At the western edge of Gower in Wales, facing into the gray Atlantic, stands a 250 foot
cliff that drops sharply onto a wide stretch of beach. Rhoselli Bay stretches before it, an
expanse of sand and churning sea that has claimed swimmer and sailor alike. On this day the sun is bright
and the surf is calm enough for wading and boggie boards. It is Judy's second time to this wide beach,
and my first.
Wales is truly beautiful. Softened by the heavy sea air that blows across every croft and into
every dale, Wales is stuffed with green. Narrow (and I do mean narrow) roads lead up and over and
through fields of cattle and crop. The people here are friendly and gentle, and happy to welcome strangers
to their paradise.
A false turn on our way to Laugharne (pronounced LARN) required some redirecting and so an old
country squire we happened by happily pointed us back on route. In the process he expounded upon the quality
of all things Welsh: the land, the coal, the iron, and, of course, the gold.
"There's no place more beautiful than here," he smiled. "Why should
I go elsewhar?" Well, we argued, America has some beautiful places. Deserts,
and prairies, and mountains half as high as the sun. He replied with a quiet
smile and a shake of his head; even the poorest Welshman is richer by far
than any stock broker or dot-com millionaire. If a man belongs, there's not
much more he wants or needs, is there? >
Rhoselli was relaxing, but there was more to see. Judy's father Jesse
and his partner Joyce had rented a time share in Laugharne, a secluded estuary
town in Camarthenshire. We drove west again and then some south, and arrived at a clutch
of bungalows set into the hill side overlooking the River Taf. Judy left later to
collect our hosts at the bus depot while the kids watched a t.v. gameshow spoken in
Welsh. It was a strange language I'd heard, full of lilting vowels and
thrashed consonants.
The next day we explored Laugharne in the hope of
discovering why a developer would choose this quiet spot.
We soon had our answer. Laugharne, like any other little town, had been touched
by fame. In their case, it came by way of the celebrated poet Dylan Thomas.
On a bit of land pasted to the hill by the Taf stood a little house where he worked and
lived with his family until his untimely death in 1953.
Thomas wanted to be only one thing in his short life - a poet. He wrote
stories as well, and his renown play 'Under Milk Wood', but his love belonged to
Wales and the verse that it inspired. Here, in an isolated, lonely house on the
edge of the Taf estuary with only the birds and the lapping sea, he wrote some of
his finest work. His house is a museum now, and a refuge for the poet in each
Laugharne sojourner.
If you unfamiliar with Dylan Thomas's poetry, here is a sample.
Three miles across the waters of Caldey Sound lies the monastery of
island of Caldey. Monks of one sort or another have lived here for 1500 years. Today
the monastery is owned by the Cistercians, an austere branch of the Order of St. Benedict. Here they
farm, produce dairy products, and (oddly) manufacture a well known range of perfumes. Indeed, the
Caldey Perfumery was the first in the world to extract essence from gorse - a
thorny scrub plant that flowers all over Wales.
We drove from Laugharne to Tenby - a pretty, busy seaside holiday village perched
above Carmarthen Bay. We bought our tickets for the ferry and walked to the beach launch.
Within a few minutes, we were embarking on a small boat taxi and chugging toward Caldey. In the
village a monk sat on a wall in the sun greeting visitors with a smile more like a gift than mere
civility. I felt the hard core of the world recede, and peace flooded the vacuum. Was this the last
refuge of the Spirit? If only it were as easy to bring home this souvenir.
We took the last boat back to Tenby, feeling that our time had been brief - both on
the island and in Wales. We look forward to a visit at Thanksgiving with Jesse, and we consoled
ourselves with this during our long drive back to Thurston. Our autumn routine would recommence
with a new twist as I begin to educate my son at home. As daunting as this seems, part of
me knows this task too will seem brief someday. Autumn has begun, and time again moves swiftly.
Sneakers in hand, Chris goes exploring. 
The Boat House where Dylan Thomas lived. 
The little bicycle shack where he wrote. 
Tenby quay at low water. 
The Reformed Cistercian Monastery on Caldey Island.
The Fish Window, St. David's Church. 
The high cliff and Carmarthen Bay. 
Taking the ferry back to Tenby. 
Elena, Chris, and Jesse reunited in Wales.