Tuesday 31 October 2017

Slade

We have several slides along the coast; Limeslade, Rotherslade, Heatherslade, Mewslade, and a little hamlet called Slade.  The word is fascinating.  It’s old English meaning is a small valley, or a piece of low, flat ground, and its use in these parts seems to signify a little valley sloping down to the sea.  Its use in this context seems to be local, and I can’t find other slades on the west coast of Wales, or at any other coastal site in the UK.  In Internet searches, the word is usually associated with inland farms and villages, and apart from here, there seems to be no connection with the sea.  Pembrokeshire is often referred to as ‘Little England beyond Wales’, a label which also fits Gower.  Many of our villages have English names, and there’s very little Welsh spoken here.  I wonder if our slades date back to the dominance of the English in Gower during Tudor times. 

Slade can’t really be called a village, rather a collection of half a dozen or so dwellings at the top of a narrow valley about a quarter of a mile long leading down to the sea.  It’s a very quiet and secretive place, there’s hardly any sign of life, and it looks like a closely-knit community.  Facing due south, and protected from the ravages of westerly gales, the little valley lush.  Stunted trees, shaped over generations by the wind, line the high ridges on either side, and the woodlands below seem not to have been managed for years.

The track down to the beach is muddy at this time of year and little used. It’s busier during summer months, but even then only locals and keen walking holidaymakers find it.  On sunny autumn days such as this, with frequent heavy showers, there’s nobody here.  At the point where the track meets the raised beach, the sun bursts out from the fast-moving clouds lighting up the sea.  I sit and marvel at the sound of the surf pounding the rocks below.  Even on benign days like this, the power of the sea impresses.  Rollers, originating from way out in the Atlantic, die on the rocks below my feet; they never fail to impress.

I walk east along the shore.  The few fields on the raised beach have been farmed for generations, and look fertile, but I always wonder about fertilisers.  There are few birds about at this time of year, just a few pipits and a small flock of skylarks move amongst the stubble.  Overlooking the fields, limestone cliffs climb upwards towards the sky, their steep faces splashed with yellow gorse and red hawthorn berries peeping out from sheltered hollows.

I could walk for another mile, round the headland into Oxwich Bay, and climb back up to the road leading to Slade.  The journey would be long and slippery, so I turn into the breeze, survive another sharp shower, and head up the deserted lane to the comfort of the car.


Sunday 29 October 2017

Barn Owls

Getting up and being out at daybreak can be rewarded with wonderful views of barn owls quartering through the early morning mist on Fairwood Common. They’re about every day, but it needs that extra effort of getting out of bed early to have a good chance of seeing them. On a morning such as this, their movement is magical. Watching them create  a feeling of beauty and tranquillity is  wonderful, but in reality, is one of life or death. The pair I watch takes what seems an age to make a kill, as one finally dives headlong into the grass, emerging with what could be a vole, and retires to a far-off fence post. The kill is devoured in one gulp, and he’s off again hunting for more, this time out of sight beyond the airport on the other side of the common.

The exact status of the British barn owl population has been disputed in the past, but a massive decline over the last century is not really in doubt. Mechanization in the farming industry has almost certainly been the major cause of their demise, and real effort has been put into improving the lot of this evocative bird. Apart from the statutory organizations and major conservation bodies, the Barn Owl Trust, a charity specifically devoted to its salvation, has made a big contribution. Education, reintroductions, nesting boxes, and legal protection have all helped, and the population may now have stabilized.

Apart from the silent wonder of an early country morning, with its sweet smells and soft light, it’s the sense of being alone with nature at first light that’s so special. It instils in me a strong sense of my place in the natural world, and what we’re in danger of loosing. If only more would experience this, and understand this fundamental aspect of human existence, the better the chances of improving the lot of the planet might be.


Saturday 28 October 2017

Changing Light

A silver sheet of light covers the line where the sky meets the sea. Under a dull grey sky, it lasts just a few moments, and is quickly swallowed up by a misty rain creeping in over the bay. Minutes later, the sun forces a yellow glow through the low clouds, and this too is gone in flash. Blue sky appears between more threatening clouds, but this doesn’t last long either. Days like this of alternating sunshine and showers are common in early winter, when the weather can’t decide what to do, but the reward is mood and magical light.

