Laugharne - pronounced "Laaarnn" to rhyme with yarn, but rolled out a little further - at night, with the graveyard gently graced by the occasional working street light and our torches. Us searching for interesting stories told on the tombs and plaques of the interred locals, who at times had meant something to the small church community that regularly overflowed the tiny, overgrown car park. My wife spooked at times by sounds and smells of Rectory Barn farm next door. We share imaginings of ages past, whispered in chiseled words on stone. This one died young. That one, an alderman, next to his first wife, but under his second, a child bride half his age.

Then we see (Is see the right word?) a dark rip in the ground. A black absence that even the street lamps cannot penetrate. Our torchlight reveals it to be a feline so dark the meagre bulbs barely reflect. It is more in the show around it that reveals its speeding silhouette. Just a cat, we think. Thank God! I bend down to entice it to a friendly stroke. It looks well fed. It IS well fed…