From Planet 235
by Mike Parker
Any Welsh journey can turn into an inadvertent voyage through the detritus of ages, as a marginalised landscape of loss rolls by the window. On a drive down the A470, for instance, you’ll invariably clock as many protestors’ placards as you will red kites: ‘Save Our School!’ they shriek, or our hospital, our community, our bus service, our way of life, ein cenedl, ein iaith. For years, a bedsheet pinned across the roof of a grimy hut in Erwood hollered ‘Save Our Toilets!’ Out of solidarity, I always made a point of stopping there for a pee, even if I didn’t need one (it worked; they’re still open).
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