Of Quicksilver (after Robert Frost) One year, at the caravan park where my grandparents and I spent part of each June, walking and bathing in the sun and baiting crabs with bacon, the owners’ son bought himself a telescope. He had his own business elsewhere, I think, outside of Barmouth, while his parents kept watch over wild pigs and old ponies and caravans. One night, the son invited us out to see through his telescope, positioned on the grass above...
