Ladybirds and Mermaids

Amongst the bugs that swell and swirl, I sip the strongest coffee that I always imagine is made from brewed emperor's robes and violets. A ladybird lands on the 'b' key and then a few days later, after I notice a piece of paper on the pavement that says "incubate", a few more ladybirds appear on my desk. It is suggested that they are attracted to my newly red hair.

I think about weekends I haven't finished writing about and remember that the last one I mentioned, which contained waterfalls, cliff tops and sea foam, also contained mermaids and rainbows.

Morwenstow:

From the church, I walked through a field or two, until I came across what is apparently the smallest National Trust owned property - a small hut made from driftwood, situated on the cliff-top. I hid inside this hut where Robert Stephen Hawker, the former vicar of Morwenstow, used to write poetry and indulge in opium.

According to my guidebook, Hawker once dressed up as a mermaid on the seashore and only gave himself away when he began to sing the national anthem. I read the graffiti scratched into the wood inside the hut and the verse of Hawker's Butterfly poem, pinned to the wall: "Bird of the moths! That radiant wing Hath borne thee from thine earthly lair; Thou revellest on the breath of spring, A graceful shape of woven air!"

Gazing out at the same sea that Hawker would have, I found myself searching not for butterflies, but for mermaids.