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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