A National Park?

As the nation’s first Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, and not having the protection afforded by National Park status, I often marvel at the way in which Gower has survived. Until planning laws were tightened in the 1970s, the peninsula was open to many types of threats. It is still vulnerable to some extent, but as protecting the environment is gradually seen to be more important, it becomes safer. Over the years, Gower has escaped a multitude of enterprises, often supported by local planning authorities. Had it not been for the large landholdings of Gower Commoners, The National Trust, and The Wildlife Trust, it may have succumbed. The untiring efforts of The Gower Society to protect the AONB had a great impact, and were pivotal at times. Pioneering individuals such as Neville Douglas-Jones and Jo Hambury played a huge part in Gower’s early protection by forming the Glamorgan Naturalist’s Trust, now part of the Wildlife Trust of South and West Wales. Many other dedicated individuals have played their part. Images and profile are important, and Harold Grenfell has spent a lifetime photographing all aspects of the peninsula, whilst members of the Gower Ornithological Society have diligently recorded birds for more than half a century.

As in most parts of these islands, much biodiversity has been lost, and at the eleventh hour there seems to be an understanding of the value of our wildlife heritage. Superficially Gower’s landscape is little changed, but pesticides and modern farming practices have greatly depleted its wildlife.

Many threats remain, and the beauty of our scenery seems secure in the short term, but without a radical change in land usage, we may never again see the abundance of wildlife many of us remember just a generation ago.  Designating Gower as a National Park could help secure a better future for this magical place.

Scott of the Antarctic

We’re blessed with lovely little Norman churches here, and one of the most beautiful lies in the village of Rhosilli, near the tip of the peninsular. The village, perched high over the Atlantic, seems to be defined by the old church, with its ancient, stark, perpendicular tower looking directly out to sea. But it’s not just the church that gives this place a special feel. Inside its cold limestone walls there’s a magic, marble plaque on the north wall dedicated to the memory of Edgar Evans, who accompanied Captain Scott on his epic journey to the South Pole. Evans was a native of the village, and was particularly remembered recently on the centenary of the day Scott and his team reached the Pole.

The mile-long walk from the village to the coastguard lookout hut passes old dry-stone walls, recently repaired, and safe for another hundred years. To the north is the sweep of Rhosilli Bay, an icon of the Welsh landscape. Its three miles of golden sand shines bright in the winter sunshine, and with no wind, the pastel-blue sea is like a millpond, dotted with white specks of gulls and black lines of common scoters. A raven stands sentinel on the cliff edge, others croak overhead signaling the beginning of breeding. I had hoped for an early fulmar, but there are none; they’ll be here in a week or so to take possession of their traditional ledges. To the south of the stone walls is Rhosilli Vile, a medieval field system, where vegetables are still grown for local markets. Its fields lie fallow now, but will soon be busy again as the new season begins.

At the headland, Worm’s Head dominates the view. An island at high water, it looks majestic, alone and still, merging perfectly the land and sea. Peering down into the clear water, a grey seal slides gracefully beneath the surface of the sea, reminding me once more that I’m privileged to live in such a truly beautiful place.

Fallen Apples

I know its cold when redwings arrive on the village green. There are never great numbers, and they spread themselves out, some feeding on the frozen ground, but most turning over the leaf litter by the hedgerows close to the common. It will have to get much colder before fieldfares join them, but even when they arrive, we usually only get a few.

I wrap up and head off for a favourite field in west Gower in search of golden plovers. It’s raw, but with little wind, bearable. Why particular fields attract plovers each winter is a mystery, but the stubble is alive with hundreds of lapwings, black-headed gulls and golden plovers. I choose my preferred farm gate high up above the field, and with the light behind, start to count. Starlings invariably mingle with lapwings in winter, and at least 600 feed amongst the lapwings and golden plovers. These remote open fallow fields are always a good bet for birds of prey and sparrowhawk, buzzard and hen harrier, all turn up within a few minutes.

Winter finch flocks are well formed now, and the Natural Resources Wales (formerly Countryside Council for Wales) puts out seeds for finches in the yard of a deserted old farm nearby. Amongst the chaffinches, I pick out brambling and yellowhammers, but also a few reed buntings and tree sparrows. These declining little sparrows nest in the boxes put up on the trees surrounding the farm buildings, and never seem to stray far from the farm.

