Very heavy rain last night was handled by the Terra Nova with no problem.
I had to keep walking north and inland to St Clears to bridge the River Taf. I had a bacon sandwich, an apple turnover, and coffee standing up in the back of the busy baker's shop where it was cosy compared with the cold and intermittent showers outside.
The weather did clear developing into a day of pleasant sunshine with the occasional shower.
At Laugharne I went to visit the Dylan Thomas hut where he did his writing, and then The Boathouse a hundred yards or so further on where Dylan lived for the last four years. The hut is locked up but you can look through the window and see the interior as it was with pictures of D H lawrence, Augustus John and others stuck up in random fashion. The setting overlooking the river estuary with golden sands and blue sea is splendid.
The Boathouse incorporates a cafe below and you can pay to look round the rest of the house which I did. There were only a few other people around and the atmosphere was low key with nothing overdone, and I must say that I was moved by the whole experience.
There are other venues in Laugharne that can be visited, but I find I can only take so much of this sort of thing at a time which is a bit difficult explain. It is like eating cream cake - an enjoyable experience, but ruinous if overdone, and today I had had experienced enough for my emotions to handle.
Back down in the village my route followed a sort of cliffy path which had been designated as Dylan's Birthday Walk, with notice boards every so often with sequential verses of Dylan's poem about his thirtieth birthday which was inspired by this walk.
I marched on to Pendine and stopped in a cafe there. I was heading for a Caravan and Camping Club CL at Marros, and had in my mind a picture of a cosy little site with welcomng owners and, and perhaps meeting some conversation-2worthy people on the site. On arrival there was a windswept field on top of a hill with a distant tourer caravan and a static covered in green mold that looked as though it had not been used for the last three years. A notice said to ring a number to camp. There was no signal on my mobile. I walked across to the tourer and a guy came out reeking of cigarettes flowed by his wife in a dressing gown. They told me the owner lived in a farm about a quarter of a mile away, so much for the rosy picture in my mind. I pitched my tent, and have no intention of seeking out the owners to make payment; if they want paying they will gave to come and find me.
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