Most of us own a lethal weapon with the potential to kill! I’m talking cars tonight, as I’m seriously worried about the lack of concentration and poor driving of some of the people I met on the road today.

     Whilst leaving an out of town Retail Park, I noticed a young blackbird on the side of the road.  He was sitting up and still alive despite being hit by a previous car and the car in front of us appeared to drive over its wings.

      ‘Stop!’ I shouted to my kind and unassuming husband, realising what had happened and I jumped from the camper and ran back. A few more cars passed but not one stopped or tried to avoid it.

       I quickly scooped the young bird up and cradled him in my hands. I knew it was a male as they are black while females are brown.

       With the young bird safely in my lap in the camper, I made a quick call to the bird hospital in the woods near our home for waifs and strays. Sadly, he died just before we arrived there. I cried for the blackbird, not just because he had died but because he had suffered. People must have seen him on the road just as I did. How long he had been there, I do not know. I wondered why someone hadn’t stopped to put him on the pavement where he would be safe. But to many, I guess, he was just another bird.

       Blackbirds, or Turdus Merula, as many of you will know from my previous story about them, can live for up to twenty years. Their song is the sweetest of any other British bird. But this little fellow, now buried in our garden for waifs and strays died before his life had properly begun. Even the summer will last longer.

      And perhaps he could have lived. Perhaps if people stopped using their phones whilst driving and concentrate instead....perhaps he wouldn’t have died unnecessary.

      Don’t always assume the animal on the road is dead. It might just be in shock and could live if you stop for just a moment and put it somewhere safe where at least it will have a chance of survival

After spending the day fishing, not me however, I was sitting on the deck writing to you, it was good to get my feet on solid ground. Though saying that, it is very relaxing, messing about on the water!

     I come from a family of fishermen, my father also used to participate in the sport, but I cannot kill a fly let alone a wriggling fish. However, our visitors wanted to go on the boat and try to catch a fish for their tea. Reluctantly I went, with my art pad and paints and a writing book and pen.

     The day began quiet peacefully and all was going to plan. We left the marina and the city behind, and headed out into the Bristol Channel. There was a slight breeze and the boat wasn’t exactly still, but our visitors were shown how to prepare their rods (I never watch this part) and soon they were holding them in the water. As usual, when the fish begin to bite, I begin to squirm and shut my eyes tightly. I also say a pray at this stage for the poor and unsuspecting fish. Today, the fish were too small and were placed back into the water, phew! Then the wind picked up!

     Without warning, the waves became choppy and the boat began to rock like a cradle. Our visitor’s smiles were replaced with a green looking film which is the usual sign of sea sickness.

       Although officially off duty, I used my nursing skills while the boat was taken back to the marina. The fish, this time, had a lucky escape! Oh, and by the way, our visitor’s recovered and said they looked forward to visiting us again in the very near future. I doubt that will be include fishing!

Dylan Thomas called it a ‘lovely, ugly, town,’ and The Lonely Planet called it ‘The ash tray of a place’ while I have heard people call it ‘The graveyard of ambition’ but my kind and unassuming husband says that many people who take the time to discover the area, rarely want to leave.

     Today, as I stood at the top of the highest restaurant in Wales (which is situated in the heart of Swansea) I marvelled at how much this area has to offer. This city, call it what you like, is built on the shores of a long stretch of sandy beach, and nestles below the rolling hills of Wales.

      My eyes scanned the city and rested for while on Swansea market, this is where my father used to take me when I was a child, still thriving, still packed with locally grown produce and freshly caught fish.

     Directly below the restaurant, art galleries, museums and all kinds of restaurants line the marina where boats bob about on the water.

     Across the bay is the village of Mumbles with its medieval castle, pier, lighthouse and quirky little shops and tea rooms, a delightful place to visit.

     I turned to look at our visitors and could tell by their faces that they saw the city as I did, a place full of history and possibilities.

After eating all the raspberries and strawberries from our allotment, I headed for our local pick you own. Being a big fruit eater, it would have been in their best interest to have weighed me on the way in and again on the way out!

    With our visitors in tow, we hunted down the best of the berries growing amidst the fields that rolled all the way down to the sea. With the sun smiling down on us, we couldn’t have wished for a better place to be. At least, for me, it was perfect!

     Carefully picking the best fruit to make jam, meant having to taste before buying. You see, poor fruit produces poor quality jam. The secret is to make small amounts of jam at a time. Another wee tip is that slightly under-ripe fruit makes better jam. This is because of it has a higher acidity. And also, warm the sugar first! The faster you can make the jam, the fresher it will taste. Believe me, this is true!

      Anyway, we picked and tasted the fruit and as I did, I could hear my absent kind and unassuming husbands voice in my head, telling me that they should be washed before eating and did I know that it was wrong to eat the fruit without paying for it? He is right you know, but I will pay the penalty if there is any to pay.

     We ate and picked the raspberries first, these are fruits quite high in pectin. This helps with the setting of the jam. Then off we strolled to the strawberry fields.  Now strawberries are rather low in pectin so we looked for slightly under ripe fruit. Some lemon juice will make up the difference when I come to making the jam.

      When we had finished and paid for what we had picked, I made everyone a fresh cup of sweet tea in our old camper. It was a perfect way to end the day.

In the golden light of this evening, I walked with our visitors across the cliffs and down to a secluded beach where I often walked with my mother, as a small child. There was a peculiar peacefulness, despite the chatter of my companions and I was lost in a different time that I longed to remember.

     Quite often, my mother would push me in a pram or drag it through the calcium rich sand and all the while, she would be singing. I searched in my memory for a picture of her proud face, her smile, her beautiful dark hair. And her voice, I wanted more than anything to hear her voice calling me to walk faster, before the tide came in and washed our bare feet.

     As we strolled along the water’s edge I looked back at the cliffs with its rare orchids and sea lavender, the gentian and the gorse and I thought how breathtakingly beautiful this part of the world is.

     I am eternally grateful for my unconventional upbringing in this wild part of Wales and I was grateful, in that moment, for the silent seagulls and the calm and quiet sea.