return journey

“...the wind cut up the street with a soft sea-noise hanging on its arm...

...here and around here it was that the journey had begun
of the one I was pursuing...”

~ Dylan Thomas, Return Journey.

journeys and returns


Above: First Great Western train, from England;
Below: Arriva train in Wales.

On a weekday, still with books and papers in my arms, I walked to the Oxford railway station to buy my ticket for North Wales. One sojourn leading to another. Not realizing an explanation was needed, I blithely requested a one-way ticket for Penmaenmawr. Then, after helping the ticket agent spell and pronounce “pen-mine-maOW-rr,” I helped him locate the town on his computer monitor. For the record, he was very nice about everything, and perhaps in an apologetic spirit he reserved “table seats” for me aboard each of the 3 trains I needed to get across the English Midlands, to northwestern Wales. Well this Oxford scholar with a New England accent, heading for the “Fortress Gwynedd,” was certainly grateful to look forward to a day’s train travel with reserved perches that included writing surfaces.

Above: Looking to the mountains.
Below: Looking to the sea, minutes later.

Packing to leave Oxford and the goodbyes (with plenty of see-you-laters) were offset by the anticipation of a return to Wales. No longer the first-ever visit, which I experienced in the previous year, but this time a return journey. The distinction is significant, as the mystery of travelling to a place charted solely by maternal recollections and childhood dreams is augmented by the prospect of returning to places remembered in personal experience. This time, I could visualize the destinations. Places, sounds, and countenances joined the stream of expectation. There were tastes I wanted to be sure not to miss, such as bakery-warm Welsh cakes, and S.A. Brains Ale with seafood. There were photo angles to retry on this visit, and opportunities to see more places for which there hadn’t been sufficient time on the first sojourn.

Bangor, Wales.

returns and impressions

All journeys are to be savoured, as no two impressions are alike. Return journeys are as unique as initial discoveries. The differences are in the imageries that inform the going forth. In all our journeys, we blend together the known and the unknowing. As well, we are uniquely able to synthesize the composite experience of multiple memories, landmarks, and projected hopes when we return to places of our choosing.

The aspect of returning to a place already visited- or in the case of my monthly travels to Boston, something almost errand-like, the visits are colored by the weather, the tasks-at-hand (if any aside from strolling), and indeed the kind of mood I’m in. But it is a return nonetheless, and one I elect to make. The great distinction is that a choice was made; this is not perfunctory. The dynamic, being one of choice, means that I am just where I want to be, notwithstanding how I feel, where I just came from, and any other baggage that may have come with me. Returning to a place, and wanting to be there, is actually in response to the place calling you to come back. Thoughts become enlivened by the prospects of the object of your wanderlust, of your longing for a very specific place with lanes, skies, handshakes, houses, and aromas.

The train travel took an entire day, with transfers in Birmingham, Shrewsbury, and Chester. The transition into something very different from urban and suburban Midlands to rural mountain country became clearly pronounced as my last train reached the sea. Shoreline was immediately at the starboard side, with the mountains of North Wales above the port side. Skies alternated between stark brightness and overcast spatter. The weather of the Welsh coast, which is so similar to that of the Maine coast, one place now reminds me of the other.

The return to North Wales came a year after my emotional first visit, having had a year to convey stories from the month of Welsh travels to my parents at Thanksgiving, and keeping in touch with new friends, anticipating the return. The arrival this time was directly from a long sojourn at Oxford. Thus, I instantly noticed the Oxford House in the small village of Penmaenmawr- even how the storefront is painted navy blue.

In Bangor, I could notice the progress of construction projects I had seen in the prior year, and how these things (the University arts centre, and some housing complexes) had changed. Before making the trip, during the planning, I realized there wouldn’t be enough time to visit places and friends in South Wales; I could only choose one direction, and chose north. I was gratefully able to welcome the restorer of the Dylan Thomas home, in Swansea, to The Kilns (C. S. Lewis’ home- which had been my home in Oxford), as a sweet reunion. While explaining my choice to Annie Haden, she very matter-of-factly said, “well that’s your Mam’s place,” giving me the impression that if I had chosen to go south, she would’ve said. “Why didn’t you go back to Bangor, child?” I could just picture it. Indeed, I did gratefully go back to the north, following my wishes and remembrances from the past year.

