A Great Man

The walk west from Landimore along the edge of the marsh is bounded to the north by a high wooded escarpment.  Sheep shelter in these woods, particularly during winter months, and there’s hardly any understory.  I clamber up through the trees to North Hill Tor; I chose this route not wishing to pass though the farm, but am soon discovered by the farmer’s sheep dog.  At first he threatens, then his bark is worse than his bite, and now he’s my friend.  Ravens nest below the rocky tor and have probably done so for centuries.  They too check me out and like my newly found friend, accept this strange figure entering their remote world.

It’s rugged on the top of the tor.  A cold, keen wind blows from the estuary and as always, I’m alone in this remote spot, the entire estuary north and east is set out below; it’s magnificent.  Miles of salt marsh dotted with thousands of glistening pools look like tiny jewels in the sunshine.  A few sheep graze on the emerald green meadow below, but thousands more dot the salty estuary.

I can’t come to this corner of Gower without remembering my old and dear friend William Wilkinson.  A real gentleman, William was knighted for his services to nature conservation.  He was Chairman of the Nature Conservancy Council and helped raise the profile of wildlife conservation in these islands at a critical time. His family still own the two cottages along the path below me, and his father’s grave is in the garden of one of them.  How well I remember happy times at dinner with William and his wife a generation ago; good wine and fellowship was always followed by plans about how we might save the world.  He lies in Cheriton churchyard.

Merlin Supper

It’s been good for hen harriers of late, and they’ve been seen far and wide on the peninsula this winter; perhaps the severe weather has driven more of them further west.  There’s a roost on the south side of the Burry Inlet, but numbers vary.  It needs lots of evening visits to get a good idea of the number of individuals involved, but even then it’s not easy to be sure how many are there.

Arriving in late afternoon well before the light fades is best.  The salt marsh at this time of day is quiet and not much moves.  With the tide out, I can see for miles and find only two males and a ringtail.  An hour passes before they finally drop out of sight into the rank vegetation.  I’ve heard that a male marsh harrier was seen here recently. Most migrate south in the autumn, but some stay, especially in the east of England, and we’ve had them on Gower in previous winters.  No luck this evening and my hope of a short-eared owl also brings no joy; they too are unpredictable, but in some winters can be guaranteed here at dusk.

The light fades and I drive slowly along the deserted marsh road.  A silhouetted kestrel hovers away to my right; it’s far too dim to say male or female, but a merlin makes up for everything.  Sitting obligingly on a fence post only a few yards away, he tears away at a meadow pipit, or is it a linnet?  The light disappears as invisible tawny owls appear in the woods.  These are much easier to count, especially at this time of year, when vocal males ready themselves for the breeding season just round the corner.

Great Dunes

It’s good to live by the sea, especially near a great bay.  I hear there are lots of seabirds offshore and know the best places to find them.  At Blackpill there are just a few and I need to go east along the shore, escaping the confines of Gower, to see what's out there. 


On the other side of the bay, beyond the old docks at Swansea, are great sand dunes, which I'm told are the most extensive in the UK. Designated as part of  a national nature reserve, these dunes are wonderful in summer, but attract few visitors at this time of year. It's ironic how often places so close to major industrial areas attract wildlife. Port Talbot steel works and a new gas-fired power station are just a short distance away, and from the top of a high dune I look down on the incoming tide. I'm alone save for skylarks, meadow pipits and linnets. There's no wind; it's one of those raw days when everything is grey. Flat light is good for sea-watching and I can see for miles, and there are lots of birds out there on the water.

The beach here is mostly undisturbed, and I see nobody save for a lone fisherman in the far distance. I walk the tide line chasing sanderlings, but can’t catch them up.  On the firm sand and amongst the small pools by the sea's edge, running pied wagtails move in exactly the same way, but are looking for different things to eat.

  

Moonlight Fox

I lie awake, unable to sleep.  It’s nearly five o’clock in the morning and it won’t be properly light for at least three hours. The moon casts a silver sheen across the bedroom ceiling; I get up and head for the beach, hoping for something special.