A few brave souls stride out along the beach at Port Eynon, whilst others prefer to sit inside cars by the shore. Over recent years, there’s been heated debate about the loss of sand on Gower’s beaches as a result of dredging offshore, and although Port Eynon has suffered, there’s still a good covering today. As the tide recedes, the ever-changing light glitters on the watery surface left in the sand. Sharp showers come and go, but don’t affect the wagtails and pipits scurrying amongst the flotsam searching for flies and sand hoppers.

Apart from a few gulls offshore, I find little else of real interest, and my walk runs out beyond the few houses by the beach at Horton. The morning is charged with an intense energy, fuelled by the changing light, which again suddenly transforms the hills behind the old houses overlooking the beach.


Thursday 26 October 2017

Scars

It’s only a modest ascent to get to the spine of Cefyn Bryn, and walking along the wide path requires even less effort. High cumulous clouds move slowly across the deep blue sky, and with the wind from the north, I can see for miles.  Due west is the back of Rhosilli Down, north the wide expanse of the Loughour Estuary, and east the distant Black Mountains. Beyond Oxwich Bay, the Devon hills are sharp in crystal clear light. I feel I’ve climbed a mountain, but realise once more that Gower is a microcosm of so many habitats in such a compact space.

The bracken has turned to brown now, matching the old red sandstone ridge that runs through the centre of Gower. Gone are the carpets of flowering heather and gorse that covered large areas of the down a few weeks ago, and it’s starting to feel like winter already. A stonechat perched on top of a gorse bush watches me pass. These bold little birds, such a feature of Gower at any time of year, seem not to mind people.


Looking north, I watch two boys on mountain bikes haring up and down the slope below.  Over the years, cyclists and motorbikes have created great ruts in the ground, and attempts to prevent it seem to have failed, and these scars are now a permanent feature on the north side of the bryn.  Apart from walkers and the occasional cyclist, the main path on the ridge is used by pony-trekkers, ‘wild’ Gower ponies, sheep, and the few cattle that graze the whole year round. It’s only on the slopes that the trial bikes damage the ground and the landscape.

Tuesday 24 October 2017

Devon by Nightfall?

Living on the west coast in the direct line of the Gulf Stream, we get rain, lots of it.  An old university friend of mine, who came from Cork on the southwest coast of Ireland, loved it.  He often waxed lyrical about how he liked to walk the cliffs in fine, warm drizzle, and I never really believed him.  Now I do.  After living for four decades on the coast of Wales, rain is part of everyday life.  Although I try not to venture out when it's serious, it doesn’t really bother me at all.  We get all sorts of rain, from fine drizzle to severe gales, and it constantly changes the countryside.  It’s so unpredictable too, arriving suddenly only to cease in an instant.  Life goes on in spite of the weather; we just live around it.

On days like today, when there’s blanket of heavy rain from dawn to dusk, I can sit in the shelter of the car at the lighthouse and watch the rollers pass over the sandbank offshore.  There’s real drama out there.  Low cloud merges with sea and spray, all carried along by the strong westerly wind.  There's no horizon.  The few gulls dotted about in the surf don’t seem to be bothered at all by the wind, now blowing at gale force, and camouflaged oystercatchers seem to be unaware of the weather. This is not the first storm of the autumn, but heralds the arrival of many more to follow on this wild Atlantic coast.
 
Along the cliff path, the stiff wind has torn away leaves that promised a show of autumn colour. Coastal hawthorns, bent by generations of gales, lean landward, attracting loose flocks of starlings facing windward as they gobble up a few berries before quickly moving on.  Others join linnets and meadow pipits keeping low to the ground in the stubble of a neglected field.  Away from the cliffs, trees, more protected from the ravages of the wind, leaves hang on, but the trees are slowly beginning to show winter geometry. 

It’s getting late for autumn migrants now, and a lone swallow fighting against the wind will find it difficult to cross the channel to Devon before nightfall.


