An American in London: Salty Seas and Windy Wales

It is truly startling how different areas of the UK are when there is so little distance between them. While there are great similarities, the pace of life is often completely different. Having been outside of London before, I thought the countryside had one particular pace, attitude, demographic, standard of living, etc. Going to Wales proved me wrong.

Last week Thursday I took a coach to Swansea, the capital city of Wales. The city is on the southern coast on the Bristol Channel. Getting there was interesting - delayed coach, a late taxi ride to the guest house, and settling in to my room. Altogether the trip took about 6 hours and I was quite grumpy after the delays, the rain, and the sense of being plopped in somewhere unfamiliar in the dark. I made it to Leonardo's Guest House though, and checked into my sea-view little room.

Friday morning, I took a train to Carmarthen (northwest of Swansea) then a bus onwards to Laugharne (pronounced "Larne"). Note: I heard very little of the Welsh language, but lots of words and names pronounced quite differently than how I would say them.

The coast of Wales is gorgeous. Rocky, lots of little islands, coves, etc. Though it was a sunny fall day, there was a layer of fog over the water that produced some very picturesque views, even from the train.

Now, Laugharne is a tiny little village in Wales that is hardly, I'm sure, on most people's list of places to go. The reason I went was simple: Dylan Thomas. Thomas, in case you don't know, is "Wales' Favorite Son" and a fantastic, challenging, unique poet who wrote during the 1930s and 1940s. Check out "Fern Hill" or "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night" if you'd like a sample of his work. Thomas grew up in Swansea, but spent much of his adult life in his beloved Laugharne, where he was given a boathouse on the coast by a patron. The boathouse and the whole area of Laugharne are for the most part unchanged since Dylan's death (1953 at the age of 39). You really feel like you can see exactly what he saw, which is quite special.

The path to the boathouse

Can you see why he loved it here?

Dylan Thomas's writing shed, 50 yards up the path from the boathouse

His desk

Writing and coffee on the terrace of the boathouse

At the boathouse

The boathouse

Walking back by the writing shed

"Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, / Time held me green and dying / Though I sang in my chains like the sea." -Fern Hill, Dylan Thomas

Laugharne Castle

After making the pilgrimage to the boathouse, I spent the rest of the morning exploring the village of Laugharne (lots of craft-y stores and such) and spent some time walking along the path by the water.

The Three Mariners Pub

The grave of Dylan Thomas in Laugharne.

'And death shall have no dominion.

Dead men naked they shall be one

With the man in the wind and the west moon;

When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,

They shall have stars at elbow and foot;

Though they go mad they shall be sane,

Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;

Though lovers be lost love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion.'

After making my rounds through the town, I ended up back by the water. I've realized over the past few years that I love the sea. The steady beat of the waves, the crying of the birds, the wind ruffling the grass and stirring the sand, the smell of the water - it's a recipe for revival of the spirit. In Laugharne, I parked myself on a bench and read for an hour or so; I could have stayed there forever.

After the bus back to Carmarthen and the train back to Swansea, I had a few hours to kill before the start of the Dylan Thomas Festival. I explored downtown Swansea, which I wasn't impressed with. Lots of chain stores and expensive pubs. Swansea Castle stands at the center of the main plaza, but the beauty of the ruins is overshadowed by the modern buildings and shouts of teenagers with pink hair and the blaring of the big screen on the other side of the square.

Swansea Marina was a much lovelier spot, so I wandered the boardwalk before heading to the Dylan Thomas Center to hear a talk by London novelist Sarah Waters. I had known before going that Sarah Waters was a lesbian writer, but was quite surprised about how much it influenced her writing and how willing the audience was to ask her about it. I basically tuned that part of the talk out and just listened to her experiences with writing novels (her process, etc.) and the crazy adventure that is getting published.

Saturday morning, I woke up to pouring rain and hurricane-like gusts of wind. I tried to spend some time working on homework and such in my little room, but eventually worked up the courage to head outside. I took a short walk along the beach before determining that it was a futile effort.

New hair-do from the wind. Yikes.

I then attended a talk by poet and writer Matthew Hollis at the Dylan Thomas Center. He wrote a biography of the poet Edward Thomas (no relation to Dylan) called Now All Roads Lead to France. Apparently Edward Thomas was great friends with the American Poet Robert Frost, and it was Frost's poem 'The Road Not Taken' that influenced Thomas to enlist in 1917. He was killed in the war.

After a trip to the used bookstore in Swansea and a dinner at a small Italian restaurant, I returned to the Center for a night of poetry with Matthew Hollis and Simon Armitage. Both are wonderful, interesting men and I thoroughly enjoyed listening to them read some of their works. This poem by Armitage was my favorite. Here is Armitage reading 'You're Beautiful': http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WxcoppuQFE8.

The walk back to my guest house after the event was one of the craziest experiences I've ever had. The wind and rain were so intense, I was nearly bent double trying to walk the 2 miles back to my room. I honestly had to catch myself from falling on my face when the gusts let up - that's how far I was leaning forward against the wind. Umbrellas lay discarded all over the road. The rain drenched me through yet the wind was dried me off by the time I got to the door. My calves were burning, my mouth tasted of salt from the sea water being blown up, and my eyes stung. At reaching my room, I literally collapsed on my bed, fully clothed.

Sunday I left Wales on a noon coach and returned to London around 5:00pm. Quite a long day on the bus. I spent the rest of the night recovering, doing laundry (handwashing as usual), and that kind of thing.

Monday was Halloween, and I celebrated by going on the Jack the Ripper Tour with some friends. The tour was more factual than creepy, but the gruesomeness of his crimes was enough to churn my stomach.