Llandudno Diaries – 1

I went to Llandudno to explore the place because I want to set a story there. Last February I came up with an idea, which I actually explored in a short story in March, but then I put it aside to see if I may come up with something else. Indeed, sometime by October the original idea evolved, and I left for Llandudno, having written a few opening chapters and with the view of how the story would go.

Why Llandudno? I’ve been there in the summer of 2004, and it was a weird visit. In a company of four we checked into this hotel which had a tremendous view of Colwyn Bay, but our rooms were located on the top floor, the parking space which was expected to fit 11 cars looked too small even for 5, there was no elevator, and the prospect of staying in such place for a week was anything but pleasant. So we left the hotel, and it was then that we decided to drive to Llandudno. It was August, and naturally we didn’t find any vacancies in the hotels along the Promenade, and we didn’t venture further into town. But I had just enough time to take a short walk on the Promenade, where the elderly couples were strolling up and down the Victorian stones. I think what impressed me most at the time and which I remembered now when I began to write the story was Llandudno’s beach. I’ve never been a beach person myself, and at the time the only other place in England that I could compare to Llandudno was Blackpool. Blackpool had its own promenade and the beach, but there was a wall to actually protect the pedestrian path from the waves of the Irish sea.

There is no such wall in Llandudno. In fact, one evening the tide was away, and I was able to walk on the jetty (see left) very far into the bay. And this has been one of the most amazing experiences in my life. I was totally alone, and I cannot swim. It was very dark, there were no people around, and the only help, had I needed it, would have come from The Grand Hotel, which stood to my right. It certainly helped that there was no wind. So I stood on this jetty, surrounded by complete darkness. Underneath me there were the dark cold waters of Llandudno Bay, and above me there was a nightly January sky. And suddenly the stars began to appear and sparkle. I am sure it was the first time I was able to recognise some constellations. Eventually some stars were becoming brighter, and it was then that I just started to recite aloud this famous poem by Vladimir Mayakovsky:

Listen!

Listen,
if stars are lit
it means – there is someone who needs it.
It means – someone wants them to be,
that someone deems those specks of spit
magnificent.
And overwrought,
in the swirls of afternoon dust,
he bursts in on God,
afraid he might be already late.
In tears,
he kisses God’s sinewy hand
and begs him to guarantee
that there will definitely be a star.
He swears
he won’t be able to stand that starless ordeal.
Later,
He wanders around, worried,
but outwardly calm.
And to everyone else, he says:
‘Now,
it’s all right.
You are no longer afraid,
are you?’
Listen,
if stars are lit,
it means – there is someone who needs it.
It means it is essential
that every evening
at least one star should ascend
over the crest of the building.
To be continued…