Sunday 22 October 2017

Neglected Hazels

I take out my compendium of Guardian Country Diary essays, and find I’ve marked one written 25 years ago by my old friend Bill Condry.  He talks about the changes he’d seen in the 30 years since he wrote his first entry.  Bill is no longer with us, and I wonder what he would make of the countryside today. He talks about the ever increasing blanket of conifers spreading across the uplands of Wales, and the increase in the number wildlife conservationists, but his message is not too downbeat.  In reality, in the half century since Bill’s first entry, our wildlife has suffered dramatically, particularly at the hands of pesticides.  Another friend recently told me of a conversation he’d had with an old friend who’d know the countryside 90 years ago.  He talked of fields of wildflowers, myriads of butterflies, and birds everywhere.  I wonder what world my grandchildren will inherit 50 years from now.  Trying not to be too despondent, I put down the book, lift my spirits, and head out for the cliffs.
 
Hareslade Farm must be centuries old, made entirely of local limestone, it is reached along a bumpy track leading down to Brandy Cove.  There are no hares, and the farm has long been converted into an upmarket house, nevertheless the atmosphere of the place is unchanged.  The gently sloping narrow valley is mostly oak, ash, beech and hazel, with good numbers of sweet chestnuts.  Some way down the lane, a small collection of what once were ramshackled wooden dwellings, have been improved over the years, and are now the homes of families preferring to lead a simple life close to nature. Neglected hazels, coppiced many years ago, but now reaching high into the canopy, line the path, and underfoot, fallen oak and sweet chestnut leaves are blotched and crisp.  I stop to listen to the blue tits and coal tits, and hear the high pitch call of a goldcrest in the canopy.  It’s a good year for ivy berries; still green, they spread like a thick decorative carpet over much of the hedgerow.  Just a few red campions remain in flower, and there are hawthorn berries in the tangle of vegetation along the track, but the brightest colours come from the saturated reds of blackberry leaves in the undergrowth.  Below the farm, and above the cliffs, a couple of small fields used for ponies are empty.  When the weather turns cold they’ll be visited by winter thrushes, and I can usually rely on finding redwings and song thrushes here.

Breaking out from the bottom of the valley, the beauty of Brandy Cove and the deep blue sea beyond takes my breath away.  How can I live in such a wonderful place?  But there are so many places like this here, and I shall never take Gower for granted. Apart from a single fisherman way out on the water’s edge, the small sandy beach is deserted.  He stands on kelp beds exposed by the low tide close to three shags preening and drying their wings.  It’s one of those rare days when the sea is flat calm, deep blue and glistening in bright sunshine.  An occasional slight breeze causes the surface to ripple, changing for a moment deep blues to emerald green.  It’s magic. 

I head west past wind-shaped oaks and hawthorns along what is now part of the Wales Coastal Path.  A newly placed bench provides the perfect lunch stop and time to sit.  A few walkers and joggers go by; most pass the time of day, but some of them are too much in earnest to bother. Nature watching is usually best if you stay still.  A buzzard floats into view, appearing just a few yards away using what little updraft there is from the cliff face in front of me. He quickly heads out to sea, hotly pursued by a small male sparrowhawk.  They continue to jostle as the buzzard circles ever higher into the sky, and the ballet continues until two tiny dots fade on the horizon way out over the far headland. 

Further along the cliff, evidence of last night’s badgers is besides the path - there’s been a sett deep in the bracken here for as long as I can remember.  The gently warming sun brings out a red admiral butterfly and more walkers; it’s time to head back home.



Saturday 21 October 2017

Signature Call of Oxwich

Oxwich Marsh is still, just a few tips of reeds move in the afternoon air. Along the boardwalk leading to the hide, a common darter gleans what heat there is from the wooden structure.   Apart from a clump of red campion hanging on in a hollow, there are just greens, fading yellows and browns.  A singing wren greets me near the entrance, and an even louder Cetti’s warbler seems to respond deep inside the reeds.  The lake is motionless, only the ripples of water boatmen skating across the surface disturb the peace. Juvenile and adult little grebes break the tranquillity, they’re noisy, aggressive little creatures, seemingly unable to decide who owns what part of the lake.  For me, the trilling of little grebes is the signature call of this wonderful place; it’s always present.

The sun breaks through, casting a golden yellow glow across the marsh and willows beyond.  It lights up the reed seed-heads, now turning from green to browns and silver.  Close up, each one is a marvel, like a miniature tree and usually containing the odd insect.  Small day-flying moths are about, dancing over the tops of the reeds, and migrant hawker dragonflies dart about, some coupled and depositing eggs on the surface of the water. 

