Thursday 30 November 2017

First Arctic Wind

After a wonderful summer, autumn has been unseasonably mild, and continues to produce colours rivalling those I remember in North America.  Most leaves have fallen now, but the last golden show of beech continues to stand out amongst faded oaks.
 
Returning from a trip to Cotswolds, where hedgerows are awash with old man’s beard, I find little along the byways of Gower; here it seems to be more common on the limestone in the sheltered parts of west Gower. In the sand dunes at Nicholaston dunes, swathes of its white, fluffy seeds coat the slacks with a beautiful silky hue. At the back of the dunes, the sheer cliff face at the western end of Crawley Wood looks asleep. The trees clinging to the rocks appear lifeless, there’s not a breath of wind, no leaves fall to the ground, and only wood pigeons call from the wood.  A raven croaks as it flies overhead, and on the beach, a few gulls disturb the silence.

There’s a cold Arctic wind forecast for the weekend, and maybe a little snow in the north. This first cold snap of winter will probably put an end to our false sense of well-being, and the last of autumn’s colours may well fall to the ground. We could then get the first redwings of the winter on our village green, but it really needs to get much colder before this happens. On the other hand, the cold snap may never reach us. Sheltered from the northerly winds, we usually miss most of the bad weather.



Tuesday 28 November 2017

Redundant Hide

In November it can rain for hours, but in the last days of the month, there are often intervals of dry, sunny weather. It’s mild as I head out on the long trek to Whiteford lighthouse at the northwest tip of Gower. It’s a long walk, but always well worth the effort.

It’s high tide, and from the old seawall below Cwm Ivy Wood I can see for miles. Birds are airborne, pushed by the tide from the myriad of deep pills that crisscross the marsh. Gulls and shelducks usually rest up on the flats, but like the waders, they too have been driven off.

The damp path towards the point is higher than the flood, but passable. Ponies shelter along its edges, and some are stranded on the few patches of land out in the marsh not covered by the water.  Lapwings and golden plovers gyrate in a single flock on the other side of the marsh at Landimore, and I can hear curlews. It’s amazing how quickly the tide recedes here.  By the time I reach the conifer plantation, there’s enough exposed land for a flock of widgeon and teal to settle back, and in no time at all the gulls arrive. As the water races back to the sea, the ponies drift out onto the marsh, their hoofs squelching in the wet turf, and by the time I’ve reached the hide the tide is history.

The hide at Whiteford is a peculiar thing. Originally sited on a sand-spit in front of a wide channel, for decades it provided close-up views of birds just a few yards away, but now it’s rather redundant. Over the years, the dynamic nature of the sand dunes, and the estuary has radically changed the topography here. The hide now sits in the middle of nowhere, serving more or less as a refuge from the weather, or as convenient place to rest and have lunch.

The real spectacle however is still at the lighthouse. As I round the point, thousands of oystercatchers take to the wing. This is what I’d come to witness, and the effort of getting here was more than worthwhile. I’ll come again in mid-winter when there are even more, but finding a day free of inclement weather at that time of year may not be easy.


Sunday 26 November 2017

Three Winter Firsts

It seems only a short time ago that I saw brown argus, common blue and small copper butterflies on the wing. Nature can’t yet decided that summer is finally over, but a report today of decent sized flocks of fieldfares, heralds the time to look out for more signs of winter. Usually later to arrive than redwings, their chuckling calls are unmistakable, and they’ll soon mix in with their smaller cousins to add another piece to the winter jigsaw that’s slowly emerging.

The first male black redstart of the autumn is always an event, and a promise of cold winter days ahead.  There’s one today on the sea wall at Cwm Ivy enjoying the bounty of flying insects, which will disappear once the weather turns colder. We get very few of these delightful little robin-sized birds, which now breed in some of our big urban areas such as London and Birmingham. The ones we see on the coast during autumn and winter are likely to be European visitors taking refuge in our warmer maritime climate. They often turn up on the rocky shore, and November and December are the best months to find them, but I need to be lucky to come across more than a couple each year.

