Thursday 31 August 2017

Heather and Gorse

The cliffs are a real picture at the moment. There’s a good autumnal flowering of gorse, and mixed in with the purples of heather and the greens and browns of fading bracken, the limestone is covered with a rich, mellow carpet. This, and the pastel-blue clear sky against the unique pale Gower limestone, is one of the reasons why I live here. I don’t come to the cliffs for birds at this time of the year, just to walk slowly along the paths looking at the commonplace, which never fails to inspire.

There are some common birds about, and stonechats are always a treat to watch. This year’s juveniles are now indistinguishable from their parents, and there seems to be a bird every few yards along my regular walk. It’s the quintessential bird of west coast cliffs, and forever lifts my spirit. An old friend in Cumbria has been studying stonechats for most of his adult life, and has ringed many thousands. Some of our native stonechats migrate to Iberia for the winter, and as an excuse for a winter holiday he visits Spain each year looking for his colour-ringed birds. Of course he’s never found any, but his passion for Spanish wines more than makes up for this.

Robins are taking up their winter territories along the path, their welcome thin song calming the noise of the crashing surf below. Linnets are forming sizable flocks, and rock pipits too are much in evidence. A few of these striking grey pipits will soon begin to take up winter territories in the small coves on the rocky shore, but most will form into flocks, which roam around the coast throughout the winter.


Tuesday 29 August 2017

In Hummingbird Fashion

After heavy dew, the early morning light illuminates hundreds of spiderwebs on the branches and leaves of trees at the back of the Middle Pond at Oxwich. The breeding season is over now, and tit flocks are beginning to form. Years ago I studied the route these flocks took, and could always rely on them passing this point at some time in early morning. At first there are just a couple of birds, but as the flock arrives, they attack the webs with zeal.  There must be upwards of fifty birds darting into the webs in hummingbird fashion, taking both spiders and their prey. It doesn’t last long, and after just a few minutes they’re gone, and silence returns.

There’s a sweet autumnal smell to the air. It’s damp, and I should have worn waterproof shoes. The ground vegetation is already changing to shades of deep wine-coloured reds and dark browns, and the countryside feels mature and rich. As I walk along the sandy path, blackberries, still mostly red, begin to glint as the first rays of the sun cuts through the trees, and I hear the weak winter song of a robin. In a dune slack, tracks of what I assume to be a fox are clear and new in the moist sand, since there have been no dog walkers out so early in the morning.  By the sea wall a lazy red admiral butterfly soaks up the first warmth from the sun, but doesn’t move even when touched.

There’s a promise of a sunny day ahead, when Oxwich will be at it’s best, but these magical moments in early morning will be long gone by the time most visitors arrive.



Sunday 27 August 2017

Ilfracombe

Looking south over the sea from the top of Pwll Du Head, I can make out the reflections of the evening sun on the windows of houses in Ilfracombe some thirty miles away. At this time of year, late evenings overlooking the sea can be magical. The tide’s in, there’s no wind, and it’s flat calm. The sea, patterned with greens and blues, looks like a huge lake, and through binoculars I have a clear view all the way to the Devon coast.

It’s the time of year when seabirds from the Pembrokeshire islands search for food off Gower, and as is usually the case, they’re a good way from the shore this evening.  In groups of ten or twenty at a time, hundreds, maybe thousands, of Manx shearwaters stream westwards towards Skomer and Skokholm. Gannets fish closer in, whilst the local fulmars fly to and fro along the cliffs continually disappearing out of sight for a while under the headland below.

As the sun dips below the horizon, I look south and west to a darkening Lundy Island and it’s lighthouse.  To the south and east the light at Nash Point begins to flash, and another due south, which I must have seen hundreds of time and am still not sure about.


A cool mist forms in the hollows as I make my way back to the car. With clear skies and no wind, there’ll be heavy dew in the morning. Blackbirds scold as they prepare to roost, and robins are the last to go silent before the light fades. Even though it’s dark, there’s still a pale, pastel-blue glow on the western horizon. It’s so good to live by the sea.

