A Second Chance for Wales

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So you have probably determined by now that we survived Wales. In fact, the day after All The Evil happened (sorry, that was a nod to my new favorite book ‘The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo’ – highly recommended for the strong of heart and stomach!). Saturday was a huge improvement and served to reinvigorate our excitement about the little sub-country. With the help of our next door neighbors, the farm's godforsaken roosters, we got out of our mountaintop cottage early and strolled down to the main road in hopes of catching a bus to a town that is honestly called Mumbles. It is named for the two islands (THE Mumbles) at the tip of the point that marks one end of Swansea Bay. We had been looking at the Mumbles for two days from our cottage and were struck by their beauty.

(That's the view out the front door of our cottage!)

Mumbles is also famous as the stomping ground of the poet Dylan Thomas, who I have always been fascinated by as someone who actually drank so much that he finally just fell over dead like poor ol’ Nick Cage in Leaving Las Vegas, but that I had never officially read anything by. We found our way there with no problem and took in the remains of their local castle, the equally well-named -- but currently under renovation -- Oystermouth.

We grubbed at the pub and strolled along the Atlantic, pausing to get a little feel of that water I had seen so many times from the other side, but never from this angle.

The kids got some playground time and got to share their crazy accents with some local jokers and another fellow visiting Mumbles from across St. George’s Channel in Ireland. We toyed with the idea of heading even farther from home this Saturday and finding an island where they claimed we would see puffins (a lifelong and quite hopeless quest for me), but we decided instead that we should amble back to the train for Crewe in hopes of getting home before bedtime. I had to climb Mount Rooster to retrieve our hopelessly overpacked valise, which allowed me to cut through one of the most beautiful parks I have ever encountered. There is a private castle right in the middle of it where someone lives. I retrieved our rolling bag and set out upon the journey down by way of the horse manure dappled driveway as carefully as possible. Remember that if you ever want to borrow a suitcase from us.

The train home was a welcome break for my legs that Wales had been so hard on from Celtic Manor to Rooster Mountain, and we were home at a decent hour. All in all, given the chance, I would go see some more of Wales. The people (not counting the shagsters that planned and controlled the Ryder Cup) were unequivocally delightful and happy to have us in their corner of the island. It’s one of the greenest places I’ve ever seen, but I suppose it would be in a place that gets so very, very much rain.