Patience is the key to watching wildlife, so I sit and wait.  Ever so slowly ducks begin to emerge from the reeds.  What looks like a family party of mallards, with males sporting resplendent head-colours, a single teal and two very smart looking male gadwalls brave the open water.  Moorhens appear, and soon outdo the grebes for fighting spirit - they must be one of the most aggressive of birds.

After the nation’s rivers were cleaned up during that last part of the 20th century, otters made a great comeback.  They’ve even reached this rather isolated part of the world, and are back on the marsh after decades of absence.  They’re seen from this hide, mostly in early morning, but I’ve never been lucky. On quiet winter days, they’ve even been photographed hunting on the seashore in the bay.


The winter tit flock makes its way through the willows as I leave the hide.  Not yet large, it consists mainly of blue tits, but there are other species there too.  Years ago I plotted its route, finding a definite pattern, and could often predict its whereabouts during the day.  These winter flocks can be very interesting, and contain many species ranging from tiny goldcrests, to great-spotted woodpeckers, and can sometimes drag with them the odd overwintering chiffchaff.

Thursday 19 October 2017

Spinning Jenny

I can never decide whether I prefer beech or oak.  Both are beautiful at any time of the year, and I suppose my preference changes with the seasons.  In autumn, majestic beeches seems to give me the best of both worlds. Pale green leaves are still to fall, whilst last year’s mast lies hard, brittle, and golden on the woodland floor.  In Penrice Estate some of the beech trees are hundreds of years old, and their leaves are turning quickly now. Last week mostly green, now lovely shades of yellows and brown, almost rivalling New England colours, and as the nights get cooler, and the first frosts arrive, they’ll fall quickly.  Beech is the dominant native tree on the estate, which, together with a variety of exotics, makes a display of autumn colours rivalling any found in these islands.  Horse chestnut trees are common on the peninsular, but the estate holds a few sweet chestnuts, one or two of which are a great age.  By the side of the path a carpet of light brown pointed leaves gives one away.  Scattered amongst the leaves are a few nuts, and by the trunk, remains of many where squirrels have been at work.  On another path, squashed spinning jennys, some joined together in pairs, litter the ground under a sycamore tree, bringing back memories of childhood days.

The great yew by Garden Lane Cottage has only a few berries this year, but has attracted the attention of a noisy flock of rattling mistle thrushes.  There are redwings in the canopy, my first of the autumn, but they’ll move on westwards, probably heading for the extreme west of Wales, or even Ireland. On cool still nights in late October, their thin calls are easily heard as they pass overhead.  I find another group of beech trees. A slight breeze releases leaves falling silently to the ground like brown snowflakes.  The ancient pond, now restored to its former serpentine-shaped glory, is covered with fading water lily leaves. There will soon be open water, in time for the winter ducks. 

There’s little sound, save for the ever-present robins, moorhens, and an occasional chorus of pheasants.  A distant water rail squeals, and a buzzard calls overhead.  I rest on an old tree stump under a huge beech, and the longer I sit, the more I hear.  It’s quiet enough to pick out the sound of falling leaves; they fall like dried paper, touching branches on their way to the ground.

In the damper parts of the estate by the marsh, alders have mostly lost their leaves, and many have cones.  Some are still green, but for the most part, they’re turning brown.  Redpolls and siskins fed on these years ago, but I haven’t heard of any here in recent years.

A tunnel of overgrown willows and alders covers Garden Lane, the old back entrance to the estate.  Years-old willows have fallen into the marsh exposing roots, now invaded by fungi and other life forms.  Moss covers most of the damp trees, ideal for epiphytic ferns, which sprout from the lower branches. Lichens, ranging in colour from pure white through greens to golden brown are everywhere, creating an atmosphere of age and history.

Hidden up from the path, and beneath a great expanse of beech trees, the orangery has a Victorian feel to it, but was constructed at the same time as the Georgian estate.  Inside, lemons and oranges flourish in pots, alongside exotic scented flowers, succulents and cacti. On a rockery outside, my usual lunch spot is a bench overlooking the valley and lake.  It’s sheltered up here, and warm enough for a late common darter to catch the sun’s rays breaking through the overcast sky. 

