A little trip to West Wales. I really like it out there, on the edge of the world. There’s a nice spaciousness, especially on the sunny days.
Welsh Wales for work, well actually west Wales. Within Wales, some areas speak Welsh and some areas speak English (although Welsh is taught in school). In the west you can here Welsh spoken all around. It’s a strange impenetrable language for the uninitiated. A different culture and different attitude.
In the west the clouds are different, stretched as they have been, over an ocean. And there’s a beautiful sense of silence all around. I think it comes from there being hardly any people around. Less thoughts in the ether, or something like that….
Glad I cover the pretty bits of the country – what a great experience of this part of Wales.
So this is Castell Henllys Iron Age Village, stumbled across on the way between Haverfordwest and Cardigan. Did I tell you how much I love pre-history?
Having set off at 5.45am that morning, it was good to have a break in the most unusual setting. The village was on a raised bit of land, set in a bowl – you could certainly see everyone coming. And the views, some across to other early sites, were fab too.
There was a special feeling about the settlement, about history and time passing. A stillness. The robin and the squirrel came to hang out as I sat in the circle of the roundhouse. I have a thing about circles and circular spaces. They don’t work like normal spaces. Something different happens with the energy – no corners to hide in or gather dust.
I was last (it being late in the afternoon), and a very kind guide called Sarah rounded me up, and even unlocked a few huts she’d already padlocked so I could see inside. So glad to have seen this place and been touched by its spirit.
In the present, the weather is still a seeming never ending succession of storms. Even now I can hear the wind buffeting the house…
But I found these pictures – taken late January, a bit back. I was working, travelling from West Wales to Birmingham, with only the prospect of a dismal hotel ahead. I passed the sign – “Dylan Thomas Boathouse”. So a quick u-turn and I explored the narrow roads, down the side of The Taf Estuary. The weather was so perfectly clear. The sun setting. And while the Boathouse itself was closed, here was the poet’s writing hut, perched above the bay. I peered through the glass into the hut. The bottles of beer to hand, jacket on the chair – he just stepped out…. a few decades ago.