A while back, in my hometown of Halifax, Nova Scotia, I found myself in conversation with a Welshman about the Gower Peninsula in the southwest region of his home country.

“Where are you staying while you are there?” he enquired.

“My wife Linda and I have a house rented in Mumbles,” I answered.

He lifted an eyebrow and immediately responded, “Oh, well. If you don’t have a good time in Mumbles, it will be your own fault.”

I was a little surprised by the response and asked him about it. I understood that he meant to imply that this seaside suburb of Swansea was a party town of some sort, but I was greedy for more details.

At that point, my new acquaintance from across the pond gave a sly smile and chuckled and said he preferred not to elaborate.

And thus was my mysterious introduction to the town of Mumbles, or Mwmbwls in Welsh. The truth is, Linda and I were more interested in the remote beaches and headlands of the Gower than the town itself, but, due to the man’s unusual phrasing, I kept thinking about what he said, and my curiosity grew. It implied that it would be downright difficult to not have fun there. Thus, I envisioned someone travelling there, a particularly cranky curmudgeon perhaps whose goal was just that – a determined effort to be unhappy walking along Mumbles Road or Plunch Lane just to spite the place. It was an amusing mental picture.

When the day dawned for us to arrive at our destination, we drove to the coast from the interior by way of Cockett and Sketty to Swansea Bay, before following Mumbles Road down through Black Pill and West Cross. In downtown Mumbles, we took a right hand turn on Newton Road towards our rental apartment whose entrance was on a grass-covered, narrow, pot-holed back lane. My first impression of the town was that it was bigger than I expected, a smallish city really, with crowds of pedestrian shoppers elbowing each other down narrow sidewalks in the rain. There were not a lot of smiling faces, but then the weather was quite lousy, and inflation had probably dampened spirits.

Now, most travellers finding their way to Mumbles wonder where the name comes from and if it has anything to do with the way the locals speak. To the latter, I can safely say, it does not. As to the origin of the name, most authorities will tell you that it comes from the French word for breasts – mamelles – and refers to two small islands just off the shore here. It is said that visiting French sailors long ago claimed these islands reminded them of that part of the female anatomy. My first impression of those islands was certainly nothing of the sort, but perhaps those early continental sailors had spent considerable time at sea and were relying on imagination rather than memory.

I should also note that Mumbles is often referred to as The Mumbles, the article added perhaps because it refers specifically to those two islands.

When I asked around to determine which the locals preferred, one word or two, no one seemed to have an opinion or cared much one way or the other.

Our rental apartment on the back alley was named “Under Milkwood” – and I had a notion this referred to the play by Welsh writer Dylan Thomas. We had often stumbled upon places in Wales and Ireland where Dylan Thomas had spent time lingering, finding inspiration, but mostly drinking. Mumbles was one of those towns. While living in the much larger burg of Swansea, he wrote to his first girlfriend this observation, “Mumbles, a rather nice village, despite its name, right on the edge of the sea.”

The poet had spent some time doing theatrical work at the local theatre here. More time, apparently, was spent imbibing at his two favourite pubs, The Mermaid and The Antelope, both sadly gone. According to Concord Theatricals, Under Milkwood is “an emotive and hilarious account of a spring day in the fictional Welsh seaside village of Llareggub.” In the play there is a reference to the town with the introduction of a drowned (but garrulous) sailor named Alfred Pomeroy Jones who refers to himself as a “sea lawyer, born in Mumbles, sung like a linnet, crowned you with a flagon, tattooed with mermaids, thirst like a dredger, died of blisters.” I’m not quite sure what the quote means, and why our landlord had adopted the play’s name for our home away from home was even more mysterious. It was a modest place, although it boasted an unlikely, enormous, and extravagant bathroom with floors and walls of white marble reminiscent of a well-preserved Roman bathhouse.

After we settled in, we drove the famous “Mumbles Mile” to the lighthouse to catch a gorgeous sunset. There, atop the headland, was a professional photographer taking pictures of a young wedding couple gazing out across the shimmering surface of Bracelet Bay as the winds subsided to a mere whisper.

Arcing past the tip of the headland, Mumbles Road turns into Plunch Lane where Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones (who was raised hereabouts) own a rather fancy estate known as Silverhurst. As Plunch Lane turned into Higher Lane, we motored on to Langland Bay where I hoped to check out the surfing scene. Alas, the sun had set, and the surfers had retreated to the pubs, so we vowed to return in daylight.

We took the cue of darkness to send us in search adventure downtown in Mumbles, which we now knew was reputed to be a raucous social town, a mecca for rowdy drinkers in exile from the more urban Swansea. It occurred to me that Mumbles and the environs was a bit like the Welsh version of the famous Jersey Shore of my own youth. After all, it had beaches, surfing, beer, music, and even its own famous poet – Bruce Springsteen

Back in 2013 WalesOnline christened Mumbles as “the Monaco of Wales” arguing that, “It’s got celebrities, a towering Norman castle, breathtaking sea views, quaint fishermen’s cottages and a clutch of intimate restaurants.” It also had some of the most expensive properties in a seaside community in all the U.K. Alas, if anyone bought into that comparison, they would be rather disappointed to discover the obvious: Mumbles, for all its Victorian charm, looks nothing like the once home of Grace Kelly.

