Monday, 15 October 2018

IN THE LAND OF MY FATHERS


All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the
nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.
an extract from Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas



I'll always hear Richard Burton's voice when I read Dylan Thomas as when I was studying his poetry for my A-levels I had a cassette that I'd fall asleep to of Richard Burton reading his poetry in the hope that I'd absorb it. I think the Welsh language and accent is beautiful and the place names are otherworldly and landscape just wild and wonderful.


When my Instagram friend Gemma @thatchedinwales started sharing her journey of renovating a traditional Welsh crog loft I was hooked and envious in equal measure and this summer was over the moon when she very kindly invited us to stay in her magical cottage, Glan yr Afon.


Glan yr Afon sits on a drovers road, next to a river crossing, once a ford but later the bridge was built in 1766 that still remains today. The place name 'Penbontrhydyfothau' means 'the bridge by the ford where the river comes up to the hubs of (cart) wheels' - I love how literal a Welsh place name is!


We visited in a typically wet summer holiday week, and took full advantage of long lazy days, wet days on the beach fuelled by hot chocolates and ice cream, late brunches of locally produced bacon and sausages, five hour long games of Monopoly and films on internet TV! 


If these ancient walls could talk, they'd speak with a deep 'Richard Burton' welsh accent, don't you think?


One things for sure, we'll be back very soon to the nicest Welsh cottage we've ever had the pleasure of staying in and in the words of Dylan;

And the stars falling cold,
And the smell of hay in the snow, and the far owl,

Warning among the folds, and the frozen hold,

Flocked with the sheep white smoke of the farm house cowl,

In the river wended vales where the tale was told. 

from A Winter's Tale

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