To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now."
I know Llarreggub about many things, but I do know that Thomas's sloe black, crow black, boat-bobbing, poetic creation is one of the BBC's most enjoyable radio dramas. If you haven't yet acquainted yourself with his rich rhetoric and magical mischievousness, then please do!