My third first this week was a purple sandpiper, feeding with a small flock of turnstones on the rocks under the pier at Mumbles. Never numerous at the best of times, their remarkable camouflage makes them difficult to spot. Their confiding nature is always a delight, as they silently search the nooks and crannies on the rocky shore. Many more will arrive in the next few weeks, and I’ll usually be able to find a few when the tide is right.


Saturday 25 November 2017

Fairyhill

When I came to live here decades ago, most Gower farms were eyesores. Farmhouses were in disrepair, surrounding outbuildings were broken down, piles of tyres, disused tractors and the like littered farmyards, certainly not conducive to Britain’s first Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.  Some are still in the same state, but many farmers have thrown in the towel and moved into ecotourism, or have sold up and left.  Visiting the Yorkshire Dales this year, neat farms, old stone barns and the overall tidy countryside reminded me that Gower has changed, but there’s still some way to go.  Much of this improvement is down to rich incomers, and it’s a slow process, but gradually farmhouses are being transformed into buildings of real beauty, and barns have new lives as high quality holiday lets, or homes.

Apart from Penrice Castle, the only large houses of note on Gower are Kilvrough Manor, Stouthall and Fairyhill.  Kilvrough, a late 18th century estate, lost its local appeal years ago, and now operates as an outdoor learning centre for Oxfordshire County Council. The buildings are restored, and the surrounding beech and ash woods are well managed.  Stouthall is steeped in history, and was the home of the Lucas family for over half a millennium.  It too was reduced to accommodating children, this time from the London Borough of Merton, but its future looks precarious once again.  

The early history of Fairyhill is unknown, but since the 18th century has had many owners.  Before it was converted into a first class hotel and restaurant in 1984, I knew it well.  Nestling in a hidden hollow, it was full of old-world charm, its decaying fabric and overgrown gardens recapturing a lost 18th century world.  The information in the glossy handout for the hotel fails to mention its real treasure of wild daffodils, which still grow in the woods, but probably go unnoticed by most of the rich guests.


Thursday 23 November 2017

Ash Seeds

Frost at last; winter is slowly creeping in. Out beyond Oxwich Bay, threatening dark grey clouds cast patches of intense light onto the surface of the sea. They last just a few seconds, move quickly over the dark water, and are gone.

At this time of year Llandewi has a remote feel to it, the old Norman church, surrounded by a dirty farm, looks forgotten, and I suspect there are few visitors here during the winter months. The old drovers way to the west of the farmyard is now partially paved, and leads eventually to Old Henllys, and the eastern slopes of Rhossili Down. Just a few isolated trees grow from the hedgerows. Open to the wind, most are bare, apart from ash, which have retained their seeds, hanging in great bunches from the ends of branches. I muse about ash dieback, and wonder if the prevailing westerly winds will save Gower from this dreaded fungus. Only time will tell.

On the lonely road to Burry Green, I stop at a large barn, where years ago I could guarantee a sizable flock of yellowhammers in autumn and winter. There are none again today, and sadly this is the norm now, and like most small birds on Gower, they have dramatically declined. Pesticides and modern farming methods have seen to this.


Tuesday 21 November 2017

Sea Roosts

After days of rain we’re in the midst of a dry, calm spell, and Swansea Bay is tranquil.  An evening sky of pastel blues, and shades of grey, reflects on the tiny ripples covering the sea as the tide creeps in, and there’s not a breath of wind, but the rains have left a cold, dank feel to the air.  A big wrack of brown kelp on the shore looks lifeless in the fading light, and I gradually make out oystercatchers moving about.  There’s just a few, no doubt eking out a last morsel before the tide forces them off the beach.  At this time of year, darkness comes early, and there are few visitors. Ironically these are some of the best days, when I can feel an intimate connection with life between the tides.

My walk along the shoreline crunches shells underfoot, disturbing the peace, so I sit in the sand dunes listening to the soft cry of the gulls and waders. I stay until the daylight is gone, as gulls continue to arrive from what seems every direction to their invisible sea roost on the sea. Some arrivals are visible in the glow from the streetlights, but soon disappear into the silence, landing somewhere on the glassy surface of the sea.  It’s wonderful.


