Charlotte Gyseman grew up in a sleepy little village in Pembrokeshire, known as Sageston. A short walk from her house down the road leading to Carew (so short a walk that she never could tell where Sageston ended and Carew began), there was a pub called the Carew Inn, a Celtic cross, and beyond that a tumbledown castle sat surrounded by a few sheep and some sheep poo. Out of school hours, childhood was filled with bicycles and roller-blading, tarmac and grass, butterflies, snails and ants.
Every Saturday she would go with her family to visit her grandparents, who lived nearer the coast in a house with a big, lovely garden full of pretty flowers, good climbing trees and scary bees. In the summer, they would go to Saundersfoot beach first to make structures in the sand and go body-boarding in the sea, before heading to Char’s grandparents’ house for some barbecue and salad. Chicken and buttered bread and lettuce and tomatoes and pickles. Delicious.
Fast forward to her twenties, and you’ll find Charlotte living and working in Cardiff. Despite her slight academic decline during her teenage years (distracted by all the boys, I imagine), she was accepted into a BA (Hons) course, graduated three years and many new friends later, and then moved to the Welsh city after getting used to the width of the roads.
And there you have it; my life story so far, in three paragraphs. Although, it really is only an introduction.