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.



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