Homeless, The First Time (Part 4)

The short time I spent in Llanfairfechan allowed me to gain a measure of stability and to contemplate on the direction my life had taken: the musical aspirations that I still felt passionate about, the aimless drifting through Devon and London, the solitary drinking, the fears and anxieties.

After staying in dormitories, sleeping on kitchen floors and sharing a room with international students, I finally got to wake up in a normal bed on my first morning in Wales. In the corner of the room stood the piano that had assisted me through most of my teen years, looking well and polished and waiting to be played.

After breakfast, I took a walk round the town.  Llanfairfechan:
peaceful looking, the quiet streets a contrast to the busy roads of London, the promenade and shore further down stretching out into the sea, the water slipping into the horizon. I hadn't seen a beach for a year or so.  

After exploring Llanfairfechan, I sat on a bench near the crossroads, writing letters to friends in Devon.  In retrospect, I should have shown far more appreciation to my parents for rescuing me from potentially serious trouble in London  but already I'd become anxious about the future, and I longed to go back to Devon; back to the bland market  town in the middle of the country that I'd yearned to escape from just seven weeks earlier. A case of not learning from past mistakes.

I realised straight from the start that I would have to make a decision about the future and stop going from one place to the next.  I applied for a few jobs, but didn't hear anything, and I still harboured hopes of taking music further. I practised the piano, in particular the Mozart Fantasie and Sonata in C minor. I read a lot and tried to stay cheerful throughout my time in Wales, but continued to struggle with panic attacks. Post Traumatic Stress.

It didn't take long for me to leave again. A huge row broke out and I set off the following morning, headed for the South West. Bristol, this time.

In Bristol, I walked several miles in search of a Bed and Breakfast, fear rising in the unfamiliar surroundings and the anonymity of another unknown city. I walked until I found a Bed and Breakfast place on the outskirts of the city centre. After paying, I went up to my room and sank down in exhaustion, praying to God.  

In the morning, I considered the options. Wales, clearly, was out. I couldn't face London again, not after what had happened. Devon seemed the better option, as I knew people there, so after a forty minute struggle to cross a busy road  acute anxiety again  I boarded a train to Exeter at midday.

When I arrived at Exeter St David's station, I rang a friend. A few calls later, they phoned me back with directions to a place known as the Shilhayne Community.  Interesting name, I thought as I made my way into central Exeter, hot and sweaty from the hill climb. Only when I reached the Shilhayne Community did I realise what it was.

Another homeless shelter, like the one in London.