Well, that wasn’t so bad. A week after my little op I am grateful that the recovery has been pretty much trouble-free. The four tiny keyhole incisions have been painless, but for a couple of days I felt as if my insides had been rummaged around in, which I suppose they had been. Apparently I was one of the 10% who felt bloated after the op and had tremendous wind (both ends) but that passed after three days. Since then I’ve felt fine, so we’ll say no more about it other than thanks to the operating team who did a grand job, the nurses who looked after me for the 4 hours I was in recovery and most importantly to Lou who has pampered me, and had lots of fun examining my scars ever since.
What a strange week of politics. First we have apparently the whole of the parliamentary Conservative party competing with itself to follow May. How many candidates are there? How can it be that they’re all awful, and not in the original meaning of the term? (easy, they’re Tories). Then we have the aftermath of the EU parliament elections. I cannot understand why the media (i.e. the BBC) has made so much fuss about the Brexit Party’s showing. They were not a new party but just a different name for Faragists. They hoovered up nearly all the UKIP votes from five years ago and didn’t really move on from there much when you consider that the Cons vote collapsed. The real story was the rise in both the Lib Dems and the Greens representing Remain voters. The latter in particular, who more than doubled their representation, barely got a mention. For the rest of the week we have observed the agony of the Labour Party (or rather Corbyn’s bit of it) in trying to justify their contorted and futile position on Brexit.
I am amused (not the right word but it fits) that Tory leadership contenders and Labour party spokespeople talk of uniting the country. After the madness of the last three years that is impossible. It has probably always been true that a third of the population, particularly those of “mature” years have had the potential to be brexiteers, with all that entails. It was the idiocy of Cameron that has allowed their feelings to spill out into the open. Nothing will push those opinions back under the stone where they came from. It is up to the real majority of people who recognise the importance of Europe, of diversity, of the dangers of looking backwards, to push for the 2016 referendum result to be overturned, either by reverting to the result of the 1975 referendum (pro Europe) or to have another.
I got back to some writing this week. I’ve moved on with the novel, or at least now have a better idea where I’m going with it, and I wrote a short piece for my writing group. The theme this week was to write about holidays in the first person. Some of the others wrote hilarious pieces about travelling abroad and about childhood memories. Mine is a bit more reflective and specific in time and place, and it’s short.
To The Lake
I sat on a grass-topped tuffet of peat and looked out across the lake, melding with the tranquillity and seclusion. It was late March, a sunny, calm day, not cold, an ideal day for a walk in the hills. We had left the dramatic Pistyll Rhaedr, the tallest waterfall in Wales, not quite two hours earlier and set off along the path up the valley of Nant y Llyn, the stream of the lake. Since leaving the tourist site we had walked about three miles and not seen another person.
The water’s surface was hardly disturbed at all. The lake was almost circular, a perfect example of a glacial cwm about two hundred metres in diameter. Behind rose the almost vertical crescent of Moel Sych, the top of the ridge another two hundred and fifty metres above us.
The edge of the lake was shallow, the water perfectly clear. Out in the middle, the surface was dark, the depth unknown. The glacier would have scooped out the contours of the lake and left loose rock at its rim to dam the waters. The water level was in fact low; there had been little rain in recent weeks and the streams were not in spate as we had expected for early spring.
I sat and pondered, listening to the silence. There was enough warmth in the Sun for sitting to be comfortable. There were no signs of civilisation, not even a grazing sheep. We could have been the last couple, or the first. As well as peace there was mystery. The name of the lake is Llyn Lluncaws. My poor Welsh translated that as Lake of Mooncheese. Mooncheese? What did that mean. Did it refer to the shape of the lake, almost circular like the full Moon or a whole cheese? Or was there something else.
Legend has it that the Moon is made of cheese. In a fantasy universe the world can be anything you would like it to be. Perhaps Llyn Lluncaws was a place of fantasy. Stones beneath the surface at the edge of the lake had strange markings on them; squiggles like runes. Did they hold the secrets of the lake? I hoped for fire-breathing dragons to swoop over the ridge above my head, although I wished they would not breathe their flames on me. Maybe a magical princess might arise from the waters and walk out of the lake as occurred at the similar Llyn y Fan Fach in Carmarthenshire.
Nothing happened. The silence was unbroken by the beating wings of dragons and the surface of the lake remained calm. We ate our light lunch and eventually, reluctantly, set off back down the valley. As we crossed the lip, Llyn Lluncaws dropped from view. Perhaps the princess would step from the water once we had gone.
Author’s note: After this experience I discovered that “llun” does not mean Moon (that’s lleuad) but in fact means picture or form, but I have found no other meaning for “caws”. So is it “Lake of the form of a cheese”? Not as interesting as mooncheese, but I don’t know.what else LLyn Lluncaws can mean.