Saturday 26 August 2017

Residential Warfare

It was only a little snatch of song that I heard in the garden late this evening, but enough to tell me that autumn is upon us. The first winter notes of a robin, much thinner and softer than the rich and confident declaration we’ve heard for the last few months, really does herald the end of summer. Some say there’s not much difference between the two songs, but with a little practice they’re very easy to tell apart. Robins are a lifesaver for bird song enthusiasts in winter, when the countryside is mostly silent, but what is most intriguing is that both males and females sing. They vigorously defend territories, which are only relinquished in very bad weather, or at the onset of the breeding season in early spring.

Most of this year’s speckled juveniles have now moulted into adult plumage and are indistinguishable for their parents. The adults have, for the most part, completed their annual change of feathers, and so we will soon be awash with perfect robins. They’re still not really showing themselves, but will shortly begin to establish territories, and be one of the most prominent birds in the land.


We generally think of our little robins as residents, but many European robins are long distance travellers. Towards the end of autumn, Scandinavian birds en route for southern Europe, briefly join our local robins. When weather conditions are suitable, big falls can be encountered in the early morning, raising the adrenaline of ringers, and swelling the number of robins in our gardens. They don’t stay long, and soon relative peace returns apart from the sound of residential warfare providing the principal sound of the countryside in winter.

Thursday 24 August 2017

Wildest Place on Gower

I’ve read somewhere that a staggering three quarters of a million people visit Rhosilli each year. Most stay around the car park, admire the spectacular view of the beach, maybe grab an ice cream, and then move on. The more adventurous make the long trek to the top of Rhosilli Down, where the view is equally breathtaking, but the braver ones head for the Crabart and Worm’s Head.

On sunny weekends in August the footpath along the south side of the Inner Worm can be quite busy. The breeding seabirds have gone, most of the flowers are over, and I have the impression that today’s visitors are here for the experience, rather than the wildlife. I engage some in conversation; many have come from overseas, one man from New Zealand saw The Worm on the Internet, and just had to visit. Other’s from nearer home come often, but all marvel at the feeling of wildness and the seascapes.

Decades of visitors and millions of feet have made the rocks leading to the Middle Head treacherous in places; many start the crossing, but turn back after a few minutes. Even those with good stout walking boots find it tricky, and not many get the other side. It can be dangerous here, and each year there are accidents, some even fatal.

The Outer Head is where it’s really wild. I pass the famous blowhole - with only a gentle swell in the bay there’s hardly a hiss. With the breeding season over, the footpath to the top is open. It’s no place for the faint-hearted up here, just a small space to sit, but what a view. I feel detached from the world, it’s exhilarating, and for me, the wildest place on Gower. I look down to the flat sea; gulls, gannets and Manx shearwaters feed in a frenzy of activity, a sure sign there are dolphins about. I don’t find them, but harbour porpoises frequent these waters at all times of year. The tide waits for no man, and I don’t have much time to stay and look; I must get back over the causeway before I’m cut off.


Wednesday 23 August 2017

Buzzing Garden

After what has obviously been a good breeding season, the garden feeders are alive with birds. Young blue tits are everywhere, and after a few years being thin on the ground, the feeders are buzzing with greenfinches. Old faithfuls like magpies, jackdaws, wood pigeons and collared doves are around each day, and a juvenile great-spotted woodpecker drops in from time to time. Nuthatches have deserted me, although I know they’ll be back soon, and the garden robin is keeping out of sight, but the big difference this year is the absence of wrens and dunnocks, which don’t seem to have recovered from last winter’s bad weather. Fewer goldfinches are taking the nijer seeds, and may have temporarily found better pickings in the surrounding countryside during their annual moult. Blackbirds keep mostly out of sight, they too deep in moult, and I haven’t seen a song thrush in the garden for weeks.

House Martins have behaved very differently this year. They really didn’t return in numbers this spring, and the usual group high above the garden in the evening has not properly materialised. They breed right throughout the summer, sometimes bringing off a brood as late as early September, so there’s still time for them to make up lost numbers. By this time juveniles for earlier broods should have swelled the numbers over the cottage, but only a handful entertain us as the evening light fades. There were not many last year also, and I hear of similar happenings elsewhere; I wonder if we’re going to have problems with these wonderful little summer visitors in the future.