Sunday 19 November 2017

Sounds on the Cliffs

The yaffle of green woodpeckers is a common sound on our cliffs, and I often come across them whilst walking along the coastal paths.  They feed on the rabbit-cropped sward, looking for ants, and other small invertebrates. When disturbed, they usually call, head off to perch on a high rocky outcrop, or fly back to the woodlands, which in some places, reach almost down to the sea.

At this time of year, the sound on the cliffs is mostly of sea, wind and birds. There’s always the hiss of the sea, and usually the sound of breakers on the rocks.  It’s rarely silent. Today is a calm day, with a thick fog covering the coast. and  all I hear is the clang of the Mixon Buoy, the foghorn at Mumbles Head, and the drone of ships’ engines out of sight, but even on day’s like this, there’s often the call of a raven somewhere overhead.


Saturday 18 November 2017

Shaking Tripod

Washed by so much rain, west Gower fields are gleaming. The countryside feels fresh, it’s as though the weather has cleaned away autumn, preparing the land for winter.  In bright sunshine, and with a stiff, cold, north-westerly wind blowing, I head for Rhosilli.  Most leaves are off the trees now, but a few beeches in sheltered spots retain some on their lower branches, glowing yellow and gold. The landscape gradually becomes treeless west of Scurlage, and familiar fields are dotted with pools of water. 

Rhosilli is wild and beautiful out of season. It’s far too windy for real trees here, but a few survive valiantly against the elements along old field boundaries, all bent by years of gales.  Wind-blown moisture from the raging sea creates a mist over the top of The Worm, which even though the tide is out, looks inaccessible on a day like this. The bay is full of white horses and flat, racing surf, just the wrong kind for the hardy surfers at Llangenith. There’s also far too much wind for hang gliding from the top of Rhosilli Down, and apart from just two souls walking the beach below, the entire span of the beautiful bay is deserted. 

A few walkers brave the wind along the path down to the causeway, but most turn back within minutes, seeking the sanctuary of their cars, others take refuge in the National Trust Shop, and some head for a warming drink in the Worm’s Head Hotel.  A brave photographer, hoping to capture the spectacle of wind and waves, battles valiantly with his shaking tripod. He takes a few quick shots, gives up, and like most of the walkers, escapes the wind in the comfort of his car.


Thursday 16 November 2017

Woodcock

Walking through the woods down to the beach this morning produced my first woodcock of the autumn.  If I leave the narrow path, and clap my hands, I can usually flush one or two, and there will be many in the valley during the winter months.  Perfectly camouflaged on the woodland floor, they are grossly overlooked, most are found by hunters who bag good numbers in favoured woods over the winter months.  It’s ironic that woodcock is still legally considered a game bird, in spite of the fact that it has declined dramatically as a breeding species over the last few years; it’s now included on the amber list of species of conservation concern.  However the large numbers that are bagged after ‘The Glorious 12th’ are mostly of Russian origin, spending their winters in the UK.

Woodcock are primarily nocturnal, remaining still on the woodland floor during daylight, but I was lucky today.  The two I flushed moved only short distances, and with great care I’m able to find one of them again, and watch at close quarters as it pokes its long straight bill into the newly fallen leave litter.

Catching woodcocks is a bit hit and miss, and I haven’t tried for years.   Knowing the right woodland, and setting plenty of nets well before dusk can reap rewards, but a good catch never exceeds more than a handful.   Ironically again, most information we have about woodcock movements comes from ringing returns of birds killed by hunters.


Tuesday 14 November 2017

The Sea

I see the sea just about every day, and sometimes don’t really look at it.  But I know it’s there, it’s an integral part of each day, and life revolves around it in one way or another.  It influences my everyday quality of life in ways I often don’t appreciate, and I could live nowhere else.

