Another piece of constricted writing – 200 words with a picture of a park bench as the imposed trigger.
The path, on the back, easy end of the Orme, curves round and every few feet a wooden park bench, many with a small engraved sign, this one says simply
“For Bob, who loved this place”
The older woman and I sit, staring out at the sea, so blue that you could believe you were somewhere better, warmer than this no longer fashionable welsh sea-side town.
“This was his favorite spot” she says and I smile, trying to strike that balance between politeness and my desire to be left alone.
“Of course, he could be difficult, not always easy”
And we exchange a glance, female co-conspirators, having the full measure of our men, of all men.
” Yes” she continues ” he was always a bugger for sticks”
I look at her properly for the first time, sensible shoes, anorak [ in case the weather changes] , right hand just below her knee to pet an invisible companion.
I stand, continue my solo climb the the summit.
I turn once and see her stroke the place where the dog should be.
It starts to rain.