Tuesday 22 August 2017

Real Marine Life

Fall Bay is small and sheltered; it requires a good walk along hedgerows and over styles from Middleton to get to the beach. It’s never busy, only those seeking peace come here. It’s mid-morning, and there’s just one couple settling in by the rocks for a day’s sunbathing; there will be more visitors, but in mid-week probably just a handful.

In midsummer, sea breezes often churn up the water offshore, but in sheltered bays like this, the sea can be more or less flat calm. The glass-like sea produces tiny wavelets along the shore, and there’s just a gentle lapping, as the water, almost silent, seems to caress the pristine sand.

As the tide ebbs, the bay expands, and I need to wait to get round the base of Lewes Castle into Mewslade Bay.  The wet sand, looking like a sheet of glass, is untouched by footprints, but will soon be spoiled by the footprints of surfers, which I’m sure will be out of luck today.

Above, the mighty rock that is Lewes Castle dominates both bays. Any herring gulls that may have nested are long gone, but fulmars, which still have young in the nest, glide effortlessly around the top of the cliff. Swifts nest in natural holes here, one of the few known places in the UK, but they too are gone, no doubt well on their way to some unknown African winter destination.

The west-facing wall of Thurba Head always holds a colourful collection of dog whelks. Ranging from white, through grey to green, and even bright yellow, they cling to the vertical rocks amongst barnacles, limpets and periwinkles, waiting for the next high tide. Here is real marine life, which seems to go mostly unnoticed by the visitors to the beach. Many are out of reach, beyond head high, reflecting the rise and fall of the tide in this bay, and will have to wait many hours before the sea allows them to venture away from their fixed positions.  

Monday 21 August 2017

The Graveyard of Ambition

I remember speaking to a Dutch tourist on the cliffs many years ago, who marvelled at how such a beautiful place could have survived so unspoiled so close to a large city. “This would never have happened in Holland,” he said. At the time, although I couldn’t disagree, I didn’t give his comment much thought. Over the years, I’ve often thought about his remark, and I suppose he would probably be even more impressed now. To the untrained eye, even though there are more tourists in the summer months, Gower has remained basically the same. The cliffs and beaches are still spectacular, and the hinterland remains a haven of peaceful green fields and commons. However this splendid idol is deceptive. In spite of the protection provided from its status as an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, the effects of farming practices, general consumption and carbon emissions in the wider world, have all taken their toll. On a landscape scale it’s still very beautiful here, and there have been no significant developments to spoil the magnificent views, but looking deeper reveals a different story. The biodiversity of both plants and animals is significantly reduced, and the overall biomass has declined. Birds and butterflies are probably the most obvious, with farmland birds the clearest example. This is a creeping universal problem, and easily hidden as each generation becomes unaware of the relative wildlife riches of its predecessor.


In spite of all this, I still pinch myself each time I stand on the cliffs, and find it difficult to believe that I’m lucky enough to live in such a wonderful place, which is aptly called ‘The Graveyard of Ambition’.

Sunday 20 August 2017

Murmurings

Juvenile starlings are acquiring their winter breast spots already, and adults are beginning to loose their summer sheen. It’s a good time to visit Oxwich Marsh in the evening to watch the breathtaking gyrations of starlings before they settle into their roost in the reeds. Activity above the reed bed begins well before dark, with birds flying in from all directions, but the best time to be here is in the twilight, when hundreds gather above the marsh. Decades ago they gathered here in a flock, which at its peak, numbered many thousands. Although much reduced in numbers now, they still make an impressive sight, as a predictable sparrowhawk appears from nowhere. I don’t know if I witnessed a kill, but the incredible evasive manoeuvres of the flock pursued by the hawk are awe-inspiring. As the light fails the flock gradually breaks up, drops quickly from the sky into the reeds, and is suddenly gone, followed by a noisy murmuring, which lingers on well after dark.

I recall my years of ringing in this marsh, and the trepidation I felt at this time of year when putting up mist nets at dawn. On unlucky days, the nets would fill with hundreds of starlings leaving the roost, ruining my chances of a good catch of migrating warblers for the morning. On luckier mornings I would catch swallows doing the same thing.