The sea is never the same, and invokes in me lots of feelings; beauty, safety, fear, respect, and many more.  I feel at home and comforted by it, and can’t imagine living inland.  Maybe belonging to an island race makes us creatures of the sea. It’s in our history, has saved us over and over again from foreign invasion, and makes us different from our neighbours on the Continent.

I know a lot about the terrestrial world, but very little about what lives under the sea.  When younger, I snorkelled in the kelp forest just offshore, but have no real appreciation of the abundant life hidden from view just a few yards away from the cliffs.  Its wellbeing is under threat like never before, and only now are we waking up to this. I wonder how many visitors to Gower are aware of this hidden world.

We get lots of gales from the Atlantic, and forecasting the weather here is a mixture of listening to the radio, local knowledge, and a good slice of luck. We have microclimates; it can be raining just a mile or so inland, and dry on the coast, or sunny inland when we’re covered in cold coastal fog.

Sitting on the rocks by the shore, a constant gentle hiss, and the sound of pounding surf is more or less all I can hear. No sounds reach me from the land, and there’s a feeling of the wild. A gull cries, turnstones call as they zip along the shore, and an oystercatcher, hidden in some crevice gives itself away.  Wilderness is difficult to find anywhere now, but here I can escape the man-made world. 

There’s order and disorder.  Waves roll in one after the other in a more or less regular fashion, but creating chaos as they crash onto the rocks to form myriads of tiny wavelets moving in all directions.  As the tide recedes it leaves behind replenished mirror-like rock pools, and there’s order again.  Little seems to move, but beneath the surface of the pools, there’s life everywhere.  Barnacles, periwinkles and whelks come to life, tiny shrimps dart about, and sea anemones open to feed. 

The sea responds to the sky, and the light is never the same.  It’s mostly cloudy today, creating a greenish grey hue on the surface of the water.  Shafts of light cascade through the greyness, forming pools of silver too bright to look at.  As the clouds move, so too do the pools of light, disappearing as quickly as they came. On other days, the sea is a mesmerising deep blue, or even emerald green, but it’s always magic.



Monday 13 November 2017

Foxes

As I rounded one the many headlands on the coast in broad daylight many years ago, I came face to face with a fox.  For a few moments we stared at each other. I pondered the expression in his eyes, and neither of us knew what to do next, but he gave in, and quickly trotted off into the bracken. Looking wild animals in the eye may generate a response of indifference, curiosity, or fear. Only in our garden have I ever seen indifference in the eye of a fox.

I’m reminded of this encounter whilst talking to a friend today about a local man who seems to spend his life shooting foxes. I often hear the sound of a shotgun in the fields behind the cottage at night, and it usually means he’s out there with his shotgun. Since fox hunting was  abolished  a few years ago, I’ve read nothing of the predicted increase of foxes, which is understandable, since the ‘sport’ had little or no affect on their numbers.

Foxes visit our garden most evenings, and we often put out scraps for them, and if I turn on the light by the willow tree, I can marvel at their beauty and cunning. Top predators are important in any food chain, a point that our local shooter must fail to understand, and I do wonder why he does it.



Sunday 12 November 2017

Squeaky Boots

It takes me just a few minutes to walk from our cottage to the top of Bishop’s Wood above Caswell Bay.  The unmade up lane leading down to the wood, used daily by horses from a local livery stable, is awash with mud.  In the field above the wood, a new winter stable is near completion and complete with solar panels; it seems that some people think more of their pets than themselves.

There’s no wind, and the weak watery sun has little effect on the damp air as I walk onto the woodland path high above the valley.  A soft, slippery carpet of fallen leaves covers the path, mosses drape oaks, sycamores and old broken down stonewalls, and a multitude of ferns, all make the woodland floor intensely green.  A robin, a distant wren, and the strange rasping call of a grey squirrel break the silence, and a line of maturing beeches attracts a small flock of tits and finches.