Dark clouds flit across the sky, leaving shadows on the moonlit sea.  The moon, sometimes hidden behind jet-black clouds, suddenly bursts with light, continually changing the mood and illuminating the silhouettes of gulls resting on the surface of the sea.  The faint lights from stars seem to turn on and off as the clouds move quickly east, and only once do I glimpse a planet.

I sit on the beach below the cliff path sheltered from the elements, wrap a scarf tightly around my neck and wait.  A tanker, anchored offshore and waiting for the tide, lights up the horizon.  The rhythm of the pounding surf and noise of the foghorn from the lighthouse are the only sounds.  Nothing else stirs. Peace and a lack of sleep cause me to doze off for a moment.  Half awake, I’m gradually aware of movement; it’s a fox, he’s close and totally unaware of me snuggled into the cliff.  He moves steadily, searching through the wrack of kelp along the high water mark.  His movement disturbs an invisible flock of turnstones, which fly and most likely alight a safe distance away.  Through binoculars I can just make out sand hoppers fleeing his advance, but he’s able to snap them up at will.  He moves away, becomes another silhouette and fades into the darkness.

Moonlight gradually merges into first light and I hear voices on the footpath.  Early risers are exercising their dogs; they probably do this daily, but I wonder if any of them have experienced the magic of a moonlit fox.

Rooks Return

The rooks are back at their nests in the village; a sure sign the year has turned.  There are only a few and they’re not yet repairing nests.  They sit around calling and generally look as though they’re deep in conversation.  The ability to hear a rookery from home is something special and one of the defining sounds of the British countryside, which I cherish greatly.

Crocuses are well on their way and the first shoots of daffodils are beginning to show. A neighbour’s garden shines with the brilliant yellow of witch hazel, and catkins hang from the willows on the common.  In contrast to these signs of spring, redwings are still spread out over the playing fields, some on the fenced-off cricket square, whilst roosting winter plumage black-headed gulls wait for the distant tide to recede.  A dead wren on the garden path is a sign that winter has yet to take its final toll.  Perfect, and with no sign of damage, this beautiful little creature probably met its end during the frosty night. 

There are few greenfinches around; there have been none at the garden feeders for a long time. Like several species of finches, they tend to suffer from a parasite and their numbers were seriously reduced in 2005 as a result of this; maybe they have still not fully recovered. Goldfinches continue to delight in the garden, and a flock of long-tailed tits pops in for a short while each day - they don't stay long, adorning the peanut feeders for just a few minutes before moving on. Tit numbers are definitely down, and even though I kept the feeders well stocked during the snow, I'm beginning to believe that they've suffered badly. Nuthatches and great-spotted woodpeckers are absent too, but all will be revealed when the results of the BTO Breeding Bird Survey are published. 

 

Whiteford

A trip out to Whiteford Point at the northwest tip of Gower is a bit of a trek.  The walk takes about an hour, but the birding, especially in winter is first class.  I stride down to the salt marsh and over the sea wall.  To the right, lapwings galore, more than 400 gyrate and call in the shimmering light. Gower ponies watch me pass, and already I’m uplifted as I turn towards the Point still a mile away.  Making my way along the edge of the marsh, snipe flush from either side; there’s always the chance of a jack snipe here, but I rarely get lucky.

The salt marsh is alive with wigeon, shelduck, pintail and teal.  Little egrets have been scarce since the snow, but several stand out, pure white in the sun.  Ever-present redshank are mostly heard, but not seen.  The lapwings seem never still and starlings too are continually on the move following the ponies.

I head for Berges Island, poorly named and more of a sand bank.  Good intentioned birders put up a hide here at the water’s edge in the late sixties, but didn’t count on the continual movement of the sand.  I find only a water rail boldly walking behind the desolate hide and wonder what he’s doing way out here.

