That's our old house in Penmon up on the right. We rented it for £400 a month in the 90s and it fitted 6 of us. My old man drove through the ghost of a monk by where you can see that dog. I used to drag myself up that hill on my rollerskates and launch myself down on the other side, which was a quarter mile long winding near vertical drop that ended up in the ocean. Years later Alex had a party and dozens of us ate mushrooms and rampaged around like wild animals, swimming in bushes with liquid limbs, barking at the moon, convinced our mother had no idea what we were up to.
It was a thirty minute walk to the nearest bus stop, and a further ten on top of that to nearest phone box. Along the way you had to pass a farm, and the local farmers dogs would run out and chase you. Well, me.
I made my first looped audio recordings in that house, recording snatches of audio from one cassette to another. I made the comic I published when I was 13 that got sold in shops and earned me my first fan mail in that house. I read Arkham Asylum in that house. Tomorrow morning the author of that book is flying me to Las Vegas to play his convention. Somewhere, I'm still in that house, cocooned in time. Drawing comics with a quill and ink. Dreaming of cities.
Ah, sweet hiraeth.