nathangrover.com

A Dreamed Wales

Travel Dream Journal, May 2019

In May of 2019 I traveled to Wales with my spouse, Courtney, while under the sway of two poetic influences. The first was an old favorite, The Mabinogion, a collection of Welsh bardic tales full of magic and castles and shapeshifters. I’d recently reread it in preparation for the trip and, really, it was much of what inspired me to go in the first place. While many world myths contain startling transformations and otherworldy encounters and such, The Mabinogion, to me, comes closest to capturing the uncanniness of dreams while also remaining rooted in the geographical specificity of Wales. (For more on The Mabinogion see my review on Goodreads.)

The second influence was the Leeds Surrealist Group, specifically their magazine Phosphor, hyper-specifically Issue 4: “The Oneiric City.” Lately I’d been investigating the international surrealist community and had grown to admire their playfulness, their collective spirit, and their sensitivity to the language of dreams. “The Oneiric City,” in particular, had rekindled my interest in the mythopoetic possibilities of wandering around. (See my review of Phosphor 4.)

So by the time I got to Wales I was hungry to dream. And I wasn’t disappointed. No it wasn’t the Wales of The Mabinogion—though there were one or two vanishing castles (Courtney and I get lost a lot)—but I did often stray into a landscape kissed by a particular oneiric strangeness. These departures were like the first moments of a lucid dream, accompanied by that same conspiratorial swell that comes when I realize I’m at the center of an elaborate fabrication, a narrative procedure designed to reconfigure me on a deep, inaccessible level.

After all, travel and dreaming do share a sibling likeness. Travel, like dreaming, is loaded with imagery. The traveler becomes a ‘sightseer,’ unusually attentive to and affected by imagery. At the same time he’s a stranger who struggles to understand what he sees. He’s more likely to be surprised, confused, awed, or thwarted by the images presented to him.

As dreams are attended by arbitrary narrative certainties, things the dreamer “just knows,” so does the traveler pick up on a smattering of local facts, small details that bloat with oblique significance in the face of his unexpected visions. Often a random fact becomes that heavily encrypted final image of the dream, the mystifyingly specific non sequitur extended by the dream as it turns its back on the dreamer.

These moments of surprise and bathos, of dislocation and superimposed reality—all native to both travel and dreams—are what I’ve tried to pin to the pages of this dream journal.

Now, before you jump on my case: Yes, I know Glastonbury and Haworth aren’t in Wales. But they were part of our trip to and from Wales and so they get to be part of the journal. The order of the entries follows our path through Somerset, northward around the coast of Wales, and into Yorkshire.

Also, I’ve allowed for exaggerations in these entries as long as they are true to the subjective character of the dream. What matters is not how it was but how it seemed. Between these two, dreams draw no distinction.

Nate
San Francisco, 2019

Enter Journal

Glastonbury

The Glastonbury Tor

I’m rushing along a country path, through a shadowy tunnel of dense leafy boughs and enmeshed vines. Here and there, amber sunlight breaks through the foliage and I know something’s about to happen. I’m excited and I don’t want to miss it. Through a breach in the vegetation I see, perched on a high grassy hilltop, a stone tower. People, tiny in the distance, are gathered at the base of the tower. Others are climbing towards it up the impossible angle of the hillside, almost there. I tell C we have to hurry or we’ll miss it. Suddenly I realize how alone we are on this path and I fear we’ve already missed our chance by going the wrong way.

Glastonbury (2)

We find the ‘bug mansion’ but because it’s mixed into a large patch of bushes and brambles it takes us a moment to recognize it. When we do we’re disappointed to discover it’s only a rotting woodpile. We were hoping for something fancier.

Cardiff

In the heart of the building is a windowless chamber where noises from the street enter through the fan duct. The everyday sounds of children playing, of a car passing, of a skateboarder trucking by, are puréed by the fan duct into a low, hypnotic, didgeridoo-like drone that makes the street outside seem like a scary Otherworld.

Cardiff (2)

Castell Coch

We’re in a medieval castle—not a real medieval castle, someone’s idea of a medieval castle. This idea of a castle is, nevertheless, very old. The king’s bedroom is small, with small, precious furniture. The king’s porcelain bath is sized for a large baby.

Blaenavon

Blaenavon Ironworks

The men shouted over the roar of the furnace in a strange, forgotten language. At the most deafening moment, they let the molten iron ooze out onto the dirt floor, where it cast a red, witch-like glow onto their dirt-blackened faces. When it cooled they called it “pigs.”

Crickhowell

A red-faced, wet-mouthed man is trying to speak to me from the bar. I can’t understand what he’s saying but I think he must be talking to me about sports. It occurs to me that maybe he’s drunk, or has mental problems, or both. Either way I’m giving him my politest attention and there’s no escaping him. The girl behind the bar smiles at me knowingly and says, “It’s for charity.”