Same gates, but 54 years apart: My mother and me, in Bangor.

the call of place

Consider the phenomenon of a place returning to you. Not as with unpleasant histories, but the opposite, life-giving kind of haunting. These are dreams we welcome, reminders of the flowering amidst our struggling thorns, gratitude as fruit of survival. When a place calls and colors our dreams, the impression is more than of the place itself. Surely, streets and squares, with addresses, can be physically visited. When a place joins the geographic arrangement of our dreams, we are included as inhabitants of such reveries. These places include our selves as resident travellers. When I revisit Paris and New York, I am there as an infant, an adolescent, a teenager, and as I am today. All the lenses are kept polished. My images of Wales evolved from retold stories and postcards to enquiries and, finally, my own footsteps. Places we hold dear to our hearts and thoughts are in our eyes. They go with us, they return with us, and cultivate our life experiences.

Below: The Welsh house blessing from my mother's time in Bangor, which she has recently given to me. I remember this from childhood in New York.

The places and vistas I enjoyed most in Bangor are still favorites of mine. My urban penchant for strolling and browsing draws my attention to High Street, Deiniol Road, and Holyhead Road. The latter is near Bangor University, where my mother studied. At frequent intervals, among shopwindows, are cafés and bakeries. My very favorite is the Blue Sky Café, which is in a high-raftered skylit loft at the center of Bangor.

Bangor Pier.

A meditative stroll along the Garth Road continues onto the Victorian scenic Bangor Pier. On one evening’s visit, the winds whipped through the Menai Strait with such force that pedestrians on the pier were holding on to the boardwalk’s railings. With this return, I was better able to appreciate Bangor Cathedral- both in its general ambience and its architectural details. One of my recent visits was on a pouring rainy day, and somehow the exterior conditions caused the interior to feel much more intimate. The return journey reminded me of the sanctuary, whose foundation dates back to the 7th century, as a place of prayer. Having developed warm friendships through- and with- the Bangor Public Library, that is undoubtedly one of my favorite places in town.

Bangor Cathedral.

Bangor Library.

Indeed, I did see places I had not seen before, and made new acquaintances, but that’s to be expected. Return visits are new experiences, as today is distinct from yesterday. Now it occurs to me how often I peruse the same favorite districts in Boston, noting changes, discovering new things, and visiting old favorite points of reference. When it comes to hospitable and beloved settings, familiarity breeds endearment. As for Bangor, its environs, and Wales, I am thankful for places of grateful returns. There is no honor quite as sublime as being warmly anticipated. A living sign of mutual recognition, the gift of welcome is a gesture of both extension and inclusion. As our times appear fragile and temporal, embraces represent treasured belonging and the sense of home. Thoughts that console, soothe, and endure. Sights, voices, and days return to me with the effortless prompt of atmosphere. Wafting weather and aromatic air bring words to mind and paper, collated to the volumes of a life.

writing in wales

“And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.”

~ Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill

As my recent series of essays attest, sojourning in Wales has been thoroughly enjoyable and profoundly fulfilling. It is a destination I highly recommend, and I hope to return to continue exploring the country in the near future. Over the years, I’ve travelled many thousands of miles, with a number of these trips as a photographer, sometimes as a researcher, yet perpetually on pilgrimage. This time, I set forth as a writer. Choosing to visit Wales had been inspired by a lifetime of my mother’s enchanting recollections. Throughout my time on the north coast, I followed her advice and her footsteps, and inevitably found many directions and connections of my own. Indeed, it was an honor to bring tastes of North Wales back to her, through images, artifacts, and conveyed greetings.

Bangor University

Beyond and among these explorations, it had occurred to me during this recent journey that writing has come to inspire my travels. I found myself creating itineraries around places in which to write and to experience writing. As with visual media, the inner drive to write is greatly affected by physical places and their respective environments. The latter aspect comprises intangible qualities, though recognizable when they are sensed. Every region I visited in Wales encouraged me to continue writing and learning. How do places we visit become inspiring parts of our souls?

