The Craic

Photo:  Andrew Catlin

The passing of Shane MacGowan has upset me greatly.  I loved his fusion of punk and Irish music and whatever you may think of his lifestyle choices, he stuck by them, lived life on his terms and continued to write beautiful poetry throughout.  Hats off to him that despite being dogged by rumours of only having 6 months left since the late 1980s, he made it to 65.  

Now whilst I could never adopt his chosen lifestyle, I defend his right to do so.  We now seem to live in a world awash with meaningless inspirational quotes from bland celebrities and "influencers" and where the endless pursuit of physical perfection, identikit gym honed bodies and superficial attributes - new nails, brow trends etc etc...are too often prized above great conversation.  Yet, even in his drink and drug fuelled state, I'm betting that polymath Shane's company was more interesting and enlightening than most.  He also believed in unity, love and compassion and would never judge or pass a homeless person in the street.  He devoured literature and truly believed that drink and drugs stimulated his imagination and creativity.  Given his legacy, who are we to argue?

I also totally understand his attachment to Ireland, having visited numerous times. I am now feeling desperate to return. 

It's the people that make Ireland so unique, and this year, they've lost a couple of greats.  RIP Shane.  I know his influence was far reaching (tagging Beate in this as she was first to pay her tribute in blogland here: RAILWAY KEEPER'S COTTAGE : WINTER HOUSE. SNOW. LEGENDS. (bahnwaerterhaeuschen.blogspot.com)).

Digressing slightly, fellow hibernophiles and/or comedy lovers may also have heard of the cult TV series Father Ted, a 1990s hit show detailing the shenanigans of three dishonourably discharged priests exiled to a remote corner of the far west coat of Ireland, aka "Craggy Ireland."  

The central characters were Father Ted Crilly, Father Dougal McGuire and Father Jack.  Ted was the sensible senior (his questionable handling of charity funds aside), Ted his dim sidekick (26 going on 6) and Father Jack was a hopeless alcoholic who, throughout the entire three series, uttered only the following words:  "Feck", "Girls" (pronounced ger-uls), "Drink" and in a rare moment of coached semi-sobriety: "That would be an ecumenical matter."  

One of the most memorable episodes features a rebel priest, Father Damo, who leads Dougal astray with his smoking, drinking, ear piercing and talk of Oasis, before stealing a groundskeeper's whistle ("It's only a bleedin' whistle!")  Father Damo was played by comedian/actor/writer Joe Rooney, who is more widely known in Ireland.

In a strange twist of fate, I recently spotted that Joe Rooney was touring "A Celebration of Father Ted" and immediately booked tickets.  We were promised (and Joe more than delivered), music, insights into the filming of the series, extracts from the Father Damo episode (The Old Grey Whistle Theft), some great Irish storytelling and a Lovely Girls Competition (another episode storyline).  

To cut a long story short, I made the fatal mistake of answering a question posed by Joe at the event and ended up being chosen by him to enter the Lovely Girls Competition.  The criteria myself and my fellow contestants were judged on?

1.  A lovely walk. (I won).

2.  A lovely laugh (I didn't win).

3.  Making the loveliest sandwich (I won).

Ultimately, I was chosen as the winner and awarded the coveted prize, a whistle blown by Father Damo himself, handed over with one instruction "Never wash that!"

Even more surreal, I was approached after the show by a mother and daughter, who asked me for my details as she was planning to marry in the next couple of years, the Father Ted connection being evidently important to her.  Quite a night!

But over the last few nights, some of my favourite Shane MacGowan lyrics have been playing on a loop in my head.

I'm not singing for the future

I'm not dreaming of the past

I'm not talking of the first times

I never think about the last.

Beautiful huh?  I take them to mean live in the moment.

So for me, photography enables me to truly live in the moment.  Take these recent portraits from a walk around the vintage fairground at Stourport on Severn and on a shopping trip to Stourbridge.

I challenged myself to approach people I found interesting, engage them in conversation, before asking permission to photograph them.  I could have just walked past them and never thought about them again...entirely forgettable moments, but that pause and the resulting images enabled something more from those fleeting encounters.

Arlo, Hook a Duck stall holder

Jonas, Fairground Worker

Kai, friend of Arlo

Retro Toy Store Owner, Neil

Furniture Store Owner, Lynne

In the last 7 days, the weather has delivered Fairytale of New York festive vibes with freezing temperatures, "wind that blows through you", sparkling frosts and ice.  I've yet to decorate the house for Christmas, but have consumed a couple of Irish coffees and the odd pint of Guinness in Shane's honour - and to keep out the cold.

