A Visit to the Past
The photo in my hand is of my dad when he stood on Rhosneigr Beach in 1973. My husband Jon and I visited this same spot a few years ago and even though I can’t say it brought back any vivid memories when we would all have been there as a family, it did make me feel particularly emotional, nostalgic, and weirdly close to the man who would have laid down his life for me. I cried for a long time when I stood there that day, hardly a soul about, trying to visualise what our little gathering would have looked like: Mum, Dad, my older brother and me, and friends of my parents were with us also - Aunty Gladys and Uncle Jim, long since passed. I expect there’s a reason why the white-washed house is still there, while new, eco-looking houses have been built in its vicinity, but if it hadn’t been, I perhaps wouldn’t have been able to find that very spot where Dad stood for his photograph, having no idea that almost fifty years later, I, too, would be having my photo taken by my husband in the exact same place.
I tend to write about my beloved dad quite a lot; it helps me to escape and remember the wonderful times we spent together, the memories and the upbringing that created the foundation of who I am. When I was growing up, we visited many places around England and Wales, mostly staying on farms and in B&Bs around Anglesey, Cornwall and Devon. One of the first cars I remember my dad owning was a red Triumph, but I couldn’t tell you what model it was. We’d pile in the car with the kitchen sink - my mum couldn’t bear to travel light - and he’d always have a roof rack with those elasticated octopus-type contraptions to keep everything held in place, things that included a windbreak, deckchairs, a little orange dinghy which he’d pump up when we got to our digs that my brother would then carry on to the beach. Suitcases went in the boot along with coats (this was the UK, don’t forget), and my brother and I would sit in the back like sardines in a tin trying not to fight over the picnic hampers my mum always prepared. I do remember stopping en route by the side of the road to eat said picnic, which usually consisted of Mum’s sandwiches containing beef paste or cheese and onion, crisps, flasks of tea and soup, and, of course, a packet of Penguins (see blog post called The Penguins), then finding bushes before Dad would bundle us back in the car to continue our journey.
Arriving at our destination was always exciting, especially if we were staying on a farm. My love for farming most probably evolved from those carefree summer holidays with my parents. One farm I remember very vividly in North Devon had a mother cat with several kittens and I was gutted that we weren’t allowed to take one home; unfortunately, my dad was allergic to cats. I’m only allergic to ginger ones…
And so, visiting Rhosneigr in July 2021, twenty years after my dad’s sudden death and almost fifty years after I’d first gone as a three year old, has to be one of the most highly-charged moments I’ve experienced for a long time when it comes to my childhood memories. I’ll probably go back one day, but it won’t be the same because that moment’s passed now; Dad is only in the next room, and my love for him and appreciation for the wonderful start in life he gave me, will always be in my heart.