Towards the end of the path, I’m almost at treetop level, the sun lights the valley below, and as I break out into the open, I can see over a grey, flat-calm sea towards the distant Devon coast.  A bullfinch arrives in the hedge, inspects the shocking pink-coloured spindle berries, and leaves as quickly as he arrived.  A patch of spreading leafless young sycamores, already head high, will soon obstruct the lovely view from this spot, but an hour or so with a small handsaw is all that’s needed to restore it.

Down in the valley, I pass an old moss-covered log, where for years, an old man put out seeds for birds each day.  There are no seeds, no birds and no signs of the old man.  Deep inside the wood the small community at Holt’s Field enjoys an alternative lifestyle.  Living close together in small dwellings, they’d have been labelled as hippies in the 1960s.  Now their green way of life seems very relevant in an age of over consumption and climate change.

It’s been silent the whole way, save for a few birds, and my constant squeaky boots.


Saturday 11 November 2017

Gossamer Threads

As November unfolds, the sun’s power is fading, and there’s a real chill in the air at dawn.  As elsewhere in these islands, autumn is arriving slowly this year, but a sure sign of its onset is early morning fog.  It coats the common, but even though we’re well into the month, there’s still no sign of frost.   At Parkmill, smoke rises vertically from cottages along the roadside, and there’s a strong smell of wood smoke in the air.  In a couple of weeks, when the first frost must surely have arrived, the little field across the road from Sheppard’s shop can be wonderful in early morning.  It takes a long time for the sun to reach this small patch of grass, which, even on a sunny day in mid-winter, can stay white the whole day; this morning it’s green.

The path at the rear of the field leads through woods, still to loose some of their leaves.  Even though we’ve had a series of gales recently, the canopy remains closed, but the first frost will change this abruptly.  I emerge into the amazing space that is Three Cliffs Bay.  It’s perfectly still.  Down here, protected by the cliffs, there’s no wind, and the only noise is the distant hissing sea, and a few crows on the shore.  Heavy dew, and the first rays of sun light up thousands of gossamer threads amongst the grass, and I stay on the path so as not to destroy the work of their owners.  Pipits and wagtails appear from nowhere as the bay begins to wake up, but it’s only when I reach the sea that I find gulls and oystercatchers, and eventually early morning walkers sneaking round the base of the cliffs from Pobbles Bay.



Thursday 9 November 2017

Every Sunday

It’s hard to believe just how creatures of habit some people are.  Three or four friends meet every Sunday in a local car park at 7.30 a.m. sharp and head off into the countryside, primarily on a photographic morning.  Not that there’s anything strange about this, but the fact that they’ve been doing it for more than 40 years is somewhat of an enigma to me.  They have catholic tastes, ranging from birds and butterflies, to landscapes and even oddities such as lighthouses and letterboxes.  No matter what the weather, one or more will turn up.  There’s no prior communication, and if you’re not there at exactly the appointed hour you’ll be left behind.

The result of all this dedication has been thousands of magnificent photographs and several books.  More though, they’ve acquired an understanding of the changing countryside that can only be obtained by this kind of constancy.  I have to confess that I’ve been out with them from time to time, and have often enjoyed the experience, but I usually yearn for solitude in the countryside.

Who decides where to go each week is a mystery to me, but as an honoured visitor to the ‘club’ recently, I went with the flow.  We end up in the great sand dune system on the other side of the bay - the aim is to photograph marram grass, which I have to admit isn’t really my kind of thing.  The discomfort of the cramped conditions in the back seat of the car on the return journey is more than enough to ensure I won’t be joining them again for a while.

It all ends at precisely 12 noon in the same pub, with an identical round of drinks, and a quick look at the same Sunday newspapers.  The world is duly put to right, and they depart for a traditional Sunday roast precisely at 1 p.m.



Tuesday 7 November 2017

New Boathouse

After howling wind and rain, the turbulent sea boils at Limeslade Bay.  A piercing light illuminates the surf as is rushes towards the tiny cove, smashing against the rocks with awesome power, and sending misty spray high over the shore.   No small boats venture out in conditions like this, a few lie at moorings in the shelter of Mumbles Head, but most have been taken out, or are in the safety of the modern marina across the bay.  From the cliff path, the surf is magnificent, and there are white horses to the horizon.

