Barrybados Rhapsody

Ben Wildsmith

Sitting in the Hungry Horse in Barry, I can hear a baby crying loudly on the other side of the pub. It wasn’t the grumpy grizzle of an overtired infant who had been kept out too long.

These were lung-bursting, full-throated sobs that seemed to rise in condemnation of some terrible injustice.

Staring at the enormous burger I’d ordered as a last, defiant indulgence before salad and pop render January joyless, I wondered what the tiny complainant’s issue was.

In fairness, there doesn’t need to be a specific grievance to justify vocal revulsion at the human condition. A newborn quite possibly retains memory of a life at peace in the spirit realm, I mused, mixing mustard into my mayonnaise to create a tangy dipping sauce for my chips.

The contrast with life in density which is all inconvenience, spiritual separation, and mundane obligation must be crushing when we first arrive, especially here in the Hungry Horse where each booth has an individual TV screen surrounded by a picture frame on which they show the football. Blackburn Rovers 0 – Wrexham 2, perhaps that would soothe the little malcontent’s distress at temporarily losing access to the divine.

As it turned out, it didn’t. Wail on, little one, you speak for us all.

Earlier, up on the headland above the beach, it was blowing knives through my ribs. Dozens of us filed along the paths to peer over the edge of the cliff and check that the sea was still there in 2026.

It seems primal, this compulsion to head for the coast on New Year’s Day. I doubt any of us could pinpoint why we were there, but it seems the thing to do; a way of greeting the new year that is connected to both nature and our island heritage.

Given that this isn’t Tahiti, our version of that sits best in frozen-cheeked January, swaddled up like North Face walruses, panting out the cheese and port. You can keep your grass skirts and swaying palms; we should be hauling in the herring.

The dogs have the best of it. Is there anything more alive than a dog that has been taken to the beach? Their greetings, adventures, and games are equal parts fun and seriousness as they wring every drop of joy out of an experience they’ll be reliving in those twitchy-legged, eye-rolling dreams they have by the fire.

A dog on New Year’s Day lives with all the promise and lusty enthusiasm we try to force into ourselves before pre-dawn commutes and tax returns shunt us into January proper.

‘The thing is, they said they wanted someone with experience and, as you know, I’ve helped out at the cattery for years but apparently that isn’t good enough for them…’

Circling down the other path back to the beach, people’s conversations float in and out of earshot leaving little disjointed imprints of concerns and joys.

We’re in it together, and alone all at the same time, facing the sheer rock face of a new year with uncertain prospects. We smile at each other, pet the dogs, and breathe in the cold, shocking air like a restorative medicine.

We’ll get through, somehow.