Laugharne – Dylan Thomas

In Laugharne, I’ve woven through fifteen years, or perhaps centuries, living in this timeless and enchanting town. It’s a place of herons, billy duckers (cormorants), a castle, a churchyard, gulls, ghosts, geese, feuds, scandals, cherry trees, mysteries, and the peculiarities of daily life. As a foreigner, I’ve become familiar with the locals and some herons, integrating into the rhythm of this quaint community.

Residents find themselves in Laugharne for diverse reasons – some born here stayed, others migrated from far-flung locales, and a few seeking refuge from various circumstances. Then some wandered in, disappeared into the shadows, or remained ignorant about why they were here. Laugharne captivates its inhabitants, like myself, who arrived for a day and forgot to leave. It’s unlike any other, with its seven public houses, a chapel, a church, a factory, billiard tables, a St. Bernard, a lone policeman, three rivers, a visiting sea, and eccentricities galore.

However, the town’s uniqueness sparks curiosity and suspicion in neighboring villages. Rumors circulate about boat hook quarrels, webfooted women, warnings of the Evil Eye, and caution against venturing out during a full moon. Yet, these tales stem from envy, for Laugharne embodies a distinctive charm – its unhurried pace, acceptance of folly, and an air of “It will all be the same in a hundred years.” Despite the envious branding as a legendary, lazy, black-magical bedlam by the sea, Laugharne remains an idyllic haven, and I fervently hope it stays that way.