Bracken, now mostly brown and flattened by the wind and rain, carpets those parts of the cliff that are free of gorse.  In a sheltered spot by the path a very late and perfect violet peeps out from the deep-green grass, but I find no other flowers.

West along the footpath nobody braves the strong westerly wind, but in the shelter of the head, locals take coffee outside the restaurant by the pier.  The huge domed affair that is the new lifeboat house is now complete.  It dominates the end of the pier, dwarfing the old classic house, which for over a century has been part of the fabric of Mumbles.  I wonder about the ultimate fate of this lovely little traditional boathouse, which together with the pier and lighthouse, balanced perfectly into the landscape. Grade two listed, there’s a plan to convert it into a museum; a similar one at Tenby has been tastefully converted into a dwelling.

The new building sits awkwardly at the end of the pier, a modern carbuncle on a lovely Victorian pier, and I wonder why it could not have been built in the style of the old one.  Maybe this is the price of progress, and only time will tell if it will become a local icon, but I have my doubts.



Sunday 5 November 2017

Roosts

The sun is still above the western horizon as I sit on the edge of the cliffs watching the pre-roost aerobatics of the choughs above Crow Hole. There are ten of them, probably most of the entire Gower population at this time of year, and I feel privileged to be alone in this beautiful spot watching what, in reality, is a rare sight. Like most crows, they mate for life, and even when flocking, I notice they fly in distinct pairs. They land, grabbing a last bite from the rabbit-cropped turf in readiness for the long night in the cave below. Then as one, they rise, twisting and turning flamboyantly down towards the sea. What joy there is in the flight of choughs, and how perfectly suited they are to this windy maritime world.

Shags also gather in late evening before resting for the night on sheltered low ledges next to Bacon Hole to the east. I watch the nightly ritual as they first circle over the sea, before gliding gracefully towards the cliff-face. Most are juveniles, but as the light fades, all become silhouettes against the grey rocks.

To count the cormorant roost before the light fades completely requires a quick sprint westwards; there are lots here tonight, and maybe some shags amongst them too. History demands there’s a name for this ledge, but perhaps this is a secret known only to those lucky individuals living in the few houses on top of the cliffs.

Back at Crow Hole, as the roosting alarm calls of blackbirds breaks the evening silence, the choughs are quiet, and I know they’re ready to disappear for the night. One by one, they drop silently out of sight into the small hole in the roof of the cave; I wonder if they roost together as man and wife.


Saturday 4 November 2017

Set for Winter

Just a few golden-brown leaves hang on to the lower branches of chestnut trees now, beeches are almost bare, and oaks are well on the way to displaying their wonderful winter geometry.  In the deeper sheltered valleys, where recent winds failed to reach, only the tops of trees are void of leaves, whilst below the canopy it remains mostly green. West of the turn down to Oxwich Bay, the landscape is open and exposed, and here many trees are completely bare.  Away from the main road, water from the recent heavy rains runs off saturated fields, turning country lanes into rivers of racing leaves.  Patches of hedgerows are suddenly covered in old man’s beard, but the remains of this year’s bumper crop of blackberries are quickly shrivelling away.

Above the village of Llangennith there’s another world of golden brown. The bracken-covered moor at Tankey Lake is deserted at this time of year.  Green patches show where farmers have taken off winter fodder, and there seems to be no activity at the riding school at the distant farm.  Few tourists come here during winter months, and today’s whistling winds seems to have put off naturalists and even walkers. I see nobody.

There’s no one at the tables outside the Kings Head in Llangennith, and the only person I meet is a lone walker at the bottom of Vicarage Lane.  The howling westerly wind whips across the back of Rhosilli Down, keeping small birds low and out of sight, but doesn’t seem to bother a croaking raven high in the sky. It's unusual to see a single Raven; they pair for life, but I'm sure its mate somewhere near, perhaps choosing not to fly with such a strong wind blowing. This most westerly part of Gower feels set for winter.