Saturday 19 August 2017

There's Sill Time

For several years now, about 25 of the most prestigious wildlife conservation organisations in the UK have publish a seminal document entitled ‘State of Nature’.  Each year the report brings more bad news, and as usual, this year's report made sober reading, and its message was again clear. Since the industrial revolution we’ve decimated our wildlife, and the situation is now critical. The report catalogued the decline of pretty well all types of wildlife, and provided accurate figures of the extent of the losses. There have been a few successes such as the programme of introduction of the red kite, and the way in which otters have recovered as a result of cleaner rivers. But the overall picture is of catastrophic decline.

The report had a section devoted to each country of the UK, and I read that Wales had fared worst of all. I’m reminded of this on my local path this morning where, in warm sunshine, I find just three butterflies in half an hour. With such a diversity of wildlife habitat, we should have fared better on Gower, but I know this is not the case. It’s not difficult to remember the rich wildlife we had here four decades ago, and to realise that Gower has followed the national trend.

Superficially everything looks fine; there are flowers and insects, and birds continue to sing, but anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of the countryside can see that all is not well. The problem is perhaps most notable on our commons. Years ago the skies were full of skylarks and meadow pipits, there were reed buntings, stonechats and always kestrels. It’s not like this any more. It’s the same at Oxwich Marsh, and most Gower woodlands are much quieter these days.


We mustn’t despair, it's still possible to turn things around, but time is running out. Our generation let this happen, we must teach our children to put things right. 

Friday 18 August 2017

Plum Reed Aphids

It’s not only the more conspicuous birds such as waders that are on the move, the smaller ones are busy moving south as well, but they’re much more difficult to see, and one of the best way to find them is to get out the mist nets and go ringing in a reed bed.

Early this morning I joined a group of local of ringers. The weather was right, clear overhead last evening, with cloud moving in before dawn. Many small migrants navigate by the stars, and when blotted out by clouds, tend to ‘fall’ into the nearest reed bed. The results can be dramatic, and in the past I’ve experienced huge falls of sedge warblers at Oxwich Marsh. Today’s catch was reasonable, and with only six nets, we caught in excess of 80 birds. Apart from the usual residents, they were mostly sedge warblers, with a variety of other migrants such as reed warblers, whitethroats, blackcaps, willow warblers and a single lesser whitethroat.

The autumn migration strategy of sedge warblers is particularly impressive. In order to get across the Sahara they store up energy for the journey in a remarkable way. Plum-reed aphids provide the fuel, and they find these on the underside of phragmites leaves in reed beds, paricularly  on the south coast of England and in northern France. Here they gorge on these insects, and can sometimes double their weight in a matter of days. Once ready, and when the weather is right, they set off and do the trip in one hop - an extraordinary feat for a small bird normally weighing only about ten grams! Reed Warblers have a different strategy; they too use plum reed aphids as fuel, but fatten up less, hopping from reed bed to reed bed through Europe before the final leg across the Sahara.

None of our sedge or reed warblers today weighed anything like this, but some showed signs of subcutaneous fat deposits under their wings, a sure sign they were on the move.


Thursday 17 August 2017

Gower AONB Centre

I leave Oxwich Marsh after an early morning’s bird watching as the stream of traffic heads for the car park. It’s not yet 9 am, but the road is already busy with cars, many towing boats, campervans and the like.

In good years up to a quarter of a million people use the car park. From 1973, and for about 25 years, the Nature Conservancy, and then the Countryside Council for Wales, operated a visitor and education centre in the car park. Parties of local schoolchildren used the centre and the marsh to learn about nature. Expertly taught by a resident teacher, this wonderful experience is now a thing of the past. The lease could not be renewed, the building was demolished, and there’s now no trace of the centre. There are still school nature trips, but apart from The Gower Heritage Centre at Parkmill, which is a commercial operation, there is no centre on Gower dedicated to learning about the natural world. 

