ABSTRACT
[T]he faltering and fading sounds which I think lingered on in me at least for a while, like something shut up and scratching or knocking, something which, out of fear, stops its noise and falls silent whenever one tries to listen to it (Sebald, 2001: 195).
The levels hiss and hum in the warm spring sunshine, faintly ooze and crackle with drainage. ‘Ok!’ – one of my bigger brothers. A battered iron gate scrapes open – ‘hoowww, get on!’, a man’s voice, loud, rich, slightly Welsh – my dad – he whistles for the sheepdog. The flock of sheep, previously pressed against the gate, begin to trickle over the small stone-arched bridge and onto the coast road, scuffling and bleating as they go.
Memories mobilise, a landscape within me comes alive, reforms, yet into something fresh. I change.
