The Passionate Viking from Porthdinllaen

The line between passion and obsession. Is it a thin strand or a deep gaping chasm?

I mean is it something that you can see from far enough distance away so that you can do something before…you know.

There are enough pithy quotes and proverbs about the subject. But for me, Ingrid Gianni, I’m more interested in timely, preventative advice from real-life human beings living lives where they actually have disgusting fridges to clean or duel with a plunger to unblock toilets clogged with literal crap.

I crave freedom after lockdowns, so I’m about to get off the train with Katelyn and Parvati, my flatmates.

We disembark into the familiar hubbub of Birmingham New Street, now sanitized with mask-wearing everybody and cleaning stations.

Not that it should be required after all this time, but there are notices everywhere promoting good public health practices. I’m so tired of hearing about the virus. We’re here for a therapeutic shopping spree, and if there is one thing Birmingham is known for, it’s the type of arena that buries amateur shopping aficionados and relegates the remaining contingent to the bottom of the pile.

I’m savoring the anticipation of hmv for new blu-ray films and music. I hate the thought of Netflix or Apple Music after Google Music upended, shifting to YouTube Music leaving no access to my purchases without advertisements. Bastards. Now I want a hard copy of everything so it’s mine forever. I live for music. And movies are a necessity after restrictions where I’ve watched everything, like twice. That’s torture.

Worldwide death count in the hundreds of thousands, and you feel inconvenienced by not shopping, Ingrid?

I momentarily close my eyes and push down a voice that isn’t mine.

Once outside, we come to a bronze-colored statue that gives the gargantuan multi-tiered mall complex its name. The Bullring.

Perhaps it’s been too long, or the enhanced cleaning, but the bull statue looks more menacing than I remember. Unrestricted thoughts of future spending pleasures stop as I nearly kowtow before an all-powerful deity.

I study tamed horns and raised foreleg. Even as a statue, this bull isn’t pleased. I don’t know its weight, but sure 850kg of live bull wouldn’t want restrictions any more than I did during lockdown. Forceful intimidating personalities when angered but regal and gentle creatures.

How did I know this?

Thinking back, how could I forget…

Thelonious “T.C” Clough sauntered up one afternoon before I left Herefordshire and Ludlow College for home. A mass of unruly long blond curls with ocean blue eyes, he gave a genteel, “Hello. Sut wyi ti?” Surprised, I smiled and answered him in English instead of Welsh,

“I’m fine thanks and how are you?”

“Better knowin’ someone from me home,” he said. “I heard from Rachel you’re from Gwynedd. Any chance of catchin’ a lift near Porthdinllaen, pretty please?”

Built like legendary Vikings of old yet mannerly and graceful.

I couldn’t refuse after he offered to drive three-quarters of the way looking like all he’d eaten was a small bowl of porridge.

In my head, the thought, Screw the insurance. I handed him my granola bar and started driving, making a mental post-it to meet Rachel whats-her-name, then find out how she knew where I lived.

Two weeks before winter break, and I still worried whether Amma was on her meds. My minor bouts of depression evaporated after leaving for college, but she floated from one job to the next haunted by a ghost who tore at the corners of our two-bedroom cottage in a fuel-intoxicated rage.

It’s harsh but true. My father dying early enough in my youth so nightmares didn’t turn me psychotic was a good thing.

A Sicilian fleeing to Wales in the late eighties, he found comfort with a Bangladeshi immigrant in healthcare training. A marriage didn’t satisfy as my mother’s eternal beauty consumed him.

At seven years old I didn’t understand how diabolical spirits lay dormant in people, but eventually connected appearances with the whiskey he drank.

Screams.

Amma’s red swollen eyes. Her forced smiles the three days he came home during peak fishing season.

Blurry vision.

A dainty black frock and different people in and out.

Murmurings.

Everyone being so nice in a church Amma and I had never visited before. Amma’s eyes stayed red. Even though he never returned to answer accusations of a Mistress Dalmore. Only as a teen did I learn that it wasn’t a person but a brand of Welsh single malt whiskey.

In a land of pubs and underage drinking, I grew to despise alcohol.

Leaving the village, I ached for a world beckoning more excitement than Morfa Nefyn could hold. I loved Amma but couldn’t stem my wanderlust any more than she could in leaving Bangladesh at 23yrs.

Thelonious had a thing for all music genres save the jazz legend whose name he carried. His parents adored jazz. Despite the hasty introduction, we were in full-on emotional debates about every artist from Tupac, Greta Van Fleet, Kelis, and Ed Sheeran, to John Legend, Shaé Universe, AC/DC, and Damian Marley before we hit Stokesay on the A49.

T.C wasn’t just low effort camaraderie; he embodied the personification of the 1977 Commodores release “Easy like Sunday Morning.” The 3hr 18min drive home, the quickest in months.

As I pulled in the driveway finding Amma in a state and the house a hurricane, he ran-walked to the closest store for paracetamol. He never expected more, just soundlessly slipped away taking the nearly twenty-minute walk home.

On Sunday, he returned to Hereford with me, joining every round trip home after that.

We listened to music at my house over break, sharing delirious laughter over an attempted whistle and mini harmonica improv tune from Christmas cracker prizes. Even Amma broke a smile that showed all her teeth.

Like mountain bike gear shifts through the trails with expected sounds. We clicked.

“Animals are a clear shot. Y’know where you stand. Either they like you or they don’t—there’s na middle ground, isn’t it?” he said.

My Business Level trajectory was practical; guaranteed range of employment options. No passion. I’m a Libra and needed equilibrium.

I hadn’t cared past Amma.

