MY SOUL BELONGS TO CENARTH by Janice Johnson

My first visit to the Ceredigion area of Wales was in the summer of 1976, the hottest summer ever, and even Wales had dried up. The rushing water of Cenarth Falls was non-existent, and there’s a photo of fifteen-year-old me sitting in a bridge floodwater hole over the arid ground.

Decades later, I’m back. It’s late September and there’s been so much rain the Falls are a power of their own. Water rushing, crashing, smashing through to the calmer part of the Teifi, only pausing where a rock is too large for it to bully. I am in my element as the sounds, smells and autumn colours alternatively cosset and invigorate me.

My brain turns off mundane thoughts, and I look over to the old mill. What’s that? A gossamer woman with a light blue aura is hovering near the edge as a dark arm reaches out from the shadows. I know there’s a story to be told as I watch her sway and fade into the water.

Later that day at St Dogmaels, the sand is wet beneath my feet, not only from the sea but also from the rain. Plovers wander around the estuary and jackdaws clatter overhead, coming to land in the cumulating pools of water. The wind is fierce but doesn’t bother me. I feel vibrant and inspired.

I visit this area of Wales regularly now, as my soul belongs to Cenarth. From the hot summer of ‘76 when, as a teenager, I could climb up into a floodwater hole, to the wet autumns of my sixties, when I can’t. But it doesn’t matter. I feel so alive here.

And I haven’t forgotten the blue lady. She is part of me; her story is being written.