The derelict lighthouse at Whiteford Point was the first iron-made one in Britain; old now, it looks as though it’s in danger of falling into the sea.  Oystercatchers and turnstones pick around its base, and cormorants perch on its superstructure drying their wings.  Offshore, red-throated and great northern divers, great-crested grebes, red-breasted mergansers, common scoters, eiders and several brent geese make the effort of getting out here more than worthwhile.

Sitting high up on top of the sand dunes it’s cold and windy, I watch the threatening white water race out towards the open sea; I’ve seen nobody all morning and feel that I own the place. 

George

Provided the sea conditions are right, there are beaches on Gower where there’s good surfing at any time of year, and winter is probably the best season.  It’s mostly a young people’s sport; my days of feeble attempts to stand up are long gone.  At Caswell Bay, the surf looks just right and a dozen black-suited young men sit offshore astride boards, waiting patiently for the swell to increase.  There’s a lively surfing community round here, and when ‘the surf’s up’ the grapevine ensures that in no time at all they’re down on the beach.  There’s good surfing in Langland Bay too, but the best is off Llangennith on Rhosilli Beach, where there are even live webcams to avoid wasted journeys.

There’s a stiff wind blowing from the shore, which may help keep the surf up, and although they’re protected by wetsuits, these Caswell surfers must at least feel the cold on their faces.  There are however hardier souls who bath in the sea every day of the year, and an artist friend has done this at Caswell Bay for as long as I’ve known him.  Now in his mid-seventies, George tells me that even in deep winter he doesn’t really feel the cold.  Wearing only swimming trunks and a skullcap, he rarely misses a day and looks in remarkable rude health.

I’ve really come to the beach to explore the rocky shore, barnacles cover most of the limestone rocks, and the dozens of perfectly formed rock pools midway up the shore are full of marine life.  I sit beside one of the best.  Beautiful red seaweeds and purple anemones decorate the edge, tiny prawns swim about freely, but hermit crabs barely show any movement inside their temporary homes.  Small blennies, rocklings and pipe fish dart for cover if I move too quickly; I marvel at this perfect little cameo of marine life, but realize there’s a real struggle for survival in this small pool. 

Lifeboat House

Sanctuary from essential shopping can be found in the new modern library overlooking Swansea Bay.  The afternoon sun streams in from the west-facing panoramic windows; the sea shimmers glass-like with the outgoing tide.  Distant Lowry matchstick people walking the beach appear silhouetted against the light and I see clearly what he saw.  I’m too far from the shore to look for birds, but they’re there, somewhere out on the mudflats, beyond the glistening sand.  I watch the readers; all generations sit studiously in the newly appointed reading areas.  Students appear to work, but on closer inspection some are playing computer games, or reading newspapers.  A few are just plain old-fashioned, deep inside real books, others peer seriously into laptops, and a few are ‘turning’ the pages of electronic books.

The sweep of the bay ends at the distant old lighthouse at Mumbles Head, gleaming in its recent new coat of white paint.  At the end of the pier, four huge ugly piles stand up from the seabed; they’re laying the foundations for a new bigger lifeboat house, necessary to accommodate the latest expensive boat.  They’ll be gone as soon as the work is finished and I ponder the future of the old lifeboat station, so bound up with the history of the village.

As I leave, groups of noisy children on the floor below are being introduced to learning via paper and screen.  The sun slowly sinks over the lighthouse in a pale golden glow and I leave, uplifted and celebrating the paper library’s temporary victory over its inevitable defeat by the electronic age.  I wonder how long books will last, but encouraged in the knowledge that these children will grow up knowing about the magic of feeling real books.

Madness

It’s still cold and there’s snow just a little to the north of us, but an early morning walk down to the woods brings early signs of spring.  Great tits, with their bold ‘teacher, teacher’ song are already making claim to territories, and the thin winter song of robins is beginning to turn richer.  Dunnocks too are beginning to emit their tinkling song a little, and I’ve heard mistle thrushes on and off for the last week.  The first snowdrops are in flower a little early this year, and a surprise after the long cold snap; the woodland trees are laden with tight new buds, much to the delight of bullfinches, happily working their way through the sycamores.

