Non’s Place
Whenever I’m down her way, I drop in on my dear old friend, Non, especially if I have more than I need on my mind. A little off the beaten track, there are two ways to get to her place: the easiest is along windy lanes by car. The other involves a contemplative mile or so of narrow footpath nibbled into the rugged Pembrokeshire clifftops, until you come upon a squeaky iron gate set in a gorse thicket. On the other side, an incongruously well-manicured sloping lawn.
The hefty oak door is always open, as I step from the mossed cobblestones outside and pause on the worn stone threshold whilst my eyes adjust to the shade within. Non's is a small and sparsely furnished place. The rough stone walls radiate illusory warmth, being soft shades of pink and grey and purple: same as the cliff faces, same as the pebbles on the beaches, same as the hulk of the nearby cathedral. A few white splashes on the stone floor betray the swallows that have availed themselves of the ever-open door and plastered a couple of nests among the high beams.
Dear Non, still in her prime at almost ninety, is waiting by the long window in the corner, her baby son perched on her hip. I greet her, take her hand, and fondle the child's chubby foot, and in spite of their cool, mute white marbleness, I feel expected, I feel welcome. Then, with the same Pavlovian impulse as putting on the kettle for a visiting friend, I post a handful of gold coins into a brass slot in the wall and take a couple of ivory candles from a basket on the windowsill. I feed them into the tall circular candelabra and light each one with silent dedications to my concerns or gratitudes of the day.
The candles quickly generate warmth and shadows, as I then stand and savour the modest beauty of this little stormrider clifftop chapel. A simple stone altar bears a plain brass cross and informal flowers, whilst five sublime stained glass windows depict Non and her grown son David and a few of his saintly mates. A low shaft of sunlight bespatters their colours onto the walls. A deep cobalt blue predominates the spectrum and nourishes my hungry pagan soul.
Meanwhile, the only sound is of the rising feral elements awaiting me on the other side of the threshold. But I'm not ready to leave yet. On the sill is a stubby pencil and a notepad, alongside a wooden bowl that tenderly holds a small flock of tightly folded messages.
I knock out a little supplication: ‘Dear Non. Thanks for always being here. I wish you could sneak out sometimes to see the moonlight on the sea. But your little swallows will soon fly and spread your mother-love far and wide wherever it’s needed. How cool is that? Love, Doris x’