Anthony's Literary Lens

Category: Pembrokeshire

  • At Nevern, Time Doesn’t Pass—It Pools Around Your Feet

    At Nevern, Time Doesn’t Pass—It Pools Around Your Feet

    A lone traveler stands beneath the towering yew tree in the churchyard of Nevern, Pembrokeshire. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and resin, and the soft hush of wind through the branches is the only sound. A second figure stands beside them, clothed in a long woolen cloak, feet calloused from the road, eyes bright with devotion. Though centuries separate them, they see the same sacred place, feel the same weight of history pressing on their shoulders.

    “Do you see?” The medieval pilgrim gestures toward the Bleeding Yew, the deep red sap weeping from its bark. “They say it bleeds for justice, and it will not stop until the world is fair.” Their voice is heavy with belief.

    The modern visitor runs a hand over the rough bark, watching the slow seep of crimson. “I’ve read about it—some say it’s just a natural phenomenon, something about the tree’s resin reacting to wounds. But still… standing here, it feels like more than that.” They hesitate, then add, “Maybe it does bleed for something. Maybe it always will.”

    The pilgrim nods, satisfied. “Come. There is more to take in.”

    Never, yew tree
    Me and the great Celtic cross

    Together, they walk toward the Great Celtic Cross, its weathered stone rising 13 feet defiantly into the sky. The pilgrim reaches out, tracing the loops and knots carved into its surface. “This is eternity,” they murmur. “No beginning, no end. Just faith, winding on forever.”

    The visitor studies the carvings, fingers brushing lightly over the stone. “It’s amazing. To think of the hands that made this, how many people must have stood before it, just like we are now. Even after all this time, it still stands.”

    “As it should,” the pilgrim replies. “A signpost for those on the road to St David’s. A beacon for the weary pilgrim.”

    Just outside the church. The Vitalianus Stone, carved into a pillar in Ogham and Latin the words “VITALIANI EMERTO” suggests the resting place of an important man named Vitaliani. The two languages hint at ancient connections between pagans and Christians. Its inscriptions whispering secrets from the past that we may never understand. The pilgrim kneels before it, tracing the letters. “He was a leader once, a man of faith and strength. His name endures in stone, even as his body has long turned to dust.”

    The visitor leans in, examining the Latin and Ogham script. “It’s strange. We carve our names into things, thinking it will make us last forever. But in the end, it’s the stories that survive, not the physical marks.”

    The pilgrim smiles. “You understand.”

    Inside the church, cool air wraps around them, thick with the scent of wax and old stone.  On one of the windowsills, they see the Megalocnus Stone, where the marks of the older tongue carve deep into the rock. Megalocnus is referenced as far back as the sixth century, affirming the stone’s age. The visitor shakes their head in wonder. “This writing—Ogham—it’s like the language of the land itself, growing up from the stone.”

    The pilgrim rests a hand against it. “We mark the world, and the world marks us.”

    On another windowsill, they find the Pilgrim’s Cross, shallowly etched into the stone. The modern visitor touches the carving, feeling its rough edges. “So many hands must have traced this over the years.”

    “I made my own mark,” the pilgrim admits, voice quiet. “And those after me, and those after them. We all do. All hoping to pass through life, to the next, peacefully.”

    They pause before the Norman-era Rood Screen, its carved wood forming a delicate boundary between the sacred and the earthly. The visitor runs their hand along its surface. “It’s so intricate. So much work must have gone into this.”

    “Devotion is in the small detail as well as the bigger view,” the pilgrim replies. “In all things, we find the divine.”

    At the 700 year old Medieval Baptismal Font, the pilgrim dips their fingers, letting the cool water trickle over their skin. “A new beginning,” they whisper.

    The visitor hesitates, then does the same. The water is cold against their fingertips, sending a shiver through them. “Some things never change,” they murmur.

    Outside, the old Sundial catches the last light of the afternoon. The visitor laughs softly. “Hundreds of years ago, someone stood right here, checking the time by the same sun we’re looking at now.”

    The pilgrim nods. “And after another thousand, others will do the same.”

    A short walk uphill leads them to the second Pilgrim’s Cross, carved deep into the rock behind the church. The view stretches below them, the land rolling away toward the river. The pilgrim kneels, bowing their head in prayer.

    The visitor stands in silence, breathing in the crisp air. “It must have been hard,” they say at last. “Walking so far, carrying all your hopes with you.”

    The pilgrim exhales, voice full of quiet conviction. “Hope is never a burden. It is the reason we walk.”

    As they walk toward the ruins of Nevern Castle, the shadows grow long. The stones stand witness to battles and prayers lingering in the air.

