Scenes of the summer solstice

I dance with the flies, my body sways around them, my ears vibrates with their droning buzz. I giggle in the midst of shrieks and running feet. We are many on this sloping bit of land by the estuary, come to gaze at the sunset over the hills of Wales. We have gathered, each from our separate paths, to bade goodbye to the longest day of the year. It is an age old ritual, one I have long observed even though I do not quite know why. I suspect none of the people sat on the grass quite know why they are here either. Many of us live our days sheltered by human structures, be it buildings or cars. We do not feel the subtle shift of seasons, the expanding days, the lengthening darkness. Yet, here we are, wishing each other a 'happy solstice' in hushed voices, looking away quickly as if involved in an illicit ritual.

The murmur of our voices drifts into silent as the sun erupts into an orange blaze so bright the world around us turns crimson. The earth shifts, a hill rises, the sun disappears. My eyes water in the stillness of now, my being is soothed by the coolness of the air, the sky mellows into pastel hues of blues and oranges.

I hear the cries before I notice the hum that rises from the water's edge. People jump to their feet, their arms flailing around their body and face. I puzzle over their behaviour until I notice the buzz in the air. I rise off the bench that has welcomed me and scan the sky. Hundreds of drone flies (I never did find out which ones) are leaving the hedges bordering the land. I walk towards them. Their small bodies bump into mine, tickle my bare skin, and deafen my hearing as they wriggle their way out of my hair. The grass is soon empty expect for the flies, another human and me. We smile at each other, an understanding pulsing between us. We are left alone, this wondrous spectacle of bobbling toffee coloured flies for our eyes alone.

'Do you know what they are,' the man shouts over the noise of the insects.

'I've no idea. They're not bees or hoverflies.'

'Yeah.'

He is standing still. Flies gather in his long wavy venetian blond hair. I stop my dance and watch him engrossed in the business of freezing the insects into frame. The flies collide against my clothes before settling for my shoes. My feet vibrate from their throbbing drone. 'They're on my shoes,' I comment. I don't need to say anymore. The man approaches, camera pointed downward.

'What's your name?'

'Alex,' he replies, eyes still firmly cast towards the flies.

'I'm Allysse.'

'They're fun.'

'Yeah, they are.' We lock eyes for an instant, expressions sleek with excitement, still giggling like children who have discovered a hidden treasure from the Earth. 'Have you seen them before?'

'I haven't.'

Our gaze drifts back to the estuary, the water once more a drab murky brown.

'It's the second highest tide in the world,' Alex tells me.

I nod, pretending not to know.

'The highest is in Canada,' he adds.

This too I know, but I am glad he tells me. I pass through so many places without anyone to tell me about their land, their place, and its history. My research often comes after a visit, led from hazy memories. Too often though, I forget to check, to learn.

'Do you live around here,' I question in the lull that settles around us.

'Yeah, over there.' He points to a distant headland. 'You see the tree that pokes out? It's on my street.'

Low houses are etched in shadows, their sharp lines softened by rows of undulating trees.

'It looks nice.' My voice trails as I think of the breeze weaving its way through gardens and open windows, cooling the world. I imagine being there, on this small stretch of land, and seeing the horizon everyday. What would it be like not to have a view obstructed by endless rows of 1990s brick houses, of smelling the distant air of the sea instead of the foul heavy fumes of car exhausts? This is a fallacy of course. The air is no purer here, not so close to the working industrial port of Avonmouth. We cannot see it from where we stand, but we only need to walk a little way for the plumes of smokes to emerge from a forest of tall chimneys.

A cargo boat glides past as if to remind us of the proximity of the too human world.

'I wonder where it's going,' I whisper idly.

Alex pulls out his phone from his pocket and within a minute shares the screen with me. The boat is going to Dunkirk. I laugh. 'Not as exotic as I was imagining.' My mind wanders to long sea voyages and the made-up glamour of travel.

'It's sailing under the flag of Trinidad and Tobago,' I add, my eyes scanning more of the information on the phone. 'Maybe it will travel on farther.'

'Maybe.'

We stand there, side by side, watching the long low red boat silently move across the estuary, loaded with hundreds of sealed containers of mismatched colours. I wonder if they are empty. Did they contain the sickening stretch of white vans I often spot from the motorway as it squirts around Avonmouth's industry?

We don't notice the flies have disappeared until they are gone. The world is quiet again and ours alone. I tear my eyes off the ship to watch the hill where the sun had disappeared. Only streaks of pastel blues and subtle lavender are left behind and in this moment I feel entirely at peace. I realise that I have lost a jitteriness that has been with me for a while, too long for me to recall. The earth has turned on its axis and so have I. I am heading back towards darkness and the cocoon of rest. Summer is barely beginning and yet I already carry the weight of it. Maybe it has been the heat of recent days, the unbearable lightness of the sky that refuses to turn truly dark. This is past.

'Allysse.' I jerk, my body surprised at the sound of my name. My partner stands at the opposite end of the field where steps lead down to the human world. 'I found ice-cream.'

I nod, smiling. 'I think that's my cue to go,' I tell Alex reluctantly. I want to ask for his contact details. I want to hang out with him again in the silence of the world, this other human who was fascinated by the flies and stayed. This other human who knows about being of a place in a way I never will. But I do not know how to ask, so I don't.

'It was great chatting with you.' It is a rehearsed sentence, one I have long learned to say, but in this twilight, the words bear a truth I rarely ever mean. I bow to bade him goodnight and disappear back towards concrete and the giggle of late night swimmers at the still open lido, and joins the queue for an ice-cream.