More remarkable is the fact that there is no official AONB Centre on Gower. There is some tourist and wildlife information offered by The National Trust at Worm’s Head, and there are the usual leaflets at other points here and there. Tourism is booming on Gower, particularly in summer, and visitor numbers increase every year. Surely it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility for the various bodies such as The National Trust, Natural Resources Wales, The Wildlife Trust and Swansea City Council, which between them hold large areas of land, to collaborate and provide a Gower AONB Centre. Other AONB’s have them, why not here?

Tuesday 15 August 2017

Dormice

Apart from the substantial commons and some lovely woodlands most of inland Gower is more or less an agricultural desert, however it’s not as bad as other parts of the UK. Ignoring the vast fields near Pitton, thankfully we don’t have anything that resembles a prairie. But not all of inland Gower is devoid of wildlife, and there are some places that I’m drawn back to.

I cross the style by the side of the road, and head for Berry Wood, just south of Stouthall. The Lucas family probably farmed here when the hall was built in the mid-eighteenth century, and the land feels old, and I can sense the history of the place. Dutch Elm Disease killed most Gower elms years ago, and an earth bank is all that’s left of a line of them, which resisted for several years. It’s the spot where I could usually count on finding a little owl perched on an old elm. Hedges are few, and field boundaries are indistinct, and continued grazing has ensured that the land has remained rough, in contrast to the surrounding arable fields.

From the bank I look towards Berry Wood, an ancient, coppiced, mixed woodland, owned by the Wildlife Trust. it’s rich and dense, with leaves starting to change to an autumnal green colour. In the canopy, some brownish tints remind me that winter won’t be long now. No car park, and difficulty of access, makes the wood a specially secluded place. There is a path through, but it’s wet underfoot in places, and leads only to the village of Scurlage. The wood is one of the very few places around here where dormice might be seen.  They’ve recently been found again on Gower, and may still be in the wood, and boxes have been put up for them - we keep our fingers crossed.



Sunday 13 August 2017

Folly?

The first couple of week in August is the time when we get most visitors to Gower. It’s weekend, and heading west along the South Gower Road, I get stuck in traffic at the turn-off to down to Oxwich. Although it’s not yet mid-morning, I’ve hit the queue for the car park on the beach. Once free, I head away from the coast, seeking seclusion in Gelli Hir wood.

It’s a quiet off the beaten track sort of place, there’s room at the entrance for me to park, and I would be surprised if I met another soul in the wood. The partly ancient woodland is one of several owned by the Wildlife Trust, and dates back to the 16th century. Gelli Hir, meaning Long Grove, is a mixed, wildlife-rich, broadleaf wood, tucked away in a shallow valley on the north side of Fairwood Common. The remains of the old shooting grove are still here, and play a vital role in maintaining its variety of wildlife. In winter the woodland paths can be very wet, but on a bright, sunny August day, they’re bone dry.

The late morning sun lights up the grove, enticing butterflies to take to the wing. Speckled woods tumble in the air, competing for sunny glades, and there are tortoiseshells, commas and many large whites. But it’s the silver-washed fritillaries I’m really looking for. They’re not easy to find, but I know a couple of massive trees where I sometimes get lucky.  A favourite tree where I could guarantee this wonderful butterfly was felled years ago, the wood used to improve the footpath. Folly maybe, but it did at least open a new sunny glade. There are no fritillaries in the glade, but I find them high in the canopy, moving about quickly and rarely settling. By the path a thistle attracts another, settling with time enough to see the silver streaks and delicate lime green on the under wing.

The pond in the middle of the wood is getting overgrown again, it’s such a labour-intensive job keeping it clear, but well worth the effort. There are good numbers of dragonflies again today, so many blue-tailed damselflies, a few wonderful common darters, and a single male southern hawker.  

I leave the wood as I came, alone, but with my senses back in order.



Saturday 12 August 2017

Playful Cubs

I like to enjoy the last hour or so of daylight walking through the woods behind our cottage, and ending up on the beach in the twilight.  The damp air is sweet, and nature’s smells are more intense, as I carefully tread my way along the narrow footpaths hoping for a few minutes alone with badgers.  The vibrancy of summer has gone, and the dampness and decay of autumn has produced an abundance of mosses, liverworts and lichens, which live as epiphytes on the bark of trees.  Beautiful and much smaller lichens and fungi make up a subtle mosaic on the woodland floor.

