Dylan Thomas’ Boathouse and Writing Hut at Laugharne, Wales


Exterior of Boathouse

Photographer’s note: I visited years ago. His writing hut is just above on a cliff overhanging the boathouse. There is a narrow track just wide enough for one person to climb to the top. As that person reaches the top and steps off the path there is the wooden hut still with his personal belongings and coat hanging on a chair as if he has just gone out to water the bushes.


Interior of Dylan Thomas’ Writing Hut Above the Boathouse

Photographer’s note: Its a pokey little hut, a grubby hut. My photograph, a hurried shot, on a hot day doesn’t do the place justice. You should see my study, just the same. Are writers universally untidy.  Do they cast rumpled discarded papers on the floor. Do they all drink alcoholic beverages to keep them going through the writing process. On a hot day he could open the window looking over the marsh, he could hear hedge warbler call and the overhead larks weaving in and out in song. He could hear the waves at Ginst Point, hear the pebbles move to the pounding of the waves. He was free there from interruption, there were few cars to bother him with noise, even fewer would take the track past the hut. He could water the bushes when need be, unseen by any intrusive eye. And at end of day when tired he could step outside to take the narrow near-suicidal steep  path down to the boathouse for his tea.


Editor’s note: The Boathouse in Laugharne, Wales, was where Dylan Thomas lived with his family during his last four years between 1949 and 1953. The house is set in a cliff overlooking the Tâf estuary and is where he wrote many of his major pieces.

       Ieuan retired from engineering some decades ago. He spends time scribbling ditties from time to time. He started his working life as a ship chandler's assistant, then an apprentice fitter and turner in a dockyard repairing ships engines.  He worked at sea in the engine room of a great whale and guided her to find acres of krill. Gravitated to Europe to learn about oil, cities under water, old houses that lean alarmingly that people say are quaint. Majored in cheese tasting except seeded cheese. Learned to like Jenever gin from tiny glasses. Either the Dutch are mean or have miniscule fingers.   His publishing credits include nine placings in WebDeSol's IBPC , four poem in Autumn Sky Daily , a Haiku in a Haiku blog, and three poems in wiseowl.art Zine and a photograph to be published this summer in Front Page of Open Arts Forum.com. He hopes to put of the inevitable for another year at least.

   It is lovely to be here with a gang of poets. Or is it a Pottery of Poets.