Welsh Journals

This cottage was not in Porthdinllaen itself, but by the Bwlch. It and one or two others formed one block, joined at the end to a tall, narrow house. On the right, miles of coastline sweep outwards to the peaks of the Rivals; on the left, the curve of the bay ends in Porthdinllaen (Point. These buildings were isolated on the wide expanse of empty beach, all built out, in the proper Porthdinllaen fashion, on one stone plat- form below the wall of cliff. The lucky inhab- itants seemed, at least to a child, to be living not so much by, as in, the sea. At high tide the waves beat literally at our door and at low water the whole block looked stranded like a ship aground against a quay. But it was the tall grey house beyond our cottage that most impressed itself on the imagina- tion. I should be sorry to return now and find it less tall, less austere, and less unusual than mem- ory has made it. Not that it was particularly old. Probably it was really built at about the same time as the "Whitehall," and was part of the same speculation, perhaps another large inn, also erected for the custom that never came. But that house was so tall, so narrow, that it seemed more like a tower than a house, with win- dows set high up in the blank, grey walls. I have a confused, vivid, and possibly quite inac- curate recollection of playing there in a large half- furnished room which took up the whole of an upper floor, and into which the stairs led direct- a queer room, with a four-poster somewhere UNDER the starry night, Out in the silver weather, Wrapped in their sheep-skins white Shepherd-folk together Telling tales of olden times And, while the clear moon climbs, Hours pass like crystal chimes, Talking together. Sudden beating of soft wings (Michael, Raphael, Uriel) Through the blue night that sings, Angel and Archangel, Bringing tidings strange to them "Peace and good-will to men Turn unto Bethlehem," Gently spoke Gabriel. NATIVITY (A CAROL). in the background. From the window of that room, on a day of high tide and high north wind, one looked out, not on the wave breaking immed- iately below, but on to a succession of dark blue rollers, as one might look out at them from the stern window of a high painted Spanish galleon. So now, from the magic casement of memory, I look back at the forlorn little port that missed its destiny. But since those days even Porthdinllaen has changed a little. There is, luckily, little space for new buildings, but an empty wing of the "White- hall" has been patched up and turned into some kind of holiday home. A few cars make their way now along the shore. Some of the other cottages are inhabited, at least in summer, not by the old fisher folk, but by people who have smartened them up with bright paint and gay window curtains--excellent things in their way. But strangers do not understand that Porthdin- llaen died long ago, and ought not to be brought back into the world of to-day. Nor do they suc- ceed in restoring more than a brief illusion of life. When the visitors have departed with the swal- lows, Porthdinllaen relapses again into the ancient peace of a backwater where a few old sailors mend their nets and talk of old voyages and old ships. [The writer wishes to acknowledge her indebt- edness to Mr. David Thomas for the loan of several of the documents quoted in this article.] Leaving their drowsy flocks, Straightway they turn and run Over the shadowy rocks, Swiftly seeking-÷every one Warm in the straw's embrace, Child of the winsome face, "Hail Mary full of grace, We worship thy Son From the dim Caspian shore, Moving from well to well (Caspar, Balthasar, Melchior) With lutany and camel-bell. Hear Mary sigh and sing See her Baby smile and stir Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh Treasures for the King. A. G. PRYS-JCNES.