Oxwich.

The sturdy hotel, hanging green parasols and comforting wisps of cigarette smoke, prodded my memory for the second time this week.

Hello I thought, another sandy Goweronian  scene, to tempt my creative juices.

Not so.

All I could do was remember a two-week caravan jaunt in Horton, with a Roedean whippersnapper of magnificent proportions and an appetite for the impossible.

We were both young and untried, it was the 70’s with everything to play for. It rained and rained but the touch was always the same, the kisses always certain and the love bespoke one minute and ready-made the next.

Half a pint of bitter, a Woodbine, a smile or two and roughing it, suddenly meant everything.

Girls were different then. They knew less, but knew all things too. They knew how to charm, they knew how to chase,  they knew how to seduce.

But more than anything else, they knew how to be female.

JR

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