Criccieth

But that was nothing to what things came out
From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'
'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'
'Nothing at all of any things like that.'
'What were they, then?'
'All sorts of queer things,
Things never seen or heard or written about,
Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiar
Things. 
Robert Graves


‘Welsh Incident’ has always been one of my favourite poems and I had not realised that our cousins actually lived in Criccieth!


The beautiful Afon Dwyfor flows by their house and today was the most perfect October weather, nippy in the shade and warm in the sun, with the tree colours just turning from green. Under the old oaks, their roots dipping the water, 3 hives of bees still buzzed, garnering the last drops of nectar and pollen. The house was redolent with the smell of honey and sitting on the balcony the scent of the river drifted up.


It was too good a chance to miss. Just behind a big rock on the bank the eddy had deposited some fine gravel, shelving to deeper water. Getting in, the current gave a swift bite of cold and strength and there was a short moment of panic as I found I was travelling backwards despite breast-stroking forward as hard and as splashily as I could. It was an adrenaline filled workout until I found that my feet could touch the bottom.
Strategy two was better. Starting upstream, by the bee-hives, I joined the flicker of falling leaves in a drift downstream. Dry sycamore leaves sailing past my ears on the surface, green willow stream-lined as fishes nibbling my arms just below the water; where the sunlight pierced deeper, the glowing copper coins of beech rolled around my ankles and reaching towards the gravel-bar, the black remains of last year’s fall squidged softly around my toes.
I think I could become hooked on Autumn River swimming.



The picture is of Criccieth Castle in the evening, although we saw no un-Welsh things on our walk down the beach.