Welsh Journals

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there were no hot rolls and delicate pats of butter to salute you in the mornings no crabs, lobsters, prawns and other delicate fish at dinner no aquatic excursions no regattas or frequent military reviews no balls on board frigates, and dining on board men-of- war no horses, no carriages, no pleasure boats." But as the century wore on, Swansea no longer cared about its decline as a pleasure resort, for although its fame "as a watering place was gradually growing less and less it had prospered in other directions and increasing commerce rendered comparatively unimportant its attractions to visitors." And there was one gain, although the town had become a large, bustling, dirty, gloomy place the accommoda- tion at the Mackworth Arms which had been so criticised in the eighteenth century was very good when Borrow stayed there. As the nineteenth century wore on, the informality of the individual eccentric account was replaced by the stereotyped austerity of the guidebook designed to cater for the new class of tourists who travelled by rail. Only in our present time has the personal account been revived to record once again personal impressions of the places visited. Walter Minchinton. BIBLIOGRAPHY Evans, J. A., Tour through South Wales (1804). Cooke, G. A., Wales. Barber, J. T., A Tour through South Wales (1803). Borrow, G., Wild Wales. Hall, The Book of South Wales. Rees, T. A., Topographical and Historical Description of South Wales. Roscoe, Wanderings in South Wales (1835). Malkin, B., The Scenery, Antiquities and Biographies of South Wales (1804). Murray's Guide. The Cambrian Tourist (1821). AN AFTERNOON WITH CHARLIE PHILLIPS For many years I had watched Charlie Phillips at work for years I had longed to accompany him on one of those routine treks across our little bay. But so much had it seemed his territory that one followed at a respectful distance to try one's amateur skill, occasionally blundering into a crab, more often obliged to make do with the master's leavings. Then, one morning in August of this year, with the embers of youthful fire still flickering in middle age, I chanced upon Charlie in our village. He is seventy-seven, and has spent most of his life in Horton. In 1943 he retired to Swansea, but only partially, for the call of a spring tide brings him back by the early bus. A few hours later he will be on his beat, that rugged expanse of low rock extending from Horton to Oxwich Point, whose every crevice he knows so intimately. I had often watched that silhouetted figure. The walk was easy yet