I arrive home to watch a single male blackbird defending the small area underneath the bird feeders, and news from my daughter that there at least 30 fieldfares gorging on the fallen apples in her Shropshire garden. I can’t decide which is best, fieldfares in the frozen north, or the blackbird in the slightly warmer south.

The Battle for Cockles

When I was very much younger, I thought of common sandpipers as summer visitors, and I suppose that’s still true. In recent times however, as the climate has changed, more have overwintered. On winter days I love to sit with a flask of hot coffee by a small inlet of the Burry Estuary and watch the few birds that use the muddy shore only about 20 yards in front of the car. As the tide ebbs, the birds arrive slowly. I can always guarantee great views of black-headed and common gulls, which come down to bathe and preen with a few herring gulls, and nowadays little egrets are invariably there too. So close to the car, they’re a delight, as they dance about feeding in the shallows. Mallard and teal on the other hand are much more wary, and never seem to have the courage to get near.

Each winter I often find the odd common sandpiper here, which usually stays on the oppose bank feeding amongst the redshanks. There’s often a single lapwing too, and since I visit about every two weeks, I guess it’s the same bird each time; it’s odd to see just one lapwing.

The great flock of oystercatchers, now at least 10,000 strong, is way out on the mudflats feeding on cockles, but even at this distance I can hear them. Two cocklers trudge through the muddy river in front of the car, shattering the peace. They’re off to compete with the oystercatchers, and continue the long-standing feud between man and bird as to who has the right to gather cockles on this estuary. The birds have been doing it for much longer, and so probably have more right.

The Spirit of Christmas

There are sometimes days in winter when it never really gets light.  Low, dark grey cloud hangs over everything, and even though its well after midday, the murk looks like it’s not going to lift again. We’ve had this weather for the last few days, the roads are damp, cars are dirty, and there’s a distinct feel of gloom in the air. The beach is the best place in this kind of weather.  There’s virtually no wind, the sea is grey and calm, and I can’t see very far offshore, but the gentle waves washing onto the sand lifts the spirit as I crunch over the thousands of shells littering the tide line.

At Blackpill, the children’s paddling pool is fenced off for winter cleaning, or is it because of one of those imponderable health and safety regulations. In any event it’s empty of water, there’s nobody doing any work, and it seems to be doing nobody any harm. A couple of hundred yards towards Mumbles, a young man with a telescope watches the waders and gulls in the very poor light as they gradually creep closer with the tide, and I stop to chat. He’s a postgraduate student from the University, studying the decline in birds in the bay. I try to tell him what it was like decades ago, and wonder if he really believes me – such is the change I’ve noticed in my lifetime.

As the murk descends even more, and darkness falls, cheery festive lights appear in windows in the shops and houses at Mumbles. Away from the beach the spirit of Christmas is in full swing in the busy village, alive with shoppers eager to get those last minute essentials for the days ahead. Shopping is not my forte, and I prefer not to linger, so I head back along the peaceful shore to the sound off waders feeding on the invisible mud.

Rare Moments

There are no raging rivers on Gower, just tiny brooks and gentle streams, whose waters eventually reach the open sea, or the Loughour estuary in the north.  A few are dry in fine summers, but most have some water at all times of the year. The one I know best rises on Pengwern Common, passes through Ilston, and reaches the sea at Three Cliffs Bay, and even in mid-winter never runs deep. 

The little ford above the village guards the entrance to the Wildlife Trust’s reserve at Ilston Quarry, and is too deep to cross at this time of year without wellington boots.  For a full 20 minutes I sit in the car by the ford only forty feet away from a dipper, perched on the edge of the tiny waterfall downstream of the fast flowing water. In summer I come here to listen for their fluty song, which sounds almost tropical against the burbling of the stream. Moments like this, alone and so close to a dipper are rare.  A pair of male mallards flies low above the glinting stream, causing the dipper to bob and change its position a little to reveal its white flashing eyelid.  Opening the car door isn’t enough to end these precious minutes, and I need to walk closer before he finally moves a few yards downstream.  There may be only two or three pairs of dippers on Gower, and until our rivers were cleansed there were probably none.

