I often make my way down to the estuary at this time of year. It's a little more sheltered when being on the coast is to experience the sea in its wildest state and it can be exhausting to spend time there; hunkering against sea spray and crashing noise. Standing in the mud on the estuary banks the water is flat and moves slowly. The tide gurgles in gently and not much punctuates the stillness except for the flitting of birds in the gathering gloom. The sucking mud dictates the pace of travel and everything feels slowed to its will. The boats here languish, drained of any memory of tack and jibe. Seeing me taking pictures, a woman emerges from her patio door to tell me she was born in the house and after a time away, has returned. She tells me how the moon had risen behind the woodland on the far bank and how she sees bass and mullet in the shallows sometimes. Her son still fishes the river but his easiest catch was a salmon trapped in a pool above the stepping stones. She tells me she is 93. We say goodbye as a chill breeze reminds us of the cold and the dark. Later, I'm introduced to Poem in October by Dylan Thomas and see some of these moments all over again. Dylan Thomas’ for me is the best voice to describe West Wales. Much of his writing was done in Laugharne, the next big river mouth East of here, and many of the images that he conjures with his words are familiar to anyone who wanders these places.
Llangwm, mid November
in Landscape