I return and head for the lighthouse to have lunch in the car.  A pod of three harbour porpoises deals easily with the tidal race between the islands.  Perhaps a sign of climate change, in the past they were reported mostly in summer, but are now with us all year round.  Little else but gulls sends me round into the bay, where I meet an old colleague from the university, who tells me the disturbing news that Swansea Bay has been chosen as a site for exploratory drilling for gasified coal deposits.  Surely this is madness; how can this be green technology, when whatever they find will end up in the atmosphere as carbon dioxide?

Mod Cons

In winter, there’s often a hard frost in the valley at Parkmill.  Sheltered on all sides by high trees, and with little sun reaching the ground, the fields can sometimes stay white all day.  The stream running down to the beach at Three Cliffs Bay trickles gently over the ford, but the footbridge is covered with hoarfrost; I tread carefully.  Ahead the footpath leads to Green Cwm, but at the turning I walk straight on.

Unless staying for bed and breakfast, or wanting to go horse riding, Parc-Le-Breos is one of those places that would probably pass you by.  Off the beaten track and hidden in a great horseshoe of woodland, it’s a very private world.  There are no footprints on the frosty path; I’m the first to venture in or out.  The house, once a Victorian hunting lodge and also used by Polish airmen during World War II, is set in what was originally a Norman deer park.  With an unusually long frontage is seems out of place in this tranquil valley.  It’s early morning and there’s little sign of life; a pair of ravens, probably from the nearby cliffs, call overhead and robins sing from the woodland edge.  The sound of horses breaks the silence and the first of the day’s horse-riding customers are off, maybe heading to the beach for a gallop.

The riders pass, and quite returns; not wanting to trespass I return to Green Cwm.  Sound echoes in this deep valley, but everything is still; I can hear a pin drop.  The well-preserved Neolithic burial chamber on the valley floor is painted white with frost; it looks unfamiliar, but the sun will reach here later in the morning.

There’s a cottage at the fork in the path leading to the main road to the north.  Unoccupied for many years, it’s been renovated and seems to have all mod cons.  Living in such a remote spot must have drawbacks, but on mornings like this must be wonderful.  Gower can often be at it’s best on cold winter days.

Earlier Frogs

Each year, the frogs in the garden pond seem to breed earlier; another indicator of climate change.  With the snow gone, and the last remnants of ice melted, they’re already active.  Telltale swirls under the surface and faces looking up, announce the time for mating, and frogspawn has arrived early again.  Although the pond is not that big, there must be ten or more writhing in the cold water, and by lunchtime there’s a mass of frogspawn on the surface.  It’s only one clump, and it will take time until the surface is covered with spawn. If the ice returns, the activity will cease, and frogs will disappear, but this early spawn doesn’t seem to be affected.

Gardens have become an important refuge for lots of wildlife, and ponds play an important part.  Just about any conservation organization gives advice about creating ponds for wildlife, and there are national surveys showing just what an important habitat they’ve become.  An amazing variety of life is found in our little pond, providing a rich source of enjoyment throughout most of the year.  We once had goldfish, lots of them, until a grey heron took care of that in a few early morning visits.  Restocking, even with dark fish, provided the heron with more easy pickings, so the pond is now fish and heron free.

Apart from the frogs, the pond looks quite dead, but in no time at all, the first shoots of yellow flag and all those unwanted ‘weeds’ will peep through, and myriads of insects will appear.  Now that the ice has gone, the birds can drink, the foxes that pass through the garden each night will pause again, and I might even allow the rogue cats to have an occasional sip.

Normality

The snow’s gone, the rain is back with a vengeance and the temperature is in the dizzy heights of double figures (centigrade that is).  The common is damp and drab, and the usual shining autumn browns are dulled with saturated dank-looking brackens.  I’m curious to see when the redwings will go. I suspect they won’t retreat east until there’s a general thaw across the country and ironically, with the wet ground bringing worms to the surface, the conditions here are just right for them now.  Moles too are probably grateful for the thaw; the grass verges on each side of the road are peppered with the fruits of their labour.  The village green, waterlogged in places, provides bathing for thrushes and gulls, and a few locals in wellies are at last able to exercise their canine companions.

