The trip to the tip 3 August 2005
In the morning, we left the house to wait, a minute away,
and for a few minutes only, the ex-Hereford coach;
there was no-one else on it; we were the first two,
accepting our joint ticket that came from the machine.
Our chauffeur was little more than a teenager, sunglasses, trendy hair,
going down the few minute hill with competence,
who would have looked at home cruising with the breeze on a big bike
through Cambrian mountains, by the Bwlch gap.
A modest Welsh market town,
with old church, hotel, house, might look warm and quaint,
A modest Welsh market town, but quite tough
to get a coach around tight small corner, without scraping off the paint.
Part 2
We walked past the dentist, in brisk yet carefree way
up the Monmouth Road, past the Belmont pub
turning in towards the train track, the car hire place
to get a transit van, Allen, the manager, waiting.
Prior to that, next door, I had enquired the price
of the train to Reading, coach to Heathrow.
£55, I was told by the competent man with long hair.
He’s good - polite, helpful, efficient, told me the time;
an early start for a thirteen and a half hour flight,
a nagging misery for me. I would prefer to remain here,
with garden bird, peace, but I need to see my wife,
the children; twenty weeks apart - that is too long for me.
In the meantime, she checked the van and money out,
told me to contact the town hall from nearby call box.
Name? Address? Licence number? Questions galore,
maybe she thought I was dumping poisonous waste or I had a bomb.
Part 3
trying time trying to park,
the gear refusing to fit into first, grating on itself, on me,
other people wondering if she knew what she was up to;
into the seconds shop, near empty much of the time,
but suiting a recluse like me. I asked the female if they had a belt.
‘only the women’s type; sorry, sweetheart’, not for me.
A few minutes, then back home; now I was quiet,
clearing a lot of the garage; underlay, wood, window,
bags of garden cutting, grass, bits of pruned tree,
then, down the hill past Plas Derwen,
to the dump at Llanfoist, missing it the first time,
but she enjoying the Usk scenery.
Turn around, lost; a car hire woman gave me
gesticulating directions; back half into town, by supermarket,
the main road being upgraded at long last.
Back to Plas Derwen, yet again to go past, unknowing, the tip.
We went on; we had to, no choice, to another ten
minute roundabout, with off-shoot to Crickhowell, Brecon.
The third try, now expert on the first kilometre or two,
we turned off at the first entrance this time, to hit upon
a mural of skip after skip, quite a number, with garden junk,
house rubbish; the supervisor, nice chap,
checking our cargo, happy with our content;
we threw things in, in the warm afternoon air.
Through the town, back to the car hire, explaining
we hadn’t put petrol in, as we hadn’t gone far;
they accepted our reasoning, uncomplaining.
Part 4
went to the open café, popular with serious bike men,
she had a tuna and cucumber sandwich.
I checked car prices across the road, then
went to the bus pull-in, met an elderly woman,
with, her son - I presume - in tow.
Born in Clydach, she knew Abergavenny well;
now in Tredegar. She praised the town - this one -
but thought the people more snobbish than the valleys folk.
The son agreed, he thought it nice here.
.
I asked about Tredegar. Was it nice there?
They thought me amusing; not so nice, said the son,
words to that effect. ‘A dump’, she said to me.
The son laughed. Yeah, when they go back,
they think they’re back in the dump; the coach came, we went.
The fare had increased in four hours;
I questioned, showing our first ticket.
‘Child’, he said to me, checking.
A few minutes later, he dropped us off by the top,
the afternoon, the waste, the journey gone;
the son raised a hand in farewell, then,
without a thought, the Hereford coach went on.
Postscript
I swept the dust on the garage floor, now almost pristine,
bagged the old leaves, the place quite neat now.
We showered, changed, the dirt and sweat going;
she prepared rice, chicken in a chilli and pepper piquant array.
I popped open a bottle of cider, from Normandy,
my brother had brought back on the last trek.
I’m writing, she reading, the lamp pink, ticking clock;
out through the window, a half cloudy camouflage night where
the cherry tree, plant quiet brush the august air.