And, just as night follows day, as soon the temperature rises, in rolls the mist and rain.  I prefer the former, as captured here, just beyond the garden gate.

So, I've very much been focusing on work recently; forever trying to challenge and push myself in different directions.  I have a couple of exciting projects lined up for 2024 and have been framing some prints to offer for sale in a couple of local small businesses - Archie's Attic, a popular cafe in Enville and Eco Maniax, a plastic free shop in Stourbridge.  

But right now, December is a time to assemble and celebrate the people in our lives and I intend to do just that.  Cheers!

Friday - A Day For Doing Llareggub

In the slow blink of an eye, our mini break was at almost at an end.  Friday dawned sunny and bright and we loaded up the car, greeted the house keeper and for one last time, navigated the bumpy lane out of Stackpole.

In order to make the most of the late summer sun, we stopped at the coastal town of Saundersfoot for one last stroll on the beach...

...and what a beach!  Another day, another clean and tidy stretch of sand.

A walk to the other side of the harbour was rewarded by a less developed stretch of coastline - just stunning with the receding tide and endless skies.

Eek!  A giant jellyfish!

The annual New Year's Day swim is clearly already firmly on the agenda according to the town's posters.  Marketing might want to rethink the town's strategy.  Maybe they're trying to keep the numbers down?

After lunch, we resumed our journey home, but before long, I spotted a sign for Laugharne.  Laugharne had been on my list of "must see places" but after the car brakes debacle, it was side lined.  I hadn't realised that it such a short detour.  So, with a last minute, "Quick - Laugharne - left!" instruction, we were suddenly pootling along country lanes, flanked on either side by the lush, green fields and rolling hills of Carmarthenshire.

If you're not already aware, Laugharne was famously the home of Swansea born poet Dylan Thomas and inspiration for the town of Llareggub featured in Under Milk Wood.  "Llareggub" spelled backwards is "Bugger All."  

Dylan made the town his home, thanks to a generous benefactor (Margaret Taylor) purchasing the lease for him on the coastal property known as "The Boathouse."  He lived there from the late 1930s until his death at noon on 9th November 1953 following a suicidal drinking binge.  He was 39 years old.

We were intrigued to discover that there was a heritage trail around the village and so a fascinating couple of hours unfolded.  Sponteneity at its best.

We began at the end.  Parking at St Martin's church, we located Dylan's grave (shared with wife Caitlin) and marked by a simple wooden cross.  They're enjoying an impressive view don't you think?

With a snapshot of the Laugharne Heritage Trail information board as our guide, we headed on foot into the village Dylan referred to as "a timeless, mild, beguiling island of a town."

Certainly, this tin structure had a timeless quality.  Gareth badly wanted the sign.  In reality, it's not a garage at all, as we had incorrectly assumed, but the Tin Shed Museum, specialising in WW2 cameras and memorabilia, supplying TV and film productions, including Saving Private Ryan.  Sadly, it appeared firmly closed on the day of our visit.

It was hard to miss Brown's Hotel, another notable building included in the trail.  Brown's Hotel was one of Dylan's favourite watering holes.  Apparently he favoured the window seat for reading the morning papers, where he could observe passers by and gaze upon the fine Georgian houses, or perhaps catch up with his father, who lived just over the road.  

Georgian buildings are something of a rarity in this area of Wales, but once a useful train link to Carmarthen had been established, Georgians flocked to Laugharne and it developed something of a reputation as a spa town.

The Town Hall, built in 1747.

In 1950, Dylan wrote of his impressions of Laugharne to his good friend and patron, Margaret Taylor, wife of the historian, A.J.P. Taylor.  With the Town Hall in mind, he claimed "It's clock tells the time backwards."

Even a cursory glance down this quiet village's sleepier side streets makes it was easy to see why he might have formed this opinion.

A backwards look at Laugharne's main street from the castle walls.

Next up, the Grist, a large, triangular, open area once linking to the harbour and foreshore.  It's name most likely derives from a former corn or grist mill which stood at the mouth of the river.  The cross dates from 1911, but stands on a much older, probably medieval, stone base.

By now, the salty air was encircling us.  Another corner of Laugharne, another nod to its famous son...

...and another pleasing view.

This area of estuary was once a busy harbour, exporting goods around the world.  Now the Taf estuary is part of the Carmarthen Bay Special Area of Conservation and a Site of Special Scientific Interest (for its saltmarsh vegetation and two species of migratory fish).

A 180 degree turn and you see the imposing Laugharne Castle ("...brown as owls" as Dylan described the walls) dominated the headland.  The castle was first established in 1116 by invading Normans and attacked and re-taken countless times by the Welsh.  Oliver Cromwell laid siege to the castle during the Civil War and the dents made by the Roundheads can still be seen today.