Brecon Beacons

Pontsticill Reservoir

We’re riding a miniature train past thickets of white-blossomed trees. Cottonseed swirls past the window along with the steam from the engine. In the distance, beneath dark, heavy clouds, is a reservoir. In the middle of the reservoir is what looks like the topmost turret of a tower poking up from the water. It looks very fairytale-like with a pointy hat-shaped roof and a weather vane at the top of it. It must be part of a castle submerged at the bottom of the reservoir. A bridge has been built from the shore out to the tower-top to allow entrance into the castle below the water.

Tenby

We’re in a dank, burned out island fortress. Years ago, this was a zoo. At low tide the monkeys would escape onto a nearby beach and steal whatever colorful items they could from the humans idling in the sun. The monkeys would gather the colorful items together in a pile and guard them until the tide rose again.

Elegug Stacks

The Elegug Stacks

When we finally arrive at the edge of the cliff, we’re met by the sudden outcry of sea birds—as though our arrival has tripped an alarm. In the stormy cove below stands a slender finger of stone bristling all over with raucous sea birds. The stone seems alive and full of misgivings for being forgotten at the edge of the world.

St. Gowan’s Chapel

In the dark of the saint’s hovel we find his holy well, a square hole at the foot of the wall with wet black mud glittering at the bottom of it. A command speaks in my thoughts: “Drink.”

Milford Haven

We’re driving across a bridge over a dry inlet and C says something about this being a “place for boats who don’t know how to swim.” On the hillside on the other side of the inlet, I see a house and a garden and in the garden a skiff has been planted halfway into the ground, prow heavenward, with flowers arranged around it like a gazebo.

Skomer

On an island famous for birds, we’re standing in front of an old rock wall. In the earthen bank at the base of the wall are dozens of dark burrow holes. We can hear the birds peeping deep underground, calling to us.

Skomer (2)

An owl flutters in place in the air, looking down. I realize it’s midday and wonder if I should I be seeing an owl right now. Aren’t they all nocturnal? At this the owl stops fluttering and drops out of sight into the heather below.

St. David’s

The Bishop's Palace

We’re wandering through the ruined Bishop’s palace. In the dark, cold underground chambers we encounter cubic monoliths—they are so enormous we have to skirt around them close to the wall. Up close we realize they’re interpretive displays that explain how the Bishop fell into ruin, but the chambers are so dark that the monoliths are impossible to read.

Newport

The inn is named after an extinct sport. It was like rugby, but the two teams were each entire towns with hundreds of players whose playing field included the two towns and the many miles between them.

Aberystwyth

Along a paltry promenade, in a fierce, beleaguering wind, fly the obscure flags of all the small nations that are trying not to die out.

Portmeirion

We’re wandering around a small, colorful imitation of a Mediterranean village where the only food that is served, we discover, is vanilla ice cream. A television show was once filmed here, called ‘The Prisoner,’ which everyone seems to know, but I’ve never seen it.

Caernafon

On a bench outside a walled city, facing a sunset, the teenage girls are speaking a language I know was once spoken by my ancestors. I listen closely, to see if any of it feels familiar to the older parts of my brain. I recognize only the profanity.

Llanberis

Dolbadarn Castle

We’re walking in a forest, searching for a castle where a prince was imprisoned for 22 years. We can’t find it and I think, It’s right here somewhere. I sense the castle hiding, looking out at me from among the trees.

Trefriw

The old, rattling, mechanical loom is a player piano whose song is a blanket.

Betws-y-Coed

We’re alone in a gloomy forest dripping with rain and pass a gate marked ‘restricted.’ A woman with a cheerful, elfin face comes the other direction. She looks dressed for church and is carrying a beautiful book. She smiles at us as she passes through the gate into the restricted area.

Conwy

We’re lured into a shop by a large, beautiful, pink and white marble. We try to eat it, but find it too sweet. We carry it around with us for a while—it’s completely weightless—but eventually lose interest and throw it away.

Haworth (Brontë Country)

In the center of the trail is a perfectly round hole and in the hole is a brown toad that is crouching completely still. I wonder if the toad is alive or dead—the matte texture of its brown skin makes either of these possible. I consider finding a stick to poke it with, but the idea of the toad either coming suddenly to life or budging limply at the end of a stick disturbs me. I leave the toad where it is, not alive, not dead.

Haworth (Brontë Country) (2)

Top Withens

I have decided to venture out onto a literary landscape. After traveling a long time I find myself at a stone wall crowned with barbed wire. What wonders lie beyond it I can only imagine, but here on my side of the wall there are only sheep and piles of shit everywhere.

(A bit of psychoanalysis on this last dream. It’s clearly about my frustration trying to find a publisher for my first novel.)