In which The Author goes on more nocturnal journeys
I’ve been having some rather peculiar dreams again recently, mostly in that period between about 7 a.m. and 9 a.m. when I can’t be bothered to get out of bed and listen to the crap radio presenters they have at that time of the morning. And once again, I’ve found some recurring locations which I’ve visited quite often. As far as I know, none of these places exist, except in my subconscious mind, but they still keep turning up.
A village at the top of a very steep hill. It’s hardly a village, in fact, just a couple of shops and a handful of cottages in a row. The hill leads up to a T-junction, and the road goes off into the distance at each side of where I’m standing. (I don’t think it’s a bus stop, but as I don’t drive I’m guessing I must have got there by bus.) I’ve got a feeling in the back of my mind (in the dream) that if I take the road to the right, I’ll end up in the next valley, but I’ve no idea where the other road leads, nor where I’ll get to if I go down the hill.
A busy traffic island in the middle of a city which in my dream is Bristol, but it certainly isn’t any part of Bristol I’ve ever been to. For some reason, I’m usually stuck there and feeling rather lost, looking out for anyone or anything I recognise. The last time I was there, it turned out to be only a few minutes’ walk from the main bus station, but I still thought I’d be there for ages without any way of getting home.
A town somewhere on the Welsh Marches. It’s only a small place, and Mother and I tend to be there together. There’s a high part of the town and if I look into the distance, I can just about make out the silhouette of Blackpool Tower.