Ringing

After a period of extreme laziness, I decide to get out the mist nets this morning and see what I can catch. Bird ringing satisfies a basic human hunting instinct, and there’s always a sense of anticipation and adrenaline flow when approaching the net. I was once obsessed, spending hours in the field, but gradually gave up in favour of more sedentary pastimes.

My return is not spectacular. No great treks through deep marshes, or setting up hundreds of feet of nets on beaches in the dead of night; just a single net in the garden, with the simple aim of seeing how many goldfinches I can catch. The first time at a site is often the best, since the birds are unaware of the net, and if conditions are right, a good catch is usually guaranteed. I haven’t ringed in the garden for years, and so all the birds will be new.

Setting up early before the birds arrive is the best tactic, and with everything ready, including coffee in the garden shed, I wait for the early arrivals. Invariably it’s the robin that succumbs first, and true to form it drops gently into the corner of the bottom shelf. Dunnocks too are early risers, but the tits are never far behind. It’s difficult to decide just how many individual birds use the garden, but a morning’s catch always produces many more than can be seen on the feeders at any one time. Fifteen blue tits, 6 great tits, a couple of coal tits and 10 chaffinches kept me busy, but I need to wait a while for the goldfinch catch which yields a satisfying 15 in all. There are also odds and ends, a single wren, blackbird, song thrush and goldcrest all now carry my mark, and will add new interest as I look out of the window in days to come.

Other Senses

Everything is grey. I wake to find a deep mist blotting out the end of the garden, and thick dew covers the grass. I wrap up and head out into the damp, keeping my binoculars covered against the fog. Wellies and warm socks give protection from the dripping tussock grass on the common, but the raw chill gets right through my jacket making me walk faster. There’s nothing to be seen, but clapping hands puts up invisible snipe. The mist fogs my glasses, but gradually the gloom is blown away, and I wait for my first sight of a bird. As the sun breaks through, and I reach higher ground, mini valleys of fog form along the little streams and gullies meandering across the common. The disappearing mist changes the sound of the morning, and pipits break the silence. The world is waking, and I’m privileged to watch the magic of the slowly unfolding day. I hear the signature sound of ponies munching wet grass from across from the other side of a small stream, and the squelching of feet digging deep into the peaty soil comes from cattle, but the sheep are silent.

A weak sun begins to take the edge off the cold, and a drying breeze encourages me to keep going. A kestrel hovers on the horizon, and a buzzard, with no helping lift, struggles into the sky. Pipits become more vocal, and bubbling skylarks skit low over the molinia grass. Inquisitive stonechats always mark the same spots on this walk, and looking pristine, they perch boldly on top of gorse. The rest of the common appears to be in winter sleep, but a distant fox tells me otherwise. There is other life out here, but I would need the fox’s senses to find it.

Utterly Peaceful

There’s a sense of calm walking along the water’s edge on Oxwich Beach. The ripple of tiny waves on the shore makes virtually no noise at all, and there’s a great feeling of peace and space.  In winter, I’m often the only person here in early morning, and today I see just a couple with a dog by the distant Nicholaston stream.  No ships break the line on the wide horizon, and all the small boats that moor in the lea of the Oxwich Head during the summer months are long gone.

The weather’s been calm of late, with little wind, and with the tide out, the sea looks benign. A few gulls rest on the surface near the shore, but many more bathe and preen in the brackish water where Nicholaston Pill widens and flattens as it crosses the beach.

Although it’s December, it feels more like April, and Gower can often be like this during winter.  In the sand dunes it’s more or less silent, just the tinkle of an occasional goldfinch breaks through the still air. It is utterly peaceful. The morning sunrise behind the silhouette of the marram grass is beautiful. Ponies are used in the dune slacks to keep the vegetation in check, and the more inquisitive ones come close, but most just watch me walk by.  The wood behind what once was called the green door has gradually spread into the dunes at this point, and some of the trees are now mature.  Old familiar paths through the woodland to the Middle Pond are now overgrown and gone. What hasn’t changed however is the winter tit flock, which makes its way slowly through the trees as it has done for the decades that I’ve been coming to this peaceful spot. 

What Price a View?

