Along the Shore

Life in the sand dunes is taking on a tired look.  Although there are still shades of pale green, the maram grass is turning yellow, and brambles creep along the sand, some still showing deep autumn-reds, contrasting beautifully with vibrant oranges and browns.  There are remnants of summer colour, mostly the yellows of fading ragwort, but autumn is more or less everywhere. A few remaining hawkweeds, many with accompanying hoverflies, look stunningly bright in the sunshine, but most of the summer colour has now gone.  Evening primroses are lifeless brown stems, but a few are not quite over, with a some flowers dotted here and there. Clumps of sea holly, once vibrant blue, are now shrivelled and brown, but a few still retain silvery leaves. 

A cool breeze from the sea drifts across the beach, ensuring that there will be no late butterflies today.  The marram grass traps sand into small islands, where oaks saplings, no more than a few inches high have taken hold, their perfectly formed pastel-yellow leaves shining brightly in the mellow afternoon sun.  Old man’s beard grows on some of these clumps of raised sand, not in profusion like in nearby hedgerows, but enough to attract a small flock of goldfinches.  Ironically the best splash of autumn colour is provided by the ubiquitous Japanese knotweed, which grows along a freshwater stream running out over the beach.  Glorious yellow and deep reds adorn its banks, and I fear there’s little chance of this alien plant ever being eradicated.  Each high tide varies the route this stream takes over the beach. Usually it’s a deep channel, but it can also take a subterranean route.  Today the water runs in shallow fingers across the sand.

Mature trees grow in the well-established dunes, and there are birds here.  There are always magpies, and today several jays, probably freshly in from Continental Europe for the winter. Tit flocks are small this autumn, and there are no long-tailed tits today.  Greenfinches are also scarce fewer this year, but it’s early days yet, and they may increase as winter sets in.  Apart from robins, the only song comes from an occasional wren.

The tide recedes fast, and the water is already far from the shore, but I can still hear the calls of oystercatchers as they feed on the distant water’s edge.  Beyond the point where the sand ends, the lapping tide has produced myriads of ridges in the rich mud, and between each is a small silvery pool of salt water. Millions of lugworms have been busy, leaving tiny casts as far as the eye can see.  Gulls rest and preen, most are black-headed, but there are common and herring gulls far out near the sea’s edge. Waders are too far away to see properly, but I hear curlews, dunlin, ringed plovers and the occasional grey plover. 

The ever-changing high tide line is littered with flotsam. There’s not enough today to attract sand hoppers, but the sun brings out the flies and attendant pied wagtails. As I turn back, shells crunch underfoot, most are small, old, and polished by the tide.  A perfect cuttlefish shell is unusual, I’m tempted to take it home, but decide not.  Oyster shells are probably from the commercial beds off the lighthouse. This small venture appears to be doing well, but the few mussel shells could be the remnants of a similar enterprise that was destroyed after a big winter gale a few years ago.

At Mumbles Head, I sit on the rocky shore between the islands as the ebbing tide flows quickly past just a few yards away.  Turnstones, now more or less in winter plumage, root about in the flat-lying kelp, and in rocky crevices.  There are oystercatchers and curlews here too, and a grey heron strides incredibly slowly through a rock pool, seemingly with no success.  The tidal race is fast, and seems to help the shags busily diving against the flow.  There are no signs of kittiwakes, they bred on the side of the old pier, and are probably far out to see by now. 

There are lots of rock pools out here, and one illuminated in the golden evening sunlight is magical.  A few tiny fish dart from its sides, but small shore and hermit crabs search for food, untroubled by my shadow.  Beautiful purple sea anemones are motionless, and limpets move ever so slowly along the bottom of the pool.  Patience is the secret, and time relieves tiny shrimps darting in and out of the shelter at the edge of the pool.  There’s no sign of people, just the sounds of the wild, and the wonderful smell of the sea.

I return to the beach after dark.  It’s deserted, and the only light is from the flashing of the lighthouse sending intermittent beams of white light across the bay.  It’s still and quite warm, but there’s a cool feel to air.  I sit on a log and listen.  A lone redshank flies overhead calling and lands somewhere on the mud.  Invisible waders are everywhere, their constant calls carrying over the beach - they feed at night when the tide is out, finding food by touch.  I can’t see them and they can’t see their prey, and I’m struck by the different senses in the natural world.  After so many years knowing these birds, it’s as though I’m reading a familiar book with my eyes closed.  A beautiful waxing moon rises in the southwest, golden and large, it looks close enough to reach out and touch.  It will set soon, and the waders will have even less light on the shore.