I walk in late afternoon through the wood down to the beach.  The great-spotted woodpeckers that deserted my peanut feeders during the snow are here, and I wonder why they didn’t stay in the garden. There’s little else to break the silence of the bleak winter wood, and I meet nobody.  A wet looking Buzzard sits motionless beneath the canopy, as though waiting for the rain to stop. At the beach, and along the coastal path the warm drizzle is somehow comforting.  A southerly wind blows salt spray onto the flattened slopes above the shore.  Rock pipits, well adapted to their warmer intertidal winter home, seem not to have suffered from the cold weather.  The thin line between the beach and shore usually escapes the snow, and it’s where I find the birds.  A cormorant stands on a rock drying out its wings, and turnstones are doing what turnstones do.  I can see only a few hundred yards into the misty sea, but enough to make out a few common scoters and some shags.  Turning for home, I feel good that we’re more or less back to normal warm, wet, winter weather; such are the pleasures of living by the sea.

Otters

A generation ago the suggestion that otters might be seen on Gower was fanciful.  During the latter half of the 20^th century, pollution in rivers caused a major decline throughout the UK, and they became extinct on Gower for a long time.  The earliest record of one here is in 1843, when a large male was caught up in fishing nets off Oxwich Point.

Rivers have now been cleaned up and they’ve returned, but going out looking for them is usually a fruitless exercise.  They’re mostly nocturnal and finding one during the day would be really lucky.  Ever optimistic, I always keep an eye out at Oxwich Marsh and on lonely beaches, but I’ve never been lucky. From the slits in the hide overlooking the South Pond at Oxwich, I peer at the far bank hoping that one of the many ducks moving about by the edge of the reeds will be an otter.  They’ve been seen here in winter, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they breed in the marsh.  As usual, I draw a blank, but I’m sure that with enough time and effort I could see my first Gower otter from this hide.

Newton Farm

The land beneath the eastern slopes of Rhosilli Down is one of Gower’s best-kept secrets; it echoes with history and is a place where time seems to stand still.  Enchanting and bound up with derelict farms and old field-systems, it looks as though it’s been this way for decades, or even longer.  There are three ruined farms beneath the down; Kingshall, Old Henllys and Newton Farm.

The land around Newton Farm is wild and desolate, and feels ancient.  Divided now between nearby Margam and Great Pitton Farms, the bare fields are empty save for a few sheep and a couple of forlorn looking horses.  The farm buildings are not easily accessible and the half-mile path from the main road is rutted with old frost-hardened cattle footprints and tractor ruts.  I take extra care.  I come here not only for solitude, but also for the wildlife.  In summer the hedgerows are alive with windflowers, but out here in bleak midwinter everything is shut down.

Tree sparrows have never been common on Gower and just a few hang on, breeding in nest boxes amongst the hedgerow trees surrounding these desolate fields. Winter seed is put out in an attempt to improve their survival, but it’s not clear if it’s having any effect.

At the farm a keen wind rattles a loose corrugated iron roof on an old fallen down outhouse.  The only other sound is the wind whistling through isolated trees, some growing from within the ruins of farm buildings.  A flock of chaffinches feeds on the grain hanging from feeders and spread on the ground, but there’s no sign of the tree sparrows.

Oxbows

It’s not a long walk from the shop in Parkmill to the sea.  Recent frosts have made the ground hard underfoot and although the weak winter sun is well above the horizon, little light reaches the path, sheltered by high woodland to the south.  I emerge into wintery light and onto firm, grass-covered sand.  Pennard Pill looks dark as it flows quickly towards its first bend just a short distance away.  Oxbows are uncommon on Gower, but at Three Cliffs Bay there can be several.  The first bend of the river is s-shaped, and with high, firm banks, it’s unlikely this will ever form into an oxbow.  The river makes a u-turn where Northhill Wood ends, and there’s more of a chance here, but it would need very high spring tides to break through the 60 or so yards of solid sand. It’s on the beach that the oxbows form.  The sandy expanse of Three Cliffs Bay is wide; tides and winter gales change its structure daily and oxbows come and go.  Today’s sweeps wide across the beach, turning westwards to the north of the tunnel under the famous three cliffs.  There’s just enough space to get through and I enter a new world.  Pounding surf, salt spray and the smell of the open sea makes it feel good to be a live, and my footprints in the sand are the first of the day.