Like a gigantic carrion crow, a raven drifts by low over the sea below as I walk against the stiff wind on the cliff path above Mewslade Bay.   Few walkers take these remote paths on west Gower in December, but on warmer sunny days like this, it feels more like early spring than winter.  With the Devon coast and Lundy Island in the distance, the view south and west is spectacular, just open sea; but for how much longer?  Plans to build what would be the largest wind farm in the UK off the north coast of Lundy would spoil the view from both Lundy and Gower.  At about 92 square miles, the wind farm would cover an area of sea about the size of Gower, dwarfing the lovely island. With perhaps 240 generators, each over 200 meters tall, and toped with a red flashing light day and night, there would be no escaping the blight on the seascape, and I ponder how to put a value on beauty and a view.

I walk on hoping that common sense will prevail.  From the top of Lewis Castle, Fall Bay is pristine.  The tide is out and no footsteps have made an indent in the golden sand, as the pounding surf echoes against the cliff face.  Away from the cliff and over a difficult style, I walk towards Middleton along the edge of fallow fields bordered by wind-bent hedgerows.   I disturb small flocks of chaffinches feeding on the stubble. There are no bramblings amongst them, but I do find a couple of tree sparrows, which are in danger of disappearing altogether from Gower.  Only at Middleton do I realise I’ve met nobody on my walk.

Retuning home, I’m greeted with a message that the company behind the wind farm project has thrown in the towel, and the views from our wonderful cliffs are safe for now.

Mill Wood

Mill Wood, in the centre of Gower, has been worked for generations. Still owned by the Forestry Commission, it is changing again. Native deciduous trees are slowly replacing the introduced conifers, creating a mix that is ideal for birds. The restored remains of the old 18^th century water mill and its trout-rearing ponds are also an added feature of this now recreational woodland, with paths providing wonderful walks, and a great venue for school parties at any time of the year. Mixing people and wildlife is something close to my heart, and I’m happy to join in the enthusiasm of a group of young teenagers on a ‘discover day’ this afternoon as I walk my familiar route through the damp woodland.

The wood is sheltered, away from the wind, and a great place to hear the soft sounds of winter birds as they busily search for food during these short days. The usual common tits are never far away, but tend to move in flocks, dragging along nuthatches, goldcrests, chaffinches and the odd marsh tit. A wintering chiffchaff, or is it two, flits silently at the ends of branches, but is gone before I can get a good look. I’m told that there are lesser-spotted woodpeckers in the wood, and they sometimes join in with the tit flocks in winter, but I’ve never been lucky enough to find one.

I can usually find siskins here in mid-winter, and they’re in exactly the same spot again this year. About 20 systematically search the alder cones for insects in the high branches of small trees by the pond in the middle of the wood. Redpolls are sometimes here too, and although the light is poor, I’m sure I can make out a few at the very tops of the trees. When the weather turns cold, good numbers of redwings take up residence in the wood. At least 40, with a few fieldfares, gorge on the soft ivy berries, and I wonder how many more will arrive in the coming weeks; snow is forecast for the weekend.

The Doyen of Gower Photographers

Photography is a real art form. In the 1950s two young men from Mumbles developed an interest in wildlife and photography. They had a healthy rivalry, producing some fine black and white images of Gower. Over the years, through publications such as ‘The Gower Journal’, Harold gradually emerged as the ‘unofficial’ photographer of all things Gower - the doyen of local photographers. His work became know well beyond the confines of Gower, and he is still a national force in the Royal Photographic Society, of which he is a fellow.

Naturally Harold’s work eventually appeared in book form, ‘Gower Images’ in the 1980s containing a lovely set of black and white images, and ‘Gower in Focus’ in 2007, a similar work, but this time on colour. Harold’s unique style and quality shine through in both publications, as do his intimate feelings for Gower in the images portrayed.

On a cold winter’s afternoon, with a gale blowing outside, I thumb through the pages of Harold’s books. There are several photographs of birds, but it’s the mood of the images that is most striking. Sea and sky feature large, but perhaps the most captivating photograph is the one on the front cover of ‘Gower Images’ of the sun setting behind the wreck of the ‘Helvetia’ on Rhosilli Beach; it’s magic.

There are other Gower photographers of course, and several come to mind. Peter Douglas-Jones, a disciple of Harold, published ‘Three Corners of Gower’ a few years ago. Containing a wonderful selection of colour photographs, it is mostly devoted to landscape. Since the advent of digital photography, many have turned their hands to taking pictures on Gower, and there is now a plethora of postcards and booklets for sale at touristy places. Several photographic calendars appear each year, and there are no doubt millions of photographs on countless websites. All these have their own special merit, but to capture the real essence of this wonderful place, I need to return to Harold’s early black and white masterpieces, and I sometimes have the privilege of seeing the original prints.

