If you’ve walked past the coal trucks, paused by the harbour, or wondered what stories a place might still be holding — stroll back, linger a moment, and let Saundersfoot speak.
A Short Story She insisted on a window seat as she bustled into the café from the damp, cobbled streets. Even though the only unoccupied table was laid for four covers, she quickly made her way over to it. After removing her dripping raincoat, she placed it on the back of the corner-most chair and sat down. Barely visible from the dreary street, she sat turned in towards the café, yet continuously glanced through the picture window at the busy road outside. Waiting for someone, maybe. Could they see her? Maybe she wanted them to pass by. Why? She wasn’t what you’d call a pretty woman, but certainly not unattractive. She had olive skin and was smartly dressed in black trousers with stylish calf-length leather boots. Her rust-coloured jumper was a little baggy, but the colourful scarf was a well-considered accessory, giving a much-needed splash of colour. Her wavy, shoulder-length dark brown hair hadn’t fared well in the damp weather — slightly tousled and wet. The glasses she to...
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