Rhossili

Great creative potential can be prompted by place; being from the Maine coast, I’m well aware of this. In my experience, though I may be looking toward trees, mountains, waterways, and skies, my written subjects may well be entirely unrelated. I recall once finding the perfect descriptive words for a silent monastic sojourn, while writing in the swirl of a loud and chaotic Boston train station. Words to describe what I craved most came to me first. Often, the imagery of a writing topic comes in clearly by its absence. Surely, in Wales I did often write directly about the landscapes and streets around me, and the writing- as usual- was never at the exclusion of my thoughts. Sights and imaginings are woven together.

Above: slate path in North Wales;
Below: coal path in South Wales.

Scenery becomes a factor, when it inspires clarity of mind, no matter the topic; the important thing is that writing is encouraged. What the writing concerns is less critical. One could write a parched poem about a dry desert, while on a salt-sprayed deck of a ship. The necessary ingredients are the ideas, words, and the will to assemble them to one’s satisfaction. Gratefully, the Welsh scenery gave me plenty to write about, being in itself a source of wonder.

When thinking of what makes Wales a great writer’s destination, the landscape and the general culture immediately come to mind. A lad from Maine finds assurance in the presence of seashores, highlands, and quiet country roads. I’m also undeterred by changeable weather. If your environment is beautiful, then it’s a beautiful day. Admittedly, precipitation does set some limitations upon outdoor writing. In Wales, I found a culture that cherishes being outside. Going for a walk can mean a stroll across town or a hike across mountains, and both are made very easy with paths and stopping places. All ages go walking; I saw groups walking together and I saw solitary hikers aperch on crags like musing poets. Happy the strolling thinkers who needn’t explain themselves.

A culture that treasures a good fresh-air outdoor walk, along with spirited conversation, amounts to a pleasant social context. Another smiling reminder of life in Maine happened each time I’d stop someplace in Wales long enough for an enjoyable give-and-take chat. I could recognize how conversation is something between a beloved pastime and an art form like, say, sculpture. When people meet and regale one another with insights and anecdotes, a harmonized summation is chiseled, filed, and formed into being. I found many words to record and ponder. Gwyn Thomas, a brilliant author from the coal-mining Rhondda valleys said it well:

“We talked endlessly. That was one way of keeping up our spirits in a universe that did not seem very encouraging. A cracked world and a love of the poets gave us all the spiritual incentive and mechanical facility we needed. If we lacked sixpence for the movies we could always float on a sea of metaphor in a session of high Socratic debate under a lamp-post.”

 

Coal to warm a writer's space.

Throughout my travels I witnessed how Wales is a country of the word. The words are spoken, written, composed, sung, preached, and preserved- all in two refined languages. As no explanations were needed for a pilgrim seeking holy sites, none were asked for a seeker of beautiful words. I heard countless poetic words and songs, saw them in art works, read them in printed and manuscript forms, and even recited my own words to audiences. Much as the ancient stone built structures, words delineate and fashion ideas into enduring memorials. Among treasured welcomes, living for a week in Dylan Thomas’ home brought me to greater appreciation of this man of words, as denoted by the landmark plaque on the house. His poetry reminds me of the value of sound in the assemblage of words. Sound and meaning directly affect one another.

Above: Dylan borrowing my journal, Swansea.






View from the study toward the back garden, Dylan Thomas' home, with his Imperial Good Companion typewriter.

Yet another feature I found to be favorable for a visiting writer is proximity. In Wales, no place is too far out of reach for travel within a day. As well, public buses and trains reach just about every peninsula and village. As transit itself is conducive to writing, so is the immediacy of contrasting scenery and setting. When depths of historicity and intrigue are so consistently prominent, excursions of any distance are replete with interest. In such a place of word and spirit as Wales, there is much for a writer to remark. The sounds, colors, and places are now part of me, and will all be thankfully held close to heart.

Above: Llandaff Cathedral.
Below: At Dylan Thomas' desk






While on pilgrimage in North Wales, my Olympia Splendid 33 (and I) received a blessing from a priest. He exclaimed, "this is all truly splendid!" The machine now sports the Welsh flag.



In Snowdonia (North Wales).