Night Sounds

On crisp, still winter evenings like this, I like to wrap up well, and walk along the shore as the tide comes in. There’s little light from the stars, but the rising moon begins to light up the gentle breakers, shining against the darkness of the water.  The streetlights across the bay, and over the Channel on the Devon coast, create orange necklaces of light along the shore. The noise from the main road just a little way away is muffled by the sand dunes, and the yellow glow from the streetlights reminds me that I’m near the town.

I walk briskly in the cold air. The sound of crunching shells under foot seems deafening, but I’ve come to listen to the waders. As the sea creeps ever nearer, oystercatchers pipe up and begin flying in the darkness. I pick up the soft shrills of dunlins, but have no idea where they are. I disturb a solitary grey plover, such a plaintive call, and one I don’t hear often. Ringed plovers are about, and as I near the river, redshank alarm calls fill the night air. I rarely hear curlews after dark; I know they’re here, but even during the day, they’re not very vocal in the bay. I’m not alone, as a few joggers pass by on the beach, and even at this late hour, dog walkers need to exercise their charges. I spot two lights moving about on the mud, and guess they’re fisherman digging illegally for lugworms in this protect site.

I turn my torch towards the sky and catch the flashing wings of oystercatchers as they fly between the beach and the playing field on the other side of the main road. Although there’s little to see, the hive of activity, missed by most, is magical and easily compares with the daytime spectacle.

Such is Progress

At last overnight frost has whitened the fields behind our cottage, and it feels as though winter has finally arrived. The old medieval field strips, still run as a market garden, are cold and uninviting. Only brussel sprouts are ready for picking, and there will be no other crops until the first potatoes are gathered in spring.  Barren long plastic polytunnels used for early strawberries and bedding plants, are open to the elements, providing shelter and some food for blackbirds and robins. Amongst the already ploughed furrows, I can sometimes flush snipe in winter, but there are none again today, and I need to venture out onto the common to be certain of finding them.

I’m not exactly sure of the date of our cottage. Occupied by market gardeners for generations, it could date back 300 years, and our garden is a remnant of what was once a long field strip. Modern housing has gradually overtaken the old fields, and only old names like Long Acre echo the history of the place, clashing with manufactured and irrelevant modern ones.  Such is progress.

From the cold fields, I return home via the farm shop to buy eggs. The farm dates back to 1870, originally selling fruit and vegetables in season, all of which would have been fresh and organic. Today’s offerings are mostly bought from wholesalers in Swansea, and could have come from anywhere in the world, and I know the colour of the yokes in the eggs I buy will not compare with those I knew as a boy.  Such is progress.

Down to Bedrock

Last night’s gale has cleaned out the sand and pebbles from the little beach at Lamb’s Well right down to the bedrock.  There are just a few pebbles and some kelp on the now flattened splash zone at the head of the little cove, but the smell of kelp and salt, and the sound of pounding surf remain.  The packed-down grass is alive with sand hoppers driven up from the beach by the gale, a bonanza for a rock pipit, gobbling them up with consummate ease.  Sea slaters too, looking like gigantic wood lice, race for cover as I lift the grass.

 

Years ago, when I studied rock pipits in this hidden cove, there was a footpath down from the top of the cliff, which, now covered in brambles, makes easy access to the tiny beach possible now only from Langland Bay at low water.  I sit at the eastern side of the cove, facing into the stiff wind and watch a rock pipit chase others away from the feast.   Grey clouds race across the horizon, and the lowering sun casts a silvery sheen across the sea, turning the western headland into a silhouette.  Only in summer do I meet people here, but in winter I can guarantee to have it all to myself. 

Lamb’s Well is a great place for sea crustaceans, especially at the headland, where vertical rock faces are covered with limpets, acorn barnacles, and different kinds of periwinkles, but it’s the small periwinkles, hidden amongst the barnacles, that have a special meaning for me, and are vital for the survival of rock pipits during late winter.  My studies years ago relieved that ‘my’ clever little bird defended not only the beach, but also the headland, turning to a diet of small periwinkles when food on the beach finally ran out - a great survival strategy.