    “Time is strange here,” the visitor muses. “It doesn’t feel like it’s passing. It just… is.”

    The pilgrim smiles. “At Nevern, time doesn’t pass—it pools around your feet.”

    The modern traveller, now seeped in the church’s history, looking down to their feet, feels a pull to join the age-old pilgrimage. Looking up, they see the ancient pilgrim is making their way–fading into the distance. “God bless!”

    (not my photo)
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  • Popty Ping and Other Reasons to Love Welsh

    Popty Ping and Other Reasons to Love Welsh

    So, Welsh. Yeah, it’s a real language, and no, it’s not just random consonants tossed into a Scrabble bag. It’s one of the oldest languages in Europe, spoken in Wales, where people know their sheep as good as their weather forecast (usually rain). But seriously, it’s a living, breathing language with a rich history and, let’s be honest, a bit of a PR problem. I mean, have you ever tried convincing someone that *Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch* is a legitimate place and not the sound of a cat walking across a keyboard?

    Abermawr Beach
    Llyn Llydaw. With Snowdon in the background

    Welsh, or ‘Cymraeg’ as the locals call it (pronounced “kum-RAIG,” by the way), is one of the Celtic languages. Think Gaelic, but with more ll’s, which, in case you were wondering, is not just a double “L.” It’s a soft, breathy sound that feels like trying to whisper to someone with a mouthful of marshmallows. It’s oddly satisfying once you get the hang of it. 

    For Welsh people, the language isn’t just words; it’s identity. It’s how they connect to their ancestors, their culture, and their sense of place in the world. Speaking Welsh is like wearing a badge that says, “I survived centuries of cultural suppression, and all I got was this vowel-deficient language.” But they wear that badge proudly. 

    Now, let’s talk about how it sounds. Welsh has this sing-song quality that makes everything sound like it should be sung from the top of a windy hill in a BBC period drama. Even the most mundane phrases feel poetic. Take “Sut wyt ti?” which means “How are you?” It’s pronounced something like “Sit OO-ee tea,” and it makes you feel like you should answer with a sonnet instead of a shrug. 

    Then there’s the word ‘hiraeth’. Oh, hiraeth. It’s one of those untranslatable words that’ll make you feel all philosophical and deep. It roughly means a longing for a home you can’t return to, or maybe one that never really existed. It’s the emotional equivalent of looking at an old photo and feeling like your heart’s been dunked in tea. 

    But not everything in Welsh is wistful and poetic. Some words are just plain fun to say. Like ‘popty ping’, which is slang for microwave. Yes, ‘popty ping’. How can you not love a language where heating leftovers sounds like a kid naming a spaceship? 

    Want to impress your friends? Try this: say ‘diolch’ (DEE-olkh). That’s “thank you.” Or ‘iechyd da’ (yeh-CHID dah), which is “cheers.” But watch out for that “ch.” It’s like clearing your throat, but, you know, politely. 

    Learning Welsh is like joining an exclusive club. Sure, it’s a small club, but it’s mighty. And the members? They’ll welcome you with open arms because every new speaker is a little victory for a language that’s survived against the odds. 

    So, whether you’re planning a trip to Wales, have Welsh roots, or just want to spice up your life with some extra consonants, give Welsh a shot. You might not master the ‘ll’ sound on day one, but you’ll definitely feel like you’re part of something special. And who knows? You might even find yourself yelling “Cymru am byth!” (“Wales forever!”) at a rugby match one day. 

    Until then, ‘hwyl fawr’! That’s “goodbye” in Welsh, and it’s pronounced, well… just trust me on this one.

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  • Capturing The Contrast

    Capturing The Contrast

    Black and white horse
    Who me?

    You know, sometimes a photo just grabs you and won’t let go. That’s what happened with this shot of my white horse against the dark background. I’ve taken thousands of horse photos – trust me, my phone’s storage is crying about it – but there’s something about this one that feels different. It’s like catching magic in a moment, if magic wore a mane and had a tendency to sneeze on your camera lens.

    I decided to go with black and white for this one, and I’ll tell you why. There’s this gorgeous tension between light and shadow that color sometimes masks – like when you’re wearing a really great outfit but your statement necklace is stealing all the attention. In black and white, you can really see how my horse’s coat practically glows against that velvet-dark background. It’s not just white; it’s this luminous, ethereal kind of white that makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, unicorns aren’t such a far-fetched idea after all.

