2

I am accustomed to solitude and since living here have become suspicious of any incursions from the outside world. I have few visitors, and have spent the winter – which, due to the recalcitrance of spring, stretched well into April – reading, writing and occasionally walking in the surrounding hills, or Black Mountains, as they are called. They are not black, of course; they acquired the name centuries ago on account of the perennial gloom into which the sky shrouds them when approached from the east, offering a promise of darkness and exclusion, a state or condition personified no doubt by the warlike Celts who once defended their muddy pile against the no less hostile Saxons and Normans. I suspect the owner, or owners of the tent have come the same way as the Normans, from the east, over Gospel Pass and down through Capel-y-Ffin.

Perhaps they lost their way in the dark, did not care to venture further into the field at night. Perhaps they pitched their tent here out of convenience, since it was not far from the road and therefore nearer to civilisation. Perhaps they were afraid that a bull or some other dangerous beast was loose in the field, or that they might otherwise incur the wrath of a splenetic farmer with their trespass. Or maybe they were simply tired, and set up their tent in the first convenient spot, before crawling into their sleeping bags. In which case, perhaps, I should let them sleep on. I am inclined, now that the sun is on my face, to treat them kindly.

The tent.

It is of a strong construction, with no manufacturer’s label, nor any other marking to indicate its provenance. It is a two-person tent, and quite generous in width, set up with steel and wooden poles, rather than threaded onto a light aluminium frame in the modern style: to all appearances, therefore, a traditional, old-fashioned tent. But its colour shocks me. It is a deep blue: in fact, it seems to me, close up, that it is the bluest thing I have ever seen. It expresses blueness, as though rather than being a colour, blue were an idea or a thought: no, as if blue were an extreme, intense emotion.

I stare at the tent, trying to decipher what kind of fabric or dye could manifest such a distinct hue that it actually pains one to look at it. I turn away. My eyes have begun to water.

No sound comes from the tent but I can sense the presence of human life stirring within.

I have been bending over, my head turned side-on to the tent’s entrance, as if awaiting some sign or message. I pull myself up, and look around, feeling my behaviour to be somehow unseemly.

A dog is in the drive, in the exact spot I was standing a minute ago, when I stopped to look back at the house. I have never seen this dog before. It watches me momentarily, then turns and leaves; I don’t quite catch its colour as it runs away, a flecked grey or dull russet. The appearance of this dog adds to my unease.

The sun is well up; it must be warm inside the blue tent. Whoever is there will be getting sweaty and uncomfortable by now, unless they are too tired to notice. I reach down for the zipper, but just as I am about to yank it up I have second thoughts, or rather – how should I express this – I have a strong sense that this is the wrong course of action. I will leave the occupant or occupants of the tent in peace for now, give them the opportunity to show themselves, if they wish, but will not act out the role of meddlesome neighbour, even if the notion of being neighbours seems far-fetched, I being an actual resident of the valley and they merely passing through. I turn and walk back to the house.