Few birds stir, just blackbirds disturb the silence with their roosting alarm calls, and wrens scald in the undergrowth.  I know that on the way back in the darkness, I’ll hear invisible tawny owls, and maybe a fox or two, but for the moment I make for the badger sett just above the beach and wait.  There’s no point in looking for badgers with the wind towards them, but the night is still, and from this favourite spot, I’m confident.  As always they emerge very slowly, nervously sniffing the evening air.  In the fading light I make out at least six, four fully grown and two playful cubs.  They rarely stay long at the entrance to the sett, and are gone after a few minutes.  I’m more than happy with my secret encounter with a truly wild animal, which makes the slog back up the hill past the tawny owls much easier to handle.

Thursday 10 August 2017

Seven Slades

It takes time and effort to get to Seven Slades, there’s a beach here, but only when the tide’s out. I’ve had to walk down the lane from Pyle Corner, and then west along the cliff path towards Pwll Du Bay, in places scrambling over feet-worn slippery rocks. Even at the height of summer the beach is rarely used, and most visitors to Gower would probably find it by accident walking along the coastal footpath, but even then, the way down to the beach is not easy to find.

I’m on untouched golden sand, with not a soul about, and it’s hard to imagine a more idyllic spot. Offshore on the hazy blue sea, yachts head west. Some are sailing the short distance from the marina to anchor in Pwll Du Bay for the day, others further out, and with spinnakers aloft, are more serious, heading to west Gower, and perhaps beyond.

I’m always intrigued by the way the same birds turn up in the same places. Pied wagtails invariably use this little beach, and today a family party races after flies, as do rock pipits, which will have nested in the splash zone above the beach.

Back on the footpath there are good numbers of butterflies. The small blue is not a common butterfly, but there’s usually a colony here, and in the warm late morning, a couple flit among the stones by the path, landing on birds foot trefoil. There are also brown argus, common blues and a single bedraggled dingy skipper. Meadow browns are numerous, but a stunningly beautiful red admiral takes my breath away. 


Engulfed by nature, I sit in a favourite hollow on the soft summer turf above the breakers, lean back against the rocks and look out to sea. I should have noted the wonderful plants along the way, but I’ve simply come to enjoy the place, and rejoice once more that I live in such a wonderful part of the world.

Tuesday 8 August 2017

Twins

At this time of year some juvenile blue, great and coal tits still have yellow faces, and are easily told apart from adults; they’re noisy, and some are probably still attached to their parents.  Marsh and willow tits are not so easy to tell apart, and it was the ‘petuw, petuw, petuw’ call that gave away the young marsh tit amongst the flock in the valley this morning. They’re less common nowadays, but I can sometimes find them in deciduous woods, and they’re still visitors to garden feeders, but alas not mine. Willow tits on the other hand are much more elusive, and I haven’t seen one for a long time, and I fear that they may be almost extinct on Gower.

The origin of bird names is intriguing, but these twins are particularly confusing. Marsh tits should be associated with marshes, and willow tits with willows, but it’s not that simple. The former is generally found in woodlands and not marshes, whereas willow tits, although often found in willow thickets, normally live in marshy places. There must be an explanation. Marsh and willow tits were originally considered one species, and only separated just over 100 years ago.

Sunday 6 August 2017

Brief Encounter

There’s something slightly unsettling about the gaze of a grey seal. Bulls look stern, females appear softer, but both give the impression of being inquisitive. I can encounter them anywhere along the south coast of Gower at anytime of the year. They’re not very common at the eastern end of the peninsula, but at Worms Head, I can almost always find them.

It feels remote on the narrow footpath just above the rocky shore west of Bacon Hole, and I’ve never met anyone else down here. Below the path there’s a small rocky overhang, which I use for shelter on wet and windy days. It’s also a good place to sit, look out to sea and watch wildlife. Two rather sorrowful-looking dark black eyes stare up at me. She’s only a short distance offshore, and we gaze at each other for a couple of minutes. She looks confident in her marine environment, and not at all bothered by this alien creature looking down at her from the shore. I feel a strong empathy towards this beautiful creature from a different world, and wonder what she’s thinking. As if bored with our brief encounter, she slides gracefully beneath the sea and disappears.