    And can we talk about that little bit of foliage peeking in? It’s doing the heavy lifting of keeping this photo grounded in reality, like that one sensible friend who reminds you that no, you probably shouldn’t get bangs at 2 AM. Without it, the horse might look like it’s floating in space – which, cool concept, but not what I was going for here.

    The contrast between black and white creates this almost theatrical backdrop, like nature decided to set up its own spotlight. My horse didn’t get the memo about being dramatic though – they’re just standing there, being their authentic self, probably thinking about their next snack. But that’s what makes it work, right? That completely unposed, natural moment caught in this stark, artistic frame.

    I’ve noticed that some of my favorite photos are the ones that make you lean in a little closer, the ones that play with the line between simplicity and drama. This shot does that for me. It’s like the photographic equivalent of a really good whisper – quiet but impossible to ignore. And while I’d love to say I planned every element of this composition, sometimes the best photos are the ones where you’re just lucky enough to be there with your camera when the light, the moment, and yes, even the cooperative positioning of a horse, all decide to play nice together.

    And yes, before you ask, I absolutely have this printed and hanging on my wall. Because some photos just deserve to graduate from the endless scroll of our camera rolls, don’t you think?

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  • The grounding ground.

    The grounding ground.

    Basil, mint, and thyme—
    scent of soil and sunlight’s warmth,
    roots finding their way.

    Hands deep in the earth, I feel the quiet pulse of life beat beneath my fingers—a slow, steady rhythm that grounds me in a way few things do. Roots twist below, unseen threads tying me to this moment, reminding me that sometimes the most meaningful connections are the ones you can’t quite see. In the green silence around me, everything slows. I breathe with the soil, the earthy scent filling my lungs as if I’m taking in the very essence of the garden itself.

    Sunlight warms my skin, each ray another gentle reminder that life continues, grows, even when no one’s watching. There’s a comfort in the hum of it all: the small, tireless work of nature happening at its own perfect pace. My thoughts start to settle, sinking down into the soil with the roots, each breath drawing me deeper into the present. Here, lost in this quiet rhythm, I feel whole, as if I, too, am planted right where I’m meant to be.

    Bare feet touch the grass,
    the hum of soil grounding me—
    sunlight warms my skin.

    What garden have you got and how does it help you.

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  • Wasted in Stagnation

    Wasted in Stagnation

    River flows away,
    Yet I linger, bound by sludge,
    Wasted, still, unseen.

    How do I even begin to explain it? I feel like a boat—one built to cut through waves, to explore uncharted waters, to sail under the open sky with the wind pushing me forward. I was designed to move, to journey, to experience life in all its unpredictability. But here I am, rotting in the mud at the side of the river, stuck in the stagnant shallows while the current of life rushes by without me.

    It’s infuriating. I’m meant to be out there, feeling the pull of the tide, facing storms and basking in the sunlight on my deck. But instead, I’m trapped in this pit of muck, with nothing but decay around me, sinking deeper into the filth. My hull was once sleek, my sails full of promise, but now? Now I’m just a forgotten vessel, rusted and brittle, abandoned to the elements.

    The river flows past, mocking me with every ripple. I should be part of that, navigating its twists and turns, but I’m stuck on the sidelines, watching as life carries on without me. Every day that passes is another day lost, another opportunity wasted, another inch deeper into this miserable sludge.

    I feel the weight of it all, the heaviness pressing down on me, and it’s suffocating. The dreams, the plans, the purpose—they’re all still there, buried deep inside, but they’re smothered by this mire that’s holding me back. It’s not that I’ve lost my will; it’s that I’m being choked by this godforsaken mud, this unrelenting stagnation.

    I wasn’t made for this! I wasn’t built to rot away in some forgotten corner, becoming part of the landscape of failure. But here I am, powerless against the relentless drag of this miserable place. It’s like being betrayed by your own potential, knowing you were meant for so much more but being held back by forces you can’t control, by circumstances that refuse to let you go.

    I’m angry—angry at the mud, angry at the river for carrying on without me, and most of all, angry at myself for not finding a way to break free. Because I know I was meant to sail, to thrive, to conquer the open waters of life. But instead, I’m left here to decay, to watch the world pass me by while I waste away in this stagnant, suffocating bog.

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  • A postcard with a real breeze

    A postcard with a real breeze

    Candy-colored homes,
    Softly leaning toward the sea,
    Memories linger.

    Tenby South Beach

    Tenby. Charming? Yes. Confusing? Also, yes. Imagine, if you will, a seaside town that’s part postcard, part labyrinth. Pastel houses, almost edible. Like candy. But taller.