The old kitchen garden is a marvel.  Surrounded by a high Georgian brick wall, it’s being lovingly restored by the estate, providing fruit and vegetables worthy of any age.  The old greenhouses too are slowly being rebuilt, and this year there’s been a bumper crop of grapes.  As the sun finally breaks though, lizards creep out from between the bricks in a south-facing wall to take advantage of what could be the last of the autumnal sunshine.


Tuesday 17 October 2017

Miniature Rainforest

Hunt’s Bay is a little gem.  Perfectly shaped above a raised beach, there are rarely people here.  Locals find lobsters and crabs at low tide, but as usual I have the place to myself.  There’s a big kelp forest offshore, and spring tides can dump thick wracks onto the rocks and shoreline.  With calm seas of late, there’s just a little along an old tide line high up on the shore.  I turn it over with my foot, and sand hoppers spring into life, but in no time at all find refuge again beneath the kelp.  Flies too are disturbed, but take more time to settle.  I walk on, knowing that pied wagtails and rock pipits will take advantage of the newly feeding opportunity I just made for them.  The rock strata laid down after the last ice age in almost vertical folds, is enough to partially hide a heron fishing in the rock pools.  I catch glimpses of its head, but never enough to see if he succeeds.

Above the shore, the raised beach is clear of bracken.  The National Trust owns these cliffs, but allows a local farmer to take off the bracken each autumn.  This, and periodic burning of the gorse, enables a rich community of limestone flowers to thrive during summer months, which in some years can be spectacular. Fungi, many of which I find difficult to identify, are scattered about in small groups. I photograph a couple, hoping the field guide will later come to my aid.

To the west, I sit overlooking a deep gorse-covered slade sloping down to the sea, which from above resembles a miniature rainforest.  On the few limestone outcrops, golden lichen adds a splash of colour, and between them cotoneaster berries glisten in the evening glow.  As the light fades, shags arrive at their roost on the ledges by Bacon Hole.  They circle a few times, land on the sea for a while, before finally flying up to join others already settled in for the night.  A chough calls, then another, they too head for an ancient roost at Crow Hole, a small cave entered from above in a depression on the sloping cliffs.


Sunday 15 October 2017

A Wild Feel

On weekdays, the cliff paths on the south coast are little used. In a cooling afternoon breeze, with a choppy silvery sea, I walk more or less alone westward into the sun. In places the cliffs on the landward side contain great walls of gorse well above head high, which need a good burn, so as to regenerate the flora.  Gower limestone is distinctively pale, which, set against a pastel blue sky, creates a unique colour combination.  Lichens dot the rocky outcrops, most of which are golden, but some pure white, all glowing in the bright sunshine.  Red admiral butterflies feed on blackberries in some of the warmer, shady spots, but flying insects are getting more difficult to find now.  There’s a reasonable crop of blackberries this year, but some have already withered away.  Many are still red, others black and ready to pick.  There are even some bushes with a few late flowers, but  these will probably be too late to produce fruit before the first frosts.  Devil’s bit scabious is still in flower along the path, and honeysuckle gives a dash of pink and yellow, as it pokes out through the tangle of bramble and gorse.  There’s also some yellow along the path, mostly hawkweeds and ragwort, but rockroses hang on in sheltered hollows between limestone outcrops.  The bracken is wonderful now, and greens, shades of lemon yellow and browns, paint a beautiful mosaic of colour.  There’s gorse in flower in every month of the year, but this autumn has been poor.  Even so, brilliant splashes of yellow dot the cliffs, and a male stonechat seems to have taken possession of one of these clumps.  I look for the female, but find instead a small bird flitting mouse-like through the top of the gorse.  Just a fleeting glimpse is enough to tell me that this is a rare Dartford warbler.  They’ve spread west over the last couple of decades, and now breed on our cliffs.  Bad winters can knock them back, but they seem to recover well, and are now an established resident.  I look closer amongst the greens, browns, yellows and reds of autumn.  An exquisite and delicate woody nightshade flower, vibrant in purple, yellow and white, sparkles beneath the leaves, setting off a clump of its equally beautiful ruby-red berries. 
 
