Under (Frozen) Milk Wood

Brrrrr... Easter week, and it's still cold.  Monday I visited Laugharne in west Wales. I was invited to take a trip, partly to mark 35 years of priesthood, and chose the little town where Dylan Thomas spent his last four years. The M4 was busier than I expected - I suppose everyone was determined to get out and about despite the cold. Pont Abraham services where we stopped for coffee, could do with a bit of a spruce-up...

We turned off the A40 at St Clears and were soon at the top of the long and fine main street, with many fine 18th and 19th century houses. The Castle loomed up at the bottom of the hill, where the main square is on the site of the town quay, silted up many centuries ago. It was lunchtime, and we repaired to a friendly fish 'n'chip place where I had some very nice haddock. Then we set out along the seashore walk (left) to the famous Boathouse, home of Dylan.

Oh... my... goodness. I have never been so cold since Canada in the 1980s. In addition to the general chilliness, the wind was whipping in across Carmarthen Bay. . With a shirt, thick woolie and winter anorak zipped and buttoned, but no hat, scarf or gloves, it was my head that suffered. We peered through the glazed door of the famous shed  where Dylan wrote (right) , and pressed on to look down on the Boathouse itself. I'd had enough by then - and we headed back via the backstreets of what I discovered is a lovely little place. Slowly my head reconnected itself to the rest of my body, which process wasn't really completed until a cuppa back home. 
Note to self : must go back to Laugharne, of which Fr M. approved - but only when it's warmer!