"The crackling firewood, bore little heat, still, I huddled it after my bone-rattling surf. It spoke in spits of damp hisses. The silent frigidity of Welsh air, punctuated only by the waves on the rocks a short distance away. Flames snaked upward, I defrosted gloved hands. The backdrop of hues, melded ocean and sky and wrapped my mind in a blanket-blue of hopeful dreams, staring hypnotically into amber embers, I prayed for answers to a question I hadn't yet befriended."
An excerpt from Tom's forthcoming book, 'The Terroir of Being.'