A little touristy, but not overly.
Not that gentrified either.
In fact, probably not that different from when Dylan Thomas lived here, from 1949 to 1953.
Here's the castle, 'brown as owls' ...
... and the salt marsh which floods at high tide ...
... leaving a strange, seaweed- and dead crab-strewn tideline on what looks like ordinary grass ...
... but is anything but.
We were headed for Brown's Hotel, Dylan's favourite bar, to meet up with friends.
And did those feet tread these boards? I think they almost certainly did.
In between all the hard talking and laughter, we made our way along the road to the famous boathouse, bought for him to live in by his benefactor, Margaret Taylor, who was infatuated with him.
But first the shed where he would write.
This is the boathouse ...
... looking out over the beautiful estuary.
Evidently Dylan wrote here too.
His death mask.
This is probably the 'sea wet church the size of a snail with its horns through mist' of one of my very favourite poems, 'Poem in October'. (This is my birth month too.)
If you go down to the woods today ...
... you'll eventually come across Dylan and Caitlin's grave.
So little for such big personalities.
I have form for reading poems at gravesides and grizzling before I get to the end. Today was no exception.
'Oh may my heart's truth - sniffle sniffle'
It's no good, we're going to have to come back to walk the Dylan Thomas birthday walk.
Maybe in October?