By allowing time and rain to delve in the desire of beings, the stone will get its appearance back, its grain, its gray.
A force de laisser le temps et la pluie s’incruster dans le désir des êtres, la pierre gagnera son paraître, son grain, son gris.
Nous tomberions à genoux, dans un embarrassant fracas, au pied d’un mur de pierre, ayant ce jour-là réuni, dans un hasard temporaire, les couleurs dérivant de la chimie de la terre
A stay in Tenby seems incomplete if it does not include a visit (a pilgrimage might be a fairer term) to the country of Dylan Thomas, Laugharne, where he lived and wrote for a significant part of his life. Everything contributes in Thomas’s magic, the winding road leading to it, the peninsula, the Norman castle, the house where Dylan lived, the little boathouse where Thomas wrote (photo), or the pub where he spent perhaps a little too much time. This time, I wanted to visit him at the cemetery (where he is buried near his wife Caitlin), his grave marked with a simple white wooden cross (I expected nothing less from him). I am reassured to see that it still has a beautiful view of the hills. I then return to the boat shelter, which I had not been able to photograph last time because of the reflections. The visit of course must end at the pub with friends, where everything recalls his presence. I guess in the summer the place is invaded by visitors, but today it’s only us and a few local. A truly perfect and inspiring day.