The Mist. This is my mother’s story, inspired by a memoir that she left for me to find after she died.
David Muir 