Sounds of my Swansea Childhood

By Chris O'Malley

Memories of a childhood in Swansea, South Wales. 

Reminisce with the poet Chris O'Malley of days gone by ....the Rag & Bone Man, fishing on the Gower and on the River Tawe, nightlife on Wind Street, Swansea, camping and more.

Take a guided tour of the Gower Peninsula with Chris and marvel at the many beautiful and picturesque bays, from Three Cliffs to the magnificent Rhossili Bay and travel back in time to Port Eynon and Llanmadoc - Welsh villages founded in the 11th Century.

Share his memories of fishing with his beloved older brother Peter. 

Take a morning walk with the ghost of Dylan Thomas and visit his haunts and favourite places.

Laugh along with Chris at The Wedding - a tale of love, laughter, gossip and a lisping vicar.

Take a ride on the Silver 77 Bus with Chris and his friends aged ten as they head towards Limeslade for a day of fishing and rock-pooling.

 

This book of poetry is ensured to awake memories for older Swansea Jacks and amuse and delight those yet to visit this wonderful city that arose from the ashes of the Blitz in WWII

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris O'Malley
• Release date: Sep 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223948117

Chris O'Malley

"Inspired by Dylan Thomas. A lover of all things Welsh and a believer that the written word crosses all boundaries. I feed off culture, nature and my environment and write passionately and from the heart. A lover of nature and a passion for the great outdoors, I'm a fisherman, a country man and an animal lover. I consider myself a free spirit, a wild soul and a druid at heart. I hope my writings and poetry can one day inspire others to put pen to paper."

Book preview

Dylan's Ghost

As I sat and sipped my pint of beer in a dark dingy corner, of a High Street pub. 

My attention was drawn to a curly haired dicky bowed, tweed jacketed man whose hush was louder than the bawdy pub’s hubbub.

This cigarette ashed, dusty shoed man sat crossed-legged and gazed deeply into his pint of beer.

I watched as he took a cigarette, tapped it twice on the side of the pack and put it to his lips and stared back at me and deftly manoeuvred the cigarette to the corner of his mouth like a Chicago racketeer.

He nodded as he sipped his warm Welsh ale and took a long and purposeful drag on his cigarette as the ash tumbled down the front of his jacket, well-loved and worn.

As I watched he began scribbling on the back of the empty Players pack with the stub of a pencil that wouldn’t survive another honing.

As I stood to go to the bar, I  looked back at where the stranger sat, the curly haired stranger was there no more,  but for the written-on cigarette pack.

The smell of his cigarette still hung in the air and the smoke tumbled-like from an old chimney stack.

I looked at the pack he had scribbled upon, and I felt both uneasy and sad.

For the scribbled words meant so much to me they read Milkwood, The Town That Was Mad,

© Chris O’Malley

A Morning Walk With Dylan

Hands deeply pocketed as a stone is kicked to make it dance and skip along the path, only to divert to the edge of the dock where with a plop it sinks, swaying as it sinks and dances its last dance and invisibly it slips away to the deep.

The marina is quiet this time of the morning, before the melange of students, workers, runners and walkers wake to greet the new day.

As I turn up Cambrian Place, the home of ship owners, maritime insurance and the purveyors of coal and grain. I note the slippery and well-oiled cobblestones that carried his venerable feet to Adelaide Street and the Evening Post.

He actually walked these streets and admired the coming’s and going’s of its inhabitants, labelling and listing each accent, word, gate and