Costa Geriatrica

Costa Geriatrica

Sun and sky
a bright and breezy
way to go

Here in the sixth century, Saint Tudno built his rough stone oratory for ascestic prayer and gave his name to Llandudno. It is now a genteel resort, where the Grand, the Imperial, the Hydra, the King George and many more stand carefully preserved in pastel stucco.

"Boots" and "Ostler"
bell pushes
which no longer work

However, the grim trio of sickness, old age and death are still muffled by deep pile carpets and the relentless keeping-up-of-appearances.

New, expensive and well-cut
how they hang
on these poor wasted clothes-horses

"Well, can't complain you know - must look on the bright side!" Tartan rugs are tucked firmly in. The polite young Welsh waitresses and hotel staff are adept at jollying the customers along.

Stretched between the headlands of the Great Orme and the Little Orme lies the elegant curve of the promenade. Wheelchairs and walking sticks in endless cavalcade. Electrically propelled ancients whiz about like pond skaters. After sixty-five years I can promenade my own nostalgia. The St Seiriol, with its raked yellow funnels, steaming in from Liverpool Bay, with the band playing. Deck chairs striped like my dad's pyjamas or the ribbon round his straw boater. Noisy day trippers flood onto the pier - "Not our class", says my mother. In widowhood she outliuves a succession of genteel fortune hunters before bone cancer finally gets her.

Come the evening, then as now, out to a "show" - a therapeutic trip down Memory Lane. The Pier Pavilion, the Arcadia, or, on a warm summer's evening, the Happy Valley Open Air Theatre. "The Home Front - Songs & Sounds of the Second Worlds War". And still they foxtrot at the thes dansants at the Palais Ballroom.

Well-bred laughter
growing brittle
in the narrowing life

Tea-time is another grateful ritual. At Habits tearooms and terrace the regulars are at their favourite tables selecting their favourite cakes. The trolleys are pushed by pert waitresses in black, with starched white pinafores and lace headdresses. A frail but perky old fellow limps from his wheelchair to enjoy his daily6 peach melba. Opposite, at a corner table, a hard-faced but characterful woman stirs her Earl Grey tea. Bone china and purple eye shadow - she knows a thing or two. Old age is not for softies. Her husband sits hunched opposite, their silence proclaiming a marriage long outlived.

Navy blazer
jaws clenched
he stares into the blue beyond

Unseen, but right before him, floats Saint Tudno's seagull, sunlight through its wings.

Ken Jones (July 2007)

This post is written in the form of a "Haibun" - a Japanese inspired combination of haiku poetry and prose, a style originally attributed to the 17th Century Japanese Buddhist monk-poet Basho. Ken Jones is a Zen Buddhist and a recognised exponent of the modern haibun.