    Wander. That’s the word. Wander through streets where every turn leads to something… unexpected. A fisherman’s cottage here, a mediaeval wall there. And did someone say castle? Oh yes, that too. Perched on a rock, casually guarding the coastline, as if to say, “Oh, this old thing? Just a relic from another era.”

    Beaches—plural, of course. They couldn’t just have one. North Beach, with its perfect arc. South Beach, more of a rebel, stretching out like it owns the place. Sand? Golden. Water? Blue enough to make you question reality. And the island! You can walk to it. St. Catherine’s, with a fort that’s seen better days. But who hasn’t?

    Ice cream. You’ll need it. Flavours you didn’t know existed, like “mango fruit ice” that tastes suspiciously like happiness. Don’t ask why, just go with it. And fish and chips. Obviously. Somewhere, a seagull plots to steal them. You’ve been warned.

    Shops. Cute ones. With things you don’t need but will buy. A pirate hat? Sure. A painted rock? Why not? Everything smells like saltwater and sunscreen. Or is that just nostalgia?

    Boat trip? Absolutely. Choppy seas, a mysterious island where  monks create perfumes from the furze bushes, and seals that pop up like they’re in on some joke you’ll never understand. Laugh anyway. It’s contagious.

    Tenby. Tiny streets, larger-than-life personality. Just when you think you’ve figured it out—bam! A secret garden or a pub that’s been there since forever. You’re not lost, you’re discovering.

    And then, there’s the sky at sunset. All fiery and dramatic, as if Tenby needed more character. You could watch it forever—or at least until your ice cream melts. Decisions, decisions.

    Leave? Eventually. But not without wondering if it was all real. Or just a very detailed, very enjoyable dream.

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  • Beyond the White Veil

    Beyond the White Veil

    The author tapped their pen against the worn notebook, frowning at the blank page. Outside, the hills of west Wales slumbered in an afternoon lull. They were supposed to be writing about wild hills, about the way the mist rolled in, swallowing everything whole. But the words wouldn’t come. Was it because the real hills outside looked so tame, bathed in a weak spring sunshine? Or was it because the very idea of writing about the wildness, the untamed nature of the world, felt utterly inauthentic?

    Preseli Hills, Pembrokeshire, Wales

    Pen searches for truth,
    Wild landscape in the mind blooms,
    More real than the mist.

    Anthony

    In the fictional world they were trying to build, the mist rolled in with a purpose, a living entity driven by some unknown force. It wasn’t the kind of mist that rolled in most afternoons, shrouding the valleys in a milky haze. This mist was hungry, it devoured the landscape whole, leaving only the skeletal outlines of trees and the ghosts of forgotten ruins.

    But here, in the real world, the mist ambled in, a lazy afterthought of a sea breeze. It did little more than dampen the enthusiasm of the ramblers, forcing them to pull on their waterproofs a little earlier. The author sighed. How could they write about a mist that devoured the world when the most dangerous thing the real mist devoured was a tourist’s picnic plans?

    An idea flickered. What if the wildness wasn’t in the mist itself, but in the way it exposed the wildness within the characters it touched? The author started to write. The first line came easily: “The mist rolled in, uninvited, as it always did.”  This time, the mist wasn’t a malevolent force, but a catalyst. It seeped into the cracks of their lives, revealing the buried anxieties, the unspoken desires. The characters, a young couple on a weekend retreat, found themselves arguing over neglected chores and unspoken resentments, their petty squabbles echoing in the muffled landscape.

    The author smiled. The wildness wasn’t in the mist, but in the way it held up a mirror to the human heart. And perhaps, that was a wilder thing after all.

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  • Ridin’ High

    Ridin’ High

    The sun beat down on me back hot as a blacksmith’s furnace, but I didn’t care a jot. Not today. Today, my legs pumped like pistons, pushin’ that brand new two-wheeler down the dusty lane. My brand new bicycle! It gleamed like a blackbird’s wing in the afternoon light, the handlebars all shiny and the red paint still smellin’ fresh.

    The Old Family

    Da had surprised me with it just that mornin’. Said it was time I had a proper way to get about, seein’ as I was turnin’ twelve come Michaelmas. Now, twelve might not seem like much to some folk in them grand city places, but out here on the farm, it meant you were practically a man already.

    Our cottage, well, it ain’t much to look at in this picture, is it? Patchwork of tin on the roof, holdin’ back the worst of the rain. We don’t got much, Ma says, but what we do have, we make do with. There’s Ma, of course, lookin’ a bit worn ’round the edges these days. Look after five of us, she does, what with Da away workin’ on the big estate most days. And Auntie Gwen, blind in one eye but seeing more than most with the other, her sharp wit keeping us all in line.

