The Circle of Friendship

We gathered in the field at Bosherston, near the lily ponds and Broadhaven beach. Our circle formed by our dwellings; tents, cars, converted vans. There to celebrate Stella’s fiftieth birthday— 20^th July 2023. Images shine brightly as I remember that weekend, remember Sarah.

All of us squeezed under the gazebo, sheltering from incessant rain, an eternity of water deluging from heaven like a blessing. Our Welsh summer monsoon. Our hearth was the camping stove, where Stella and Mandy conjured up delicious food from a motley collection of ingredients. Nobody complained. We laughed and snuggled closer, wet knees against soggy thighs, warm arms around shoulders.

Becky and Andy producing an endless stream of hot drinks from the dark confines of their van. Sarah and Tommy telling tall tales, sparking off each other’s wit. The sheer joy of being together, sharing time, sharing these few precious hours of our lives to celebrate our Stella, whose light has shone brightly for each one of us.

Anna and Sami moving into Stella’s car when their tent drowned. Sleeping bags dripping from guy ropes in the fleeting pauses between downpours. One night, for just an hour, the rain stopped and we sat beneath the starless sky and sang songs around the fire.

On Sunday morning we walked round lily ponds in rain. Warm rain, fresh and smelling of summer greenery, dripping from wild clematis as a sky lark sang high overhead. He didn’t care about the rain, so why should we? Pausing on eight-arch bridge to drink in the shining ripples of the lake. The glaucous green of lily pads and ethereal white of lilies in every stage of growth, white cups wide open, yellow stamen quivering in anticipation of the next pair of wings, shy buds like prayer-hands, closed in supplication, wilting blossoms browning round the edges. A pair of swans nesting in the green folds of lily pad and algae, another swimming alone in the middle of the lake, elegant and detached. Seagulls soaring overhead, calling mournfully to one another. Sundry hikers in sturdy boots and back-packs. Dogs sniffing, children running, rain falling—dripping from branches, rippling on water, radiating circles expanding and merging—a wonderland of water, wildlife and humanity.

Determined to reach the beach, we crossed bridges and walked narrow pathways until at last we heard the waves crashing on the shore and followed the river as it surrendered itself to the sea. The rain stopped, clouds parted and sun shone glorious, bright and hot in a sliver of blue sky. Church Rock stood in the bay, solitary and stark. The broad sweep of ocean rolled effortlessly onto sand, and, sighing, slipped back. We sat on wet dunes, removed soggy shoes and chased each other into the waves.

Later we crowded into St Govan’s Inn, chocker full of Sunday-lunchers and soaking hikers, sought sanctuary beside the fireplace, empty of flames yet welcoming and homely nevertheless. Hunger fired our bellies— food had never tasted so good. Sarah, bright-eyed, sharing secrets with Stella. All of us swapping seats and stories, catching up on our lives, laughing over memories, dreaming over future plans, revelling in the silent presence of old friends, speaking with our eyes, our hands, a touch, a smile, a simple knowing and being. Tommy told a story that lost us all, and yet we laughed anyway, just to hear him tell it.

Clambering down the slippery stairs to St Govan’s chapel, ancient sanctuary of the solitary saint who gave his name to this thrust of rock and clinging grass that points forever west, toward the setting sun. Cut into the cliff-stone, and shaped by it, this tiny chapel speaks of sea and cliff in its aloneness; of meditation and silence, of the tempest and the calm. And we were silent too, sitting on stone seats, backs pressed against cold rock, watching light slice through empty window slits and illumine colours in the gloom. We sat above the crashing waves and talked of time and space, infinity and how we love our children.

That was the last time I saw Sarah. Sarah with her vulnerability and capability, chaos and commitment, passion and creativity.

One week later she was at Mark’s bedside, a sudden diagnosis of lung cancer, his final week in hospital, making plans with him for a farewell festival, complete with music, food and celebration. As she made the final preparations for his funeral, while loading up her van, the handbrake slipped, and she was crushed. And we, who loved them both, were left to mourn two shining souls from our community: Mark with his music and his practicality, his photographic eye and sardonic wit, and Sarah, with her laughter and her kindness, her huge warm heart and righteous indignation, her hairy lip and throaty laugh. Sarah, mother, friend, cook extraordinaire, free spirit, nature woman. So alive one minute, so gone the next. Sarah whose absence is an ache, whose presence was a light, and whose passing reminds me to live each moment fully, to love and laugh as if there were no tomorrow.

With Love,

Josie