Wales part one

I love that daylight lingers until 10pm. You know how you wish for an extra hour per day; it suddenly feels like that. My evening meal is often later than from back home, sometimes seven, but more often eight or nine. (Last night, a jacket potato with beans. Don't ask, it's what it sounds like.) And the light of these long days seems special, a sunset that softens and even with the sun gone the sky remains gently lit. In fact, I can't remember now if I have seen a dark night with stars and moon while in England. Not like home at least. I assume there are moon sightings in UK. I'll keep looking.

There is a bit of fiction in travel writing, an ostensibly non-fiction account . The authors we study make generalizations (Jan Morris on the Welsh character) or employ personification (Peter Sagar on the enveloping arms of Bath). Paul Theroux simply invents names for people he observes. He's convinced these are their correct names and uses this device to assign personal qualities. I guess that what we do. We are story makers.

Yesterday, I went for a run along the river here in Cardiff. I pass by fields of football (soccer) and cricket playing. Coming toward me at a brisk trot are four soldiers in pairs carrying packs. In the lead corner appears a grizzled veteran, lean, fit and focused, and the youngsters that follow have this nervous look on their faces. After crossing the river and heading back along the other side, I pass a large field with a stream of people, mostly women in pink, marching toward a finish line. The PA announcer and hordes of supporters are exhorting them on. It appears over a thousand people are there, and the energy is palpable. As someone who has done benefit events, I find this moving and appreciate what this is about. I run faster and things feel, somehow, more like home.