I’d asked why he chose an Animal Care Diploma.

“Could see meself at a rescue center, really.” He leaned back in the chair on the outside deck at The Cliffs, awaiting dessert. “The wounded ones tortured the most…drawn to ‘em. No matter how much they bite or scratch from prior treatment and that.” His expression became a thick novel that I couldn’t just skim through. An involuntary shiver down my 8 st 3 oz frame couldn’t have come on a warmer day.

He’d sketch badgers on store receipts and sheep on napkins. Goats and wildcats came to life as his core being held me enrapt. My desires seemed small. Selfish. I just wanted to leave village life for a city like London or Manchester, encouraging Amma to join me once I was settled.

We talked by phone during the week, meeting for coffee when home on weekends. On May 15th, I brought him a giant cupcake with a candle stuck in. A corny sketchpad with a horse picture on the front. I fought tears seeing genuine surprise and gratitude in his eyes. “How did…how did you—”

“—Rachel,” I said. Mischievousness crept into my tone. “That girl’s a beacon of information.” We both hollered.

When the season rolled around, we hit the music festivals together; the Glass Butter Beach in Abersoch and Feast on the Beach days later in Trefor.

I’d go to Tŷ Coch Inn sometimes after DIY Shed shifts where Thelonious helped his parents cleaning guest rooms and doing laundry. He cleared rubbish from the beach. I’m sure extra money helped, but he still had that hungry look from when I first met him.

Only children can be self-centered by default. I was.

He epitomized selflessness.

His folks…well…

His mother was rather unsociable, even on slow days at work. But his father would stare at me, slight drool and glistening grey eyes. Standing too close. His breath stank of stale beer and elusive, nauseating thoughts. I’d make an excuse and leave if T.C wasn’t nearby.

In October, after fall term commenced, T.C slips a package in my hand between classes. Safe in my room I open an expansive run of wild horses in full gallop barely contained in pencil markings and golden frame at their edges.

Later that evening, making love for the first time, we both cry. He confides about his father’s gambling addiction and abuse. He embraced healing wounds, ensuring bills were paid and his Mum had groceries. It explained a lot.

Spring term loomed, course completion in sights, I received the thrill of two unconditional acceptances from Birmingham Business School University of Birmingham and UCL (University College London.) My choice was easy arithmetic. Two mates found in college; Katelyn and Parvati, plus finally meeting Rachel whose uncle lived in Birmingham guaranteeing her and three lucky others inexpensive rental of his four-bed townhouse, equaled going to Birmingham to cut student living costs.

T.C began full-time as a Kennels Assistant at Freshfields Animal Rescue in Bryn Melyn, Caernarfon before the ink had even dried on his City and Guilds Level 3 Diploma.

He invited me for lunch on his birthday at Nefyn Golf Club without a lick of interest in golf. Walking up and down Morfa Nefyn beach he’d let go of my hand backtrack shuffling in the sand. Curious, I thought nothing until we hiked to the hill above and looked down. My sharp intake of breath after sudden beauty. Drawn in the sand, a bull, plus sign, and a perfectly balanced set of scales with an equal sign. When I turned to look at him, I see the ring.

Our path had come to a fork in the road.

I loved him with my whole being. I also yearned for adventure and excitement. I felt such oneness, but how could I tell him about how his Dad creeped me out? He was a different soul I’d never want to change, but I couldn’t change me. My desires. I felt self-obsessed. I just wanted what I wanted how I wanted it.

The look on his face reminded me of the wounded animals spoken of with such conviction.

I didn’t hear from him for a week.

Unusual. But understandable.

In town for Amma’s prescription, I glimpsed the North Wales Chronicles front page,

”Twenty-two-year-old Caernarfon Kennels Assistant suffers irreversible brain damage in family altercation.”

Immediately I knew.

I felt sick. But I’m a coward. A stupid, STUPID coward, and I run-walk to the hilltop at the beach searching in vain for a question in the sand long since washed away. I stand shaking on the grass emitting arduous sounds of a tortured animal.

Vision blurry.

Nothing on my body that doesn’t hurt and my name carried from the far winds.

“Ingrid? Ingrid!”

“Is she having a seizure, you think?” Katelyn says.

“INGRID!!!” Parvati shouting is not something I’m used to hearing.

My eyes focus and I turn towards her voice, mascara running racing lines down my cheeks. A few people have stopped to stare, unsure if additional assistance is needed. I drop to the ground and crawl under the bull’s raised leg and sit cross-legged, praying it would just crush my skull.

In my obsession to get out of Gwynedd, how far had I really gotten? What kind of a person was I?

“Erm—Ingrid? Are you alright Luv?” Katelyn has crouched down to get closer. She’s handing me a tissue.

Gratefully, I take it and say,”So sorry guys. Made a spectacle, haven’t I?”

Their silence is acquiescence.

“My fiancé is in hospital so I’ll need a rain check on the shopping.”

I don’t need to look back to see their jaws drop. Sure, I’ll be grilled to infinity later, but right now I need a ticket for the next train far away from here.

A heartfelt thank you for taking the time to read my story. It is so very appreciated! You are more than welcome to read more of my work here.

If you would like to demonstrate support of me or any of the Vocal Creators, please like and share our work. It encourages us to keep doing what we love doing.

And just in case you were wondering, tips from all written pieces are direct deposited into my bank account and are valued highly, irrespective of the amount, but only if you can manage them. The joy a writer receives from being tipped is having feelings of acknowledgment and validation. "My written voice resonated with someone!" That is what it means for me and many others. I am just as joyous when you share my work!

I welcome your questions, comments, and feedback @thedaniwriter