Fighting a losing battle against the intertidal mud, we retraced our steps and followed the path in front of the castle, snaking around the headland.

First glimpse of The Boathouse...

...and Dylan's writing hut.

We took to the steep steps built into the cliff and suddenly we were there, in Dylan's world...another space and time.

This was photographed with the camera pressed to the polycarbonate screen covering the doorway.  The public can't actually enter, but this was good enough for me.  I loved the screwed up pieces of paper on the floor under his desk, his jacket hanging over the chair and the postcards, photos and artworks pinned to the beams and walls.

Dylan's routine in brief.  Mornings were for crosswords, reading and letter writing.  Lunchtimes were for heavy drinking.  Miraculously, given the lunchtime sessions, work took place between the hours of 2 pm and 7 pm.  Dylan would allegedly read his work aloud repeatedly to test out and perfect the rhythms and rhymes.  

View from the writing hut

A short stroll along this elevated footpath and once again The Boat House was in our sights.

This spot in the west of Wales surely inspired these words from Dylan:

This day winding down now

As God speeded summer's end

In the torrent salmon sun,

In my seashaken house

On a breakneck of rocks...

The Boat House now houses a well stocked shop crammed with books of Dylan's work, a cafe and a gallery.  I picked up a paperback copy of The Dylan Thomas Omnibus and the tourist trap of a souvenir, a fridge magnet.  Forgive me!  I was drawn to this photo of Dylan and Caitlin, photographed in the former's natural habitat.

So there you have it!  Laugharne was an unexpected delight and left us thinking we should do bugger all more often!  

I'll leave you and our Welsh sojourn with some last words from the man himself, appropriately etched into a bench in the garden:-

The funny thing is, I find myself going back again and again.

Head Space

The double whammy of work and weather has resulted in very little to report, with much of my time spent indoors, holed up like Miss Haversham.  I think as a result of this state of stir craziness, I have felt a calling to see the sea again.  It feels like a long time since I heard the roar of the waves.  Maybe as island dwellers, we need that every once in a while.

Sitting by lamp light in the recent snowstorm, notebook in hand, my thoughts wandered from the latest (at times) troublesome wedding shoot I'm planning, to that famous literary bride, Lorna Doone.  If you've never read the book, it's a romance novel set in 17th Century Exmoor, also encompassing a number of gothic themes...innocent victim, good versus evil, romance and death.  Parts of the Victorian novel were written by author R.D. Blackmore in one of my favourite places in the UK, Lynmouth, the picturesque fishing village on the North Devon coast and the story is set no more than 5 miles away, taking in the stunning landscape; the purple clad moors and watery valleys of Exmoor.

If you don't know the story, I won't spoil it, but it is a tale of the forbidden romance between Lorna Doone (a member of the outlaw Doone family, but not by blood) and farmer, John Ridd, whose father was murdered by the head of the Doone family, Carver, some years before.  It is Carver's will that Lorna should ultimately become his bride, so there are no prizes for guessing that John and Lorna's journey is not a smooth one.  Their romance begins at the "water slide" a water fall in the "Doone Valley" near the hamlet of Oare.  I will say no more, although, to be fair, you've had plenty of time to catch up, given that the book was published in 1869!

So, as a stop gap until normal blogging activity resumes, here's the resulting poem from one snowy night in March.

She fell like water

Her feared and sullied namesake

Cleansed by a promise for freedom

The renewal of daybreak

Old blood, John's blood

Time 'n' turmoil ploughed in earth

Love binds, takes root

What grows in the mirk?

Exmoor

Forlorn Lorna

Run to the sea

The waves are whispering

"Come see me."

Out to sea, Lynmouth

Bad bloodletting in the valley

In the shadow of Oare

No love match, a vengeful watch

Weeping like a festering sore

Valley of the Rocks

Forlorn Lorna 

Run to the sea

The waves are gathering

"Come see me."

A wedding like no other

A woman upon high

Forbidden, chastened, a ghost in waiting

A vision all in white

Forlorn Lorna

Run to the sea

The waves are roaring

"Come see me."

A crack on the wind

Glass on the altar

Carver's stain, crimson on silk

She fell like water

Oare Church

Oare Church

Forlorn Lorna

Run to the sea

The waves are lapping

"Come see me."

A heart breaks and hooves race

A violet, violent end

Possessiveness and dark desire

Returning to the mire

Forlorn Lorna

Breathing still

The sea is calm now

True love's will

Taking flight, Exmoor