Buggerall Under Milk Wood

To begin at the beginning,

working in West Wales, it would have been rude not have taken a travel rod and some of Rhyl's finest lug,


My route took me passed a mist dressed Bala, looked to be in a pike gear sort of mood



through a frost topped Dolgellau




Finally late on the first afternoon after the long haul to West Wales I arrived in Laugherne, just up the way from Dylan Thomas' boat house,
Not knowing the area fishing the estuary creeks looked less of a laugh and more like buggerall; so conscious the flood had started I followed the coast road to nearby Pendine



“Now behind the eyes and secrets of the dreamers in the streets rocked to sleep by the sea, see the titbits and topsyturvies, bobs and buttontops, bags and bones, ash and rind and dandruff and nailparings, saliva and snowflakes and moulted feathers of dreams, the wrecks and sprats and shells and fishbones, whale-juice and moonshine and small salt fry dished up by the hidden sea.”
― Dylan Thomas, Under Milk Wood

The radio news had mentioned flash flooding in Pendine and sure enough many hi-viz jackets were cleaning up the caravan park;
too knackered to carry on West I decided to give it a go,



not much sign of worm on the beach though there were several signs of someone digging,



- this turned out to be due to a metal detectorist.



You might recall that I tried this spot over High in a rough wind about a year ago,
described as a "Storm Beach" I could see that it needed an onshore wind to build the water, but this evening was pretty flat and the sea was an unpromising chocolate milk shake with the flooding down leaf littered mud.













Half a dozen chucks without result; a curry and a pint seemed a far better bet.



The next evening I was in Cardigan for dusk and Poppit Sands had been suggested

“... moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobbledstreets silent and the hunched courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.”
― Dylan Thomas, Under Milk Wood

Poppit Sands, Cardigan


Did a recce from the carpark up the footbath to the beach between the YHA and the RNLI Station by the sand bar across the estuary, but frankly a pie and a pint seemed a far better bet

No fish then ...but I've got plans... after this pint.

A Great Post.

Some cracking pics + and another good report looking at the pics it was worth the effort the pics will stick in peoples minds as much as Any big fish as most say its not all about the fish its the challenge fish are A bonus

Well done very good effort great pics

love a bit of DT

I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.

When one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.

The function of posterity is to look after itself.

The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it.

He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.

An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you do.

Dylan talked copiously, then stopped. 'Somebody's boring me,' he said, 'I think it's me.'

Very good report shame about lack of a action

Stunning report.
Very cultured!!!!!
The lack of fish is immaterial