November 14th 1793.

A Thursday.

It would be two years after the shipwreck when Rebekha took another trip to St. Madoc’s church. This time, I fancy she took a pony and trap, with her father John, proudly at her side. Little Ann, with a headful of ringlets, ribbons and fairytales squeezed between them. She’d pass the spots where blackberries, hazelnuts and sloes would provide their Autumn bounty in just a few months. High above in an oak tree, Rebekha made note of a bundle of mistletoe, although there would be no fanciful sweetheart kisses for Rebekha at Christmas this year, for this would be her wedding day. Mother and grandfather and child, giving the pony the lightest touch of the whip as they trotted onwards singing:-

In and out the dusty bluebells.

In and out the dusty bluebells.

In and out the dusty bluebells.

Who will be my lover?