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The Swellies

THE BRIDGE

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read1.5K views

Where the Menai Straits are at their narrowest,

between two bluffs, Thomas Telford chose to build

his one span suspension bridge, high enough

for tall ships to pass. The two towers,

exposed to the tides, were built of limestone blocks

from the Penmon quarries on the coast

north of here. Caernavon Castle had been built

from Penmon stone – and blocks were shipped to Dublin

to line the Liffey with wharfs and quays.

 

Telford, the ‘Colossus of Roads’, was reared

in penury – a stone mason by trade,

a self-taught engineer, begetter of

the A5 coaching road, erstwhile Watling Street;

the London-Holyhead trunk from Marble Arch

to Admiralty Arch by the Irish Sea.

 

Built a generation later, a mile south

and within sight, is Stephenson’s railway bridge.

Two British industrial colossi

so close in space and time! So much investment,

ingenuity, innovation, to keep

the Catholic colonies of Ireland,

those reserves of navvies and wheat, in thrall!

 

Between the bridges are The Swellies

around Fish Trap Island – Ynys Gorad Goch –

whirling at high tide, lake calm at low water.

The Druids, deemed Rome’s enemies, were hunted.

They crossed here in coracles, felt safe at last

on Ynys Môn, Mam Cymru.  They watched the soldiers

swim like dogs across the sacred waters.

Rome’s mercenaries ran them down like boar,

skewering them among the flowering gorse.

 

 

 

 

A PARABLE

Ynys Goredd Goch, Menai Straits © Sylvia Selzer 2008

 

For Caroline Reeves

 

We pulled into the lay-by above the straits

so that our friend could see the view: Telford’s

iconic suspension bridge, beyond

the Carnedd Range and, below us, Ynys

Goredd Goch, Red Weir Island – a house,

out-buildings, disused fish trap, slipway –

surrounded by The Swellies, tidal whirlpools

and surges driven by the rocks and shoals.

 

A small crowd had gathered in the lay-by.

On the island, there was a smaller group.

Suddenly, there was the dull pulsing

of rotors. A Sea King arrived. Someone

in the crowd said someone in the crowd said

a drowning swimmer had been rescued

by someone on the island – and someone else

said the Sea King’s pilot was the heir to the

heir to the throne. How we do love the stuff

of legend! The swimmer, whoever he was,

was an ignorant fool. The pilot and crew,

whoever they were, were skilled, brave and selfless.

 

 

 

THE SWELLIES, AFON MENAI, ST VALENTINE’S DAY

Lovers are as mariners, navigators

in crowded, intricate sea lanes of

momentary loathing and lasting passion.

Pilots guided vessels into the straits:

from the north, between Trwyn-du’s dark rocks

and the wicked sands of Dutchman Bank;

from the south, between Abermenai

and Fort Belan over the Caernavon Bar;

and then through The Swellies – Pwll Ceris,

‘Pool of Love’ – where the surging high tides whirl

round Ynys Gored Goch, the wild waves

tawny and their foam white as drifting snow.

Lovers are as sailors in insane storms

and intimate calms, ever watchful

for icebergs and mutinies, heading always

to the Hesperides, course set forever

westwards into the sun.