Being a Tourist in My Town

I am sitting outside, eating egg sandwiches, at eleven in the morning.

The season has changed since I last went for a walk. Daffodils are appearing in the churchyard behind me – slightly timidly, because there’s still a cool breeze. The gulls try to compete with the sound of traffic from across the strait and the occasional passing motorboat. The sea in front is calm, with waves lapping the beach, and the sky is perfectly blue.

There is work to be done at home, but I can’t waste this weather, and today I needed to get out of the house. The fresh air and sunshine is wonderful after my horrible cold – I feel as if I’ve been trapped inside forever.

People who come to North Wales often say, ‘Oh, you’re so blessed to live here!’ Am I? Yes, of course… It’s easy to forget. It’s easy to lose the sense of wonder and appreciation. It’s easy to miss what’s under your nose, when you’ve lived somewhere your whole life.

I’ve spoken to people who have come on holiday here repeatedly over the years, and who say that it’s like their second home. As I walked along the Belgian Prom today I thought about the fondness that ‘my town’ inspires, with its wonderful setting, and I tried to look around from the point of view of a visitor.

I am sitting outside, finishing my egg sandwiches, at eleven-thirty in the morning. And I am in the most beautiful place in the world.

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