Saturday 5 August 2017

Lifeboats

The route of the old Mumbles Railway from Swansea to Oystermouth has long been paved over, and is now very popular with walkers, joggers, cyclists and roller skaters. At County Hall, the path is open to the elements, with just a line of mature pine trees slightly hiding the massive structure of the building.  It’s early morning, there’s little wind, and high tide is about an hour away. The inshore sea glitters, merging into a bright haze on the distant horizon.

By the University, woodland and sand dunes obscure the view of the sea, which reappears again near to Blackpill. At this time of day, no children use the paddling pool, but as the sun warms, it will be overflowing with young families enjoying the water, sun and ice cream.

At high water, Blackpill is the place where wading birds congregate; the rising tide pushes them from the vast mudflats in towards the shore at this point. At this time of year, Swansea Bay is a stopover on their autumn migration, but in the glaring light, I can make out just silhouettes in the haze.

Ten minutes more and I’m in Mumbles. Early morning risers pop quickly in and out of the few shops that are open. There’s a real bustle to the place. Shopkeepers prepare for the day, delivery vans empty goods, and the city’s litter pickers are hard at work making the place spick and span for the day’s holidaymakers.

At Oystermouth the first Gower Coast Adventures boat trip of the day prepares to leave the jetty, bound for the south coast and Worm’s Head. The dozen tightly packed passengers, wearing identical life jackets look excited, and on a day like this should have a great trip.

Beyond Nab Rock and the lines of parked yachts, I sit on a bench above the boat slip and realise I’ve walked half a circle, County Hall is now directly opposite, and it’s taken me the best part of an hour.

At the end of the old pier, the new lifeboat house is finished. It took a long time to complete and replaced the traditional one, now too small for the latest vessel. The new lifeboat house is certainly not a thing of beauty, but inside the latest boat is very impressive. I wonder what will happen to the lovely old red and white building, and what they did with the old lifeboat.

Thursday 3 August 2017

All of Gower

It’s not easy to get a view of all of Gower. I can go to several places and see wonderful vistas; from the top of Cefn Bryn, Rhossili Down looking east; Kilboidy looking west to the Worm, and other spots along the south coast.  They all give an incomplete picture.  There are paper maps of course, which provide a sense of what it’s like, and there are now Google Maps, which give fine detail from a photograph from space.

My son Chris recently sent me a quite amazing picture taken from the International Space Station by a Canadian astronaut who, in his spare time, took images of the earth, and posted them on Twitter. Clearly taken during a spell of good weather it is magnificent. Apart from the whole of Gower, it shows the fading vapour trails of planes passing to and from the US, something most of us have only seen from below. I compare the image with Google Maps, and both are amazing. I then think of old fashioned OS maps, which give so much information the others don’t have. All have their advantages, as does the map of Gower in my head, which I still add to each day.


Tuesday 1 August 2017

Summer Gale

Even in summer we sometimes get gales and The Worm can be stormy. Overnight the weather changed from benign to blustery and it’s now downright wild. Rhosilli is at its best in a gale. It’s mild, overhead clouds shoot across the sky, the sun comes in and out in a flash, and the wind howls from the west. From the remains of the old lookout post west of the village I look down the spine of The Worm. It’s high tide and the chaotic sea boils with white surf. Spray, reaching the top of the north face of the Outer Head, is blown back towards the bay; it’s simply awe-inspiring. The sky finally clears, late evening sun puts the north side of the Middle Worm into shade, leaving the rest of the great rock glowing in soft golden light. 


It doesn’t take long to walk to the coastguard lookout. The wind picks up a little, but I know the gale is nearly a spent force. The only shelter is on the leeward side of the small building. Others have sought refuge here. A couple of holidaymakers from London hadn’t expected this, but marvel at the spectacle. Earlier, when the tide was low, they’d hoped to cross the causeway and get to the top of The Worm, but wisely thought better of it. They’re here for another week, and by the morning the gale will be history, and they’ll have no problem getting over. But even though the gale will be gone, their moments at the top will be special; it takes time for the sea to calm after a big blow like this.