A Place to Write
Early on a bright July morning in 2023, Jim and I snuck out of the sleeping house and down the road for a last walk before departing Laugharne, Wales, (pronounced “Lawn”) to begin the journey home from our honeymoon.
At the end of the Estuary walk, we ascended a steep path to a small garage.
This was the structure where author Dylan Thomas wrote from 1949 to 1953 near where he lived in the white Boat House perched on the cliffside.
A glimpse inside his Writer’s Shed with its homey comfort and expansive estuary view stirred a deep longing to sit down right there to write. The pull was so strong I shed tears, a sign for me of something true and elemental.
We left to catch a train, but I tucked that feeling away, flagging it as something important.
It was honoring this longing and trusting my heart that brought me back to Laugharne last month to write my first book, at last.
My friends, Simon and Jacqui, generously invited me to stay with them, use Simon’s office, and be left to my task.
I wrote to be sure, and I wandered too because writers (and writing) need to wander.
On a misty Saturday morning, as clouds blanketed the hills, I ambled into Milk Wood following the dirt path of Dylan’s Birthday Walk that inspired his “Poem in October”.
All around me, birdsong, dripping rain, mossy trees and posts, hopeful primrose, glowing daffodils, foggy bay, shrouded shores, low tide mud, arching trees, grey chill, all alone…
“…Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud…”
(from Poem in October, by Dylan Thomas)
There I was, senses alive to those of Dylan’s birthday walk near 75 years ago, and appreciating too his hope, expressed at the end of the poem,
“O may my hearts truth
Still be sung
On the high hill in a year’s turning.”
He hoped to return with cherished memories to be sure, and somewhere in this I hear the hope of every writer that their truth will endure.
Back at Simon’s desk, I wrote and wrote, making good progress, and upon departing Laugharne, carried a connection to that place and a heart full of hope.
And as often happens, five days and a thousand miles later, the Universe offered a gentle confirmation in Madrid.
When I was wandering among dozens of stalls filled with Spanish books, I found one tiny box marked “English” with a dozen or so volumes including one slim book: “Holiday Memories” by Dylan Thomas. Smile.
I read it on the airplane going home, where I’ll finish writing my book near my own woods by the Puget Sound, with rain, moss, and daffodils finding the words to sing my heart’s truth.