Eerie Cliffs

It’s dire in the countryside now, but probably only those living in the rural community really understand what’s happened.  At any time of the year now, I can walk along Gower lanes, through woodlands, or visit Oxwich marsh and find very few small birds.  I’m old enough to remember hedgerows alive with bird song, the loud buzz of insects, and myriads of butterflies in wild flower meadows.  Feeding birds in our gardens has become the norm, providing tiny refuges away from a progressively sanitised world.  I suspect that the majority of city dwellers are not aware of the hush that’s gradually spread into rural life.

It’s crept up on us, and there are many reasons for this demise. Pesticides, fragmentation of good wildlife habitats and the like, but at the end of the day it all boils down to big business and farming practices. I’ve heard it said that we’re lucky on Gower, we don’t have the prairies, which cover large areas of England, and we have our commons and cliffs, but in reality wildlife on Gower is nothing like it used to be.

I’m reminded of this once again as I walk the familiar cliff path between Caswell and Langland.  The cliffs are eerily devoid of birds, no once-familiar stonechats, linnets, or greenfinches. A couple of rock pipits call from amongst the rocks down on the shore, and I get excited at a robin and a dunnock by the path. At Langland Bay, I’m depressed to realise that, apart from a few gulls and feral pigeons, these were the only birds I encountered along the entire mile or so of cliff path.

Purple Sandpipers

Drawing back the curtains this morning reveals a very thin layer of frost on the lawn. With rain forecast for later, I hurry over breakfast to give myself ample time for my promised visit to Sedger’s Bank and purple sandpipers. Low water exposes an extensive flat, rocky pavement at the western end of Port Eynon Bay, and I need to get to the furthest part of the bank to find them. On the way out, the sandy beach is always interesting. I pass several ring plovers, oystercatchers, sanderlings, a couple of grey plovers, grey herons, little egrets and many gulls, but it’s the turnstones I’m looking for, and that’s where the purple sandpipers will be.

It’s wild out here. The sound of curlews, oystercatchers and herring gulls mixes with the crashing waves, there are no human influences and I realize again how fortunate I am to live in this place. There’s solitude too, and as the rain-bearing clouds begin to move in from the west, I hope that the ever-changing weather will be kind. Offshore, shags dive through the surf, and cormorants slide under the surface, perhaps in search of the same fish. Wintering flocks of great-crested grebes are here throughout the winter, they never surface all together, but I count at least ten riding out the waves.

Turnstones are a little less confiding than purple sandpipers, and once a flock is put up, it’s easy to separate the two. In flight, purple sandpipers lack gaudy white wing patterns, and are easy to pick out, but against the rocks they’re easily overlooked. They usually hang out on the rocks at the very edge of the sea, and so getting to them needs effort. There are at least twenty, but likely to be more, and as usual some of them are very tame indeed.

Turning for home the first spots of rain splatter my face, and I catch the sight of a diver offshore. It’s too far out to identify precisely; great northern, red-throated, or black-throated, it doesn’t really matter, and knowing would make little difference to the enjoyment of my morning.

Light

The light on Gower changes dramatically, but during the winter months it can be spectacular.  November ended with a series of dull, dank days, and cold that gets right through to the bones.  December looks like it will dawn bright, and with magical light over a calm, pearly sea, it’s also unseasonably warm. By tomorrow everything could change again, sending us back to low coastal clouds, wind and near-horizontal rain.  It’s this unpredictable the weather that probably keeps most visitors away in winter, but it’s what really defines living in this marvellous place.

Nights can be clear. Like a headlight in the southern sky, and away from the lights of Swansea, Venus shines bright above the sea each evening now.  The local astronomical society holds winter stargazing events in Gower villages, and are always very busy.

The light in late afternoon on Rhossili beach can be magical, but sunsets are always unpredictable.  A layer of cloud settles above the western horizon and I wait.  The temperature drops like a stone as I watch the sun go down quickly over the Crabart.  There is colour, but not enough to tempt me to stay for a photograph. There will be a sunset,  but not the spectacular one I had hoped for, and so I head back up the steep path to village. In the dying light, I think of the astronomers heading out, and I’m struck that we still refer to the ‘sun going down’ - a legacy from the days when astronomers believed the sun went around the earth.