Visiting the ghost cats

Evening. Early twilight, and the world wrapped in a shroud of cloud. We went visiting the ghost cats.
On top of the hill we could hear the waves washing the shore at Whitesands Beach. The air was still and full of the weight of water. The world closed in tight by clouds. At Maes y Mynydd we looked for the ghost cats, climbing the ruined walls.




Here, once, one hundred years ago, a cat sat by the fire after a feast of fish heads and tails, while the men and women mended the nets for the next days fishing by the light of a fish oil lamp. Flames flickered and the cat was warm as he listened to their tales of the sea, and of selkies.




Here, once, the cat sat at the window and watched as carts rolled past carrying the heavy weight of hay to the farm over the hill. Then the cat hunted in the stubble field for the rats and the mice and the rabbits.




And here, now, in the full moonlight, the ghost cats still sit in the windows and warm by the flickering ghost fire as the ghost fishermen still mend their nets and the shadows draw in the night. If you listen you can hear their soft purr riding on the gentle breeze.