Herring gulls sail west, and a kestrel hovers high up over the cliffs. It quarters above the gorse, coming close enough for me to see that it’s a bird of the year.  Carrion crows never leave it in peace, returning over and over again to mob it, until they finally give up.  Kestrels have been scarce in recent years, but seem to have had a good breeding season this summer.  I sit on top of a soft maritime tussock, which has the feel of an offshore island, and look down towards the sea.  From high up on the path, the rocky coves below look lifeless, with just a couple of crows picking amongst the crevices, but the grey rocks and sound of the sea masks other invisible life beneath the sea.  Offshore behind the pounding white surf, a bull grey seal pokes his head above the water.  He watches me with curious eyes for a good couple of minutes, before staring me out and disappearing into the deep.  A few breed at the very western end of the peninsula, and late October is when white pups haul out on the rocks. 

Further along the coast to the west, there are hidden caves at the foot of the cliffs.  Most are inaccessible, but a couple of the larger ones can be reached at low tide.  Choughs breed in Bacon Hole each spring, and if undisturbed by climbers usually bring off young.  At this time of year they form into a flock with others that breed nearby, roaming far and wide along the south coast.  There’s no sign of them, but the ravens, gleaming in late afternoon sun give me an equally wild feel.



Saturday 14 October 2017

Along the Shore

Life in the sand dunes is taking on a tired look.  Although there are still shades of pale green, the maram grass is turning yellow, and brambles creep along the sand, some still showing deep autumn-reds, contrasting beautifully with vibrant oranges and browns.  There are remnants of summer colour, mostly the yellows of fading ragwort, but autumn is more or less everywhere. A few remaining hawkweeds, many with accompanying hoverflies, look stunningly bright in the sunshine, but most of the summer colour has now gone.  Evening primroses are lifeless brown stems, but a few are not quite over, with a some flowers dotted here and there. Clumps of sea holly, once vibrant blue, are now shrivelled and brown, but a few still retain silvery leaves. 

A cool breeze from the sea drifts across the beach, ensuring that there will be no late butterflies today.  The marram grass traps sand into small islands, where oaks saplings, no more than a few inches high have taken hold, their perfectly formed pastel-yellow leaves shining brightly in the mellow afternoon sun.  Old man’s beard grows on some of these clumps of raised sand, not in profusion like in nearby hedgerows, but enough to attract a small flock of goldfinches.  Ironically the best splash of autumn colour is provided by the ubiquitous Japanese knotweed, which grows along a freshwater stream running out over the beach.  Glorious yellow and deep reds adorn its banks, and I fear there’s little chance of this alien plant ever being eradicated.  Each high tide varies the route this stream takes over the beach. Usually it’s a deep channel, but it can also take a subterranean route.  Today the water runs in shallow fingers across the sand.

Mature trees grow in the well-established dunes, and there are birds here.  There are always magpies, and today several jays, probably freshly in from Continental Europe for the winter. Tit flocks are small this autumn, and there are no long-tailed tits today.  Greenfinches are also scarce fewer this year, but it’s early days yet, and they may increase as winter sets in.  Apart from robins, the only song comes from an occasional wren.

The tide recedes fast, and the water is already far from the shore, but I can still hear the calls of oystercatchers as they feed on the distant water’s edge.  Beyond the point where the sand ends, the lapping tide has produced myriads of ridges in the rich mud, and between each is a small silvery pool of salt water. Millions of lugworms have been busy, leaving tiny casts as far as the eye can see.  Gulls rest and preen, most are black-headed, but there are common and herring gulls far out near the sea’s edge. Waders are too far away to see properly, but I hear curlews, dunlin, ringed plovers and the occasional grey plover. 

The ever-changing high tide line is littered with flotsam. There’s not enough today to attract sand hoppers, but the sun brings out the flies and attendant pied wagtails. As I turn back, shells crunch underfoot, most are small, old, and polished by the tide.  A perfect cuttlefish shell is unusual, I’m tempted to take it home, but decide not.  Oyster shells are probably from the commercial beds off the lighthouse. This small venture appears to be doing well, but the few mussel shells could be the remnants of a similar enterprise that was destroyed after a big winter gale a few years ago.