The first stop on our pub crawl was the White Rose on Newton Road. As advertised, it was warm and friendly and claimed to have been so since 1856. Sports on wall-mounted TVs always seem to diminish whatever air of authenticity a pub can muster, but then I have learned from my travels that so often the more “authentic” a pub appears, the more likely it has been remodeled so to appease tourists like me. So, the White Rose can be forgiven. And, to their credit, they have “six well-kept cask ales” on hand and, if you sign up for their newsletter, they will give you a free drink the next time you stop in. Who could ask for more?

There was an old down-and-out looking fella sitting at a table near us with his down-and-out looking dog. The gent was sipping a coffee and trying to make it last as long as humanly possible, so I was glad he and his companion were having a quiet moment in a warm pub in what must otherwise have been a tough life. More kudos to the White Rose.

During our week in Mumbles, we also checked out the Gower Brewery Taproom with a most palatable Oxwhich IPA and various meat pies from a source called Pieminister. Looking at the menu I was also impressed.

Where else in the pub world could you order delights like potato doughnuts as well as kale and parsnip fritters?

But, by far our favourite refreshment establishment was the legendary Pilot Freehouse on the also legendary Mumbles Mile. It too dates to the 1800s and is often associated as being the watering hole for local lifeboatmen who risk their lives at sea. The Pilot prides itself in being home to traditional pub games like bar skittles and something called shove ha’penny, reported to be a game of dexterity and skill involving the shoving of coins across a board.

Linda and I don’t usually do all that well getting to know locals because we tend to keep to ourselves, but The Pilot was a crowded place and we ended up sharing a table with a man I’ll call Carl and his one-eyed pug dog whom I will refer to as Reginald. I’m always pleased to share a table with a polite dog and Reggie was certainly that. He and his master were clearly regulars here and, although Reggie did not order his own pint, he sat politely and quietly enjoying his time at the pub and our companionship while drooling copiously on the coasters.

Carl was Australian by birth but had been living in Wales for a long time and was now retired. He talked at great length about how wonderful Reginald was although he had once been a great scrapper (which might have explained the missing eye) but had settle down in his old age. Anyone could tell that Carl loved that dog more than anything and as he proceeded to give us a detailed history of his adventures with Reggie, we learned that Carl was in fact divorced. He shared custody of the pug with his ex-wife and thus cherished his share of the time with Reggie as the “special times” of his life.

Oddly enough, the following day we ran into Carl and Reginald at the shorefront of Langland Bay where there were indeed some lads catching a few windblown waves surging in from the Atlantic. We sat with the two of them for a bit and caught up on news about Reggie’s indigestion from the evening before and his early rising to head out into the misty morn for a pee. After a bit, Carl took his leave of us to jump into the sea for a swim, a cold dip it would be for him, I wagered, without a wetsuit. But then I’d always known my Australian surf buddies to be tough as nails and more than willing to ignore whatever seasonal adversity they might encounter.

Reggie, of course, kept vigil of Carl, sitting beside us on the bench and greeted by name from all who passed us by.

Of course, our real reason for being in this corner of the UK was to explore every nook and cranny of the magnificent Gower Peninsula. But first we wanted to get a good feel for the town itself, realizing there was much more to it than pubs and men with dog stories.

Linda led me to a bookstore, and I selected what turned out to be a riveting read called Islands of Abandonment by Cal Flyn. This most excellent author wrote about places on earth that humans had ravaged and then vacated including Chernobyl, West Lothian (Scotland), parts of Cyprus, Staten Island, and even Paterson, New Jersey. The story created a sharp contrast to the mostly idyllic forests and shorelines that were mere minutes from downtown Mumbles.

Not far from the bookstore was the famous Oystermouth Castle or Castell Ystum Llwynarth as the Welsh would say. It sits on a hill high above the city and the grounds are a joy to traverse. It too had also been created, ravaged, and ultimately abandoned by those who had lived there. The castle (whose name has nothing to do with oysters) was built by the Normans and dates back to the twelfth century. It changed hands a number of times while seeing the all-too-familiar ravages of warring parties. In a document from the thirteenth century called the Chronicles of the Princes, one can find the following references:

1093: “The French devastated Gower, Kidwelly and the Vale of Tawe; and the countries remained a desert.”

1116: “There was a castle in Gower which Gruffudd, son of Rhys, burned entirely.”

1215: “Lord Rhys, collecting a vast army, advanced on Gower. He made for the castle of Oystermouth, and he camped around it that night. The following day he captured the castle, which with the town, he burned.”

Despite such a catastrophic history, Linda and I found the grounds of Oystermouth Castle quaint, peaceful, and accommodating to us foreigners. Small flowers bloomed amidst the lush green grass, and dogs sniffed at the base of trees.

Soon we’d be off on our road trip to the most distant point of land on the Gower – a daunting snaking finger of land called Worm’s Head. But for now, we had to admit, we had found inspiration, a bit of history, dog stories, good craft beer, and – of course – a fair bit of fun here in Mumbles by the sea. ~ Story By Lesley Choyce

lesleychoyce.com

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