Local children’s author Dan Anthony has some ideal reading to occupy nine to eleven year olds home from school with one of his stories ‘The Bus Stop at the End of the World’ even taking in the surroundings of Pembrokeshire.

Dan a well-established name on the children’s literature scene in Wales, having found success with his popular ‘Rugby Zombies’ series has written stories and scripts for as long as he can remember, and produced material for both radio and TV, working on the hit CBBC series Tracy Beaker.

“I often visit schools to talk about story writing, and I’m frequently asked where I get my ideas from,” he said.

“I think people half expect a surprising or special answer. The truth of the matter is that I tend to write about what confronts me when I open the front door.”

On ‘The Bus Stop at the End of the World’ Dan says that the story was inspired by a bus stop in the middle of the Pembrokeshire countryside.

“Another book about horse racing has a lot to do with Pembroke Dock, where I lived before we moved to Tenby,” continued Dan, who said that at the moment he’s trying something different and working on a short story about pirates - but not for children.

“One of the few positive things I can say about the current lockdown is that it gives us all time to write and experiment,” he added.

In the meantime children can enjoy the first chapter of ‘The Bus Stop at the End of the World’ published by Gomer Press, and if you enjoy this story, you can find Dan reading from his classic tale from Wales’ scariest village - Aberscary, by following ‘The Rugby Zombies’ through this link at: https://www.facebook.com/RugbyZombies

‘The Bus Stop at the End of the World - Chapter One:

1/The red sweet - Every day Jamie gave Ritchie a red sweet. Ritchie couldn’t remember exactly when the habit started. Now, if it was a school day, his dad wouldn’t let him leave the house without handing him a red sweet and Ritchie wouldn’t go without taking one.

Ritchie made his way from the cottage down The Winding Lane sucking the sweet. When he reached the end of the lane he crossed the Big Road and stood in the bus stop. He let the sweet slide around his mouth as he scanned the empty road stretching away into the Boggy Hills for a glimpse of the 971. There was no bus. He was early. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sweet in his mouth. He inched the tip of his tongue along the bumps in its surface, it felt like a giant rock with craters on. It felt like the moon in his mouth.

Suddenly, Ritchie was disturbed by a pat on the back.

Ritchie span around. He hadn’t seen or heard anyone arrive at the bus-stop, nobody ever did. Ritchie’s bus stop was in the middle of nowhere. On one side of the road the fields sloped gently down to the cliffs and the sea and on the other they went up, past the cottage and the farm to the Old Mountains. He was the only one who ever caught a bus from that stop.

A man wearing old pin striped trousers, a big belt, a check shirt and a wide brimmed hat spoke to him.

‘You look like a good boy,’ he said.

Ritchie coughed and choked, the pat on the back had made him swallow his red sweet.

‘But are you?’ asked the man, staring at the distant cliffs where the ferry was nosing its way out into the blue sea, as if it was looking for something.

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Ritchie.

‘The kind of boy who keeps his eyes open, his ears to the ground and makes observations,’ said the man with a wink.

‘I’m not much good in school, if that’s what you mean,’ said Ritchie.

‘I see you have the uniform,’ said the man, looking at Ritchie’s new year 7 school sweatshirt. ‘That’s something.’

Ritchie stared back at the man. He was maybe a bit older and a bit shorter than his dad, he had thick bushy eyebrows, big dark brown eyes, a fat, black moustache and stubble on his chin like black pepper on rice pudding. He looked like a cowboy.

‘This is a fine spot you’ve chosen,’ said the man.

Ritchie shrugged his shoulders. He hadn’t really chosen the bus stop. He supposed it had chosen him. Where else was he supposed to catch the bus to school from?

‘Do you catch the bus every day?’ asked the man.

‘Every day,’ said Ritchie. ‘Sometimes I just come down here anyway.’

‘Why do you do that?’ asked the man.

‘I dunno,’ said Ritchie. ‘I like it here. I know loads of the bus drivers. And the times. I know the times of the planes too.’

‘Good,’ said the man, glancing upwards at the vapour trails that the passenger jets made in the blue, spring sky. ‘I want you do me a favour’.

‘What?’ asked Ritchie, picking up his plastic bag; he could see the sunlight flashing off the sky-blue roof of the 971 in the distance as it edged its way down Second Big Hill.

‘I have to go now, but I have a friend, taller than me, he wears a liquorice tie and boots with Cuban heels,’ said the man. ‘Do you know what a Cuban heel is?’

‘No,’ said Ritchie.

‘They’re big, and the boots are pointy,’ said the man.

‘A real cowboy, not like you,’ said Ritchie.

‘His name is Doc, Doc Penfro, check him out, ask him his name.’

The bus was getting closer.

‘I’ve got to get on this bus; I can’t hang around here listening to you.’

‘Tell him you met me and I gave you this message,’ said the man.

‘Who are you? What’s the message,’ said Ritchie, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He could see the bus clearly now, it had reached the top of the First Hill and was speeding down towards his stop. It was almost time for him to put his hand out.

‘Tell him that they have arrived,’ said the man. ‘And tell him you met Kid.’

Ritchie stuck his hand out and waved at the bus. He didn’t know whether the bus would stop for him if he didn’t stick his hand out. He wasn’t going to risk that. The next bus along would be the 872 to Haverfordwest. It didn’t go anywhere near his school.

The bus slowed down and stopped and the driver, Mr Dickinson, greeted him with a friendly blast on his horn.

‘Morning Ritchie,’ shouted Mr Dickinson as the pneumatic doors hissed open. Ritchie stepped on, turning to speak to the man with the message.

But as the doors slapped shut Ritchie couldn’t see him. It was as if he had not been there.