At Mumbles Head, I sit on the rocky shore between the islands as the ebbing tide flows quickly past just a few yards away.  Turnstones, now more or less in winter plumage, root about in the flat-lying kelp, and in rocky crevices.  There are oystercatchers and curlews here too, and a grey heron strides incredibly slowly through a rock pool, seemingly with no success.  The tidal race is fast, and seems to help the shags busily diving against the flow.  There are no signs of kittiwakes, they bred on the side of the old pier, and are probably far out to see by now. 

There are lots of rock pools out here, and one illuminated in the golden evening sunlight is magical.  A few tiny fish dart from its sides, but small shore and hermit crabs search for food, untroubled by my shadow.  Beautiful purple sea anemones are motionless, and limpets move ever so slowly along the bottom of the pool.  Patience is the secret, and time relieves tiny shrimps darting in and out of the shelter at the edge of the pool.  There’s no sign of people, just the sounds of the wild, and the wonderful smell of the sea.

I return to the beach after dark.  It’s deserted, and the only light is from the flashing of the lighthouse sending intermittent beams of white light across the bay.  It’s still and quite warm, but there’s a cool feel to air.  I sit on a log and listen.  A lone redshank flies overhead calling and lands somewhere on the mud.  Invisible waders are everywhere, their constant calls carrying over the beach - they feed at night when the tide is out, finding food by touch.  I can’t see them and they can’t see their prey, and I’m struck by the different senses in the natural world.  After so many years knowing these birds, it’s as though I’m reading a familiar book with my eyes closed.  A beautiful waxing moon rises in the southwest, golden and large, it looks close enough to reach out and touch.  It will set soon, and the waders will have even less light on the shore.


Thursday 12 October 2017

Night Thrushes

On clear still October nights when the air is cool, dense and less turbulent, it’s possible to hear the faint calls of redwings as they migrate high up in the darkness. I’ve always assumed they’re heading westwards, possibly towards Ireland, but I’m not really sure. There have been local reports of a few redwings in recent weeks, and even a couple of fieldfares, but we shall have to wait for much colder weather before the big winter flocks of these very smart thrushes arrive.

Here in the western lowlands, and on the coast, redwings usually arrive in late autumn, but if I were to travel just a few miles north into the hills, I would find the first sizable winter flocks, busy at work on this year’s heavily laden hawthorn trees. We rarely get big numbers down here until winter begins in earnest, but a quick snap of cold weather in eastern England can quickly change all this, and push them over to our side of the country. I noticed a report today of tens of thousands arriving in Bedfordshire, so they must be gradually working their way west. The arrival of fieldfares is much more difficult to predict, and even when the weather turns cold, they often don’t appear in significant numbers, and in some years hardly at all.

I’ve noted more blackbirds of late, and they’re beginning to be conspicuous on open green spaces such as playing fields and golf courses. They also migrate from their Scandinavian breeding grounds, joining our resident birds in winter, and in some years are remarkably common. Cold weather usually arrives late on Gower, and it will be some time yet before I can count five species of thrushes in our village; only then will I know that winter has properly arrived.


Tuesday 10 October 2017

Mustn't Grumble

On warm autumn days, when the sun shines, and the calm sea is Mediterranean blue, the place to be is on the cliffs.  West of the lighthouse, the cliff path is relatively gentle, and busy with couples out for an afternoon’s stroll.  Mediterranean gulls winter in Bracelet Bay, and a just few venture west along the cliffs to Langland, but they rarely seem to get as far as Caswell Bay. A beautiful pure white adult seems to accompany me as I walk towards Langland; there’s nothing special about this, but you never know what you’re going to find round the next corner.  In flat light, and just a few yards below me, a lone and very late juvenile black tern fishes close inshore.  To see one on the coast is not that unusual, but at this time of year it should really be much further south.  A winter plumage guillemot pops up a few yards away. Although some do stay inshore during winter, this too is somewhat out of place, and most will be far offshore in the Atlantic by now.

Everyone looks happy on this lovely day, and I’m quietly amused by the exchange of comments from the smiling walkers as we cross on the path; ‘lovely afternoon’, ‘nice day’, ‘aren’t we lucky’, but best of all ‘mustn’t grumble about the weather today’.  What they’re actually saying is that our weather is usually awful, and we have to be thankful for the few fine days we get each year - all very British.