Travel Writing - Rhyl

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Rhyl, glorious Rhyl. The smell of raw fish, fresh in the air, cleaning out my lungs. My little brother ran around wondering where he was, purely amazed at his surroundings and the fact they were different to the four walls of our house. We walked past a market and the smell of seafood became somewhat unbearable. Mum wanted to buy some sweets from a stall conveniently positioned next to the fish shop; I chose to pass on that one. I was kind of scared; all the scaly sea folk stared at me with those big eyes through the ice-chip traps they were laid out on.

On we walked through the throat-stingingly salty air and the scanky litter filled roads. The fakest of smiles was slapped across my mothers face as she chomped on those fishy sweets…mmm …sounds delish. Dad looked at me; one eyebrow raised and frown in place

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Soon, although it felt like eternity, it was time to say good night. I made my way up to my new room for the next week. I reached the top of the fragile wooden staircase and slowly opened the door. As I put my head round the surprisingly clean, mahogany door, the stench of rotten eggs smacked into me like I had been Rugby tackled to the ground. I was almost violently ill right there and then. I hoped we wouldn’t be there for long. Off I went, holding my breath, to what could only be described as a ...

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