The tide advances swiftly here and I have to move quickly to round Tor Point.  I walk the half-mile to where Nicholaston Pill fans out to the sea.  The little river meanders through Oxwich Marsh and years ago fashioned a wonderful oxbow on the beach.  In it’s wisdom, The Countryside Council for Wales built a gabion at the point of the oxbow, destroying it and the wonderful view from the ridge high up in Nicholaston Wood.

The Circuit

For many years now, and usually on cold winter days, we take off and drive what we call the circuit.  It’s a simple route around Gower looking for birds and wildlife in favourite locations.  At this time of year, the weather dictates that most of the birding is done from the comfort of the car, with just occasional quick trips outside to peer over hedges.

Near Kittle, the first stop is what we call the lapwing field.  Years ago we could expect to find a decent flock here during most of the winter months, and if the weather was particularly cold, there would often be golden plovers as well.  We draw a blank yet again today and may need to take it out of the circuit.

Next is Oxwich Beach. From the car park, I count the small flock of sanderlings and scan the bay for grebes and divers.  Red-throated is much the commonest diver in winter here, but the sheltered water to the east of Oxwich Head gives sanctuary to a great-northern diver today; it cheers us up no end.

We head for Rhossili Bay.  Facing due west and exposed to the full force of Atlantic gales, this magnificent sandy bay is the wintering home to thousands of common scoters.  The trick is to look behind the surf, where these jet black sea ducks feed on the bivalves disturbed by the pounding surf.  I count only a few hundred, just a fraction of the number I know are out there.  Velvet scoters winter in the bay too, but at this distance, and from the steamed up car windows, there’s no hope.

Lunch, in the car, is normally taken by the north Gower marshes.  If we time the tide correctly, the air can be full of lapwings, golden plovers and thousands of other waders and wildfowl; we get it right today.  Best of all though is the short-eared owl quartering over the vast expanse of spartina grass; it entertains us long after our sandwiches have gone.

Napoleonic Wars

We often walk down to Brandy Cove, especially in summer, when the sheltered lane can sometimes be alive with butterflies and flowers; in winter it’s very different.  There’s no dappled shade and the fields and hedgerows are mostly devoid of life.  At Hareslade Farm I’m escorted by the sheepdog, he’s friendly enough, just making sure I don’t intrude into his territory.  It’s cold, the open field below the farm is white with early morning frost, but none reached this sunken path deep down in the slade.

At the bottom of the valley, the woodland ends.  I stand on the cliff edge overlooking Brandy Cove and imagine smugglers here during the Napoleonic Wars two centuries ago.  The origin of Hareslade is not clear and may have a connection to hares, but I’m told that the old name for the inlet was Hareslade even before these smuggling days.

The beach is deserted; just a few pipits exploit the wrack of kelp along the high water mark.  It’s low tide; un-trodden golden sand reaches to the water’s edge and all I hear is the cry of gulls and the gentle surf.  I turn west along the cliff path, in places treacherous from years of walking boots polishing the now wet rocks.  A few mid-winter gorse flowers decorate the cliffs, but apart from the ever-present golden lichen, there’s little colour.  There must be seven slades leading down to the rocky shore at Seven Slades, but I’ve never really worked this out.  I head on, conscious that the cold morning may thwart my attempt to reach Pwll Du Bay.  At the eastern end of the bay, a biting wind picks up, I decide against another stretch of slippery rocks and return to find the sun has almost melted the frost and the fields in Hareslade are greening once again.