    And there’s Gran, lookin’ stern as ever in the picture. Don’t let that fool ya, though. She’s got the softest spot for all of us, especially little Lily there in the middle. My sister, always got her nose in a book. On the other side of me is Elsie, me other sister – tougher than a badger that one, always bossin’ us about.

    But today, none of them mattered. Today, it was just me and this magnificent machine. I whizzed past the chickens scatterin’ like feathers in a gale, then down by the sheep field, pretendin’ I was a knight chargin’ into battle. The wind nearly took my hat, and I could almost taste freedom on my tongue.

    This bicycle wasn’t just some toy, mind you. It was a lifeline. Now I could help Da collect the eggs quicker, maybe even get into town on market days to sell some of Ma’s jams. It was a chance to earn my keep, to be a proper part of this family.

    As the sun begun to set, I looked back at the day and I knew this bicycle was more than just metal and wheels. It was a promise. A promise of a brighter future, of adventures waitin’ just around the bend. And with a wide grin, I pedalled on, my heart light as a feather.

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  • Finding Clarity in the Mist

    Finding Clarity in the Mist

    Mist veils the pathway,
    Through shadows and uncertainty,
    We walk with purpose.

    Anthony
    What Lies Ahead

    As you stand at the entrance of that narrow path, shrouded in mist, each step forward feels like a leap into the unknown. The trees, towering like guardians, whisper ancient secrets as their branches reach out, creating a canopy that obscures the sky above. The long grass brushes against your legs, concealing the ground beneath, reminding you of the uncertainties that lie ahead.

    In this monochromatic world, devoid of color, every shadow holds a mystery, every rustle a potential revelation. As you venture deeper into the mist, the path ahead seems to both beckon and challenge, drawing you onward with the promise of discovery while testing your resolve with its ambiguity.

    Just as in life, this journey through the unknown is not without its obstacles. The uneven ground beneath your feet reminds you of the unpredictability of the terrain ahead, while the twisting branches of the trees force you to navigate through their maze-like embrace. Yet, with each obstacle overcome, you grow stronger, more resilient, and more prepared to face whatever lies ahead.

    As the mist envelops you, obscuring the path behind and the destination ahead, you realize that this journey is not about reaching a specific endpoint but rather about embracing the experience of exploration and growth. Just as the path disappears into the mist, so too does the future remain veiled in uncertainty, waiting for you to step forward and carve your own path through the unknown.

    And so, with each step forward, you embrace the journey, knowing that while the destination may remain elusive, the beauty and richness of the experience lie in the journey itself. For it is in the midst of uncertainty that we truly discover who we are and what we are capable of, finding strength in the face of adversity and wisdom in the embrace of the unknown.

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  • Nature’s Whisper Amidst Ruins

    Nature’s Whisper Amidst Ruins

    “In the crevices of despair, nature composes a ballad of renewal, each leaf a lyric in the unwritten song of life’s enduring melody.”

    Anthony
    Took this photo in the Welsh hills. I love how nature reclaims man’s constructions.
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    In the gloomy recesses of our fractured existence, where the shadows of despair lengthen and the echoes of discord reverberate, there exists a profound truth—nature, that eternal force, ceaselessly endeavours to reclaim dominion over the desolation we’ve wrought. Through the fractures and crevices of our broken world, it weaves its resilient tendrils, a manifestation of the indomitable spirit of life.

    Oh, the lamentable tale of our folly, where progress has become the architect of its own undoing. The ceaseless march of industry, the relentless pursuit of mastery over the elements, has left our once-vibrant world battered and bruised. Yet, in the midst of this man-made labyrinth, nature persists, an undaunted force that refuses to be silenced.

    Behold the tenacity of the weed, that humble interloper pushing through the unforgiving concrete. A symbol of defiance against the cold hand of human order. Through the cracks in the pavement, nature extends a green rebellion, reclaiming its birthright inch by persistent inch. It is as if the earth itself, wearied by our excesses, whispers a quiet protest, reminding us that it, too, has a voice—a voice echoing through the crevices of our misguided endeavours.

    In the murk of our industrialization, nature’s resilience becomes a beacon of hope, a reminder that despite our ceaseless march towards progress, there exists a sublime balance we dare not disrupt. The wind through the shattered windows, the wildflowers in the neglected corners, each a chorus singing the hymn of an untamed world seeking to endure.

    And so, as we stand amidst the ruins of our own creation, let us not forget that nature, in its quiet rebellion, persists—a testimony to a world that always finds a way to push back against the encroaching darkness, through the cracks and crevices of our broken existence.

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