Fairwood Common

At this time of year Gower commons can seem lifeless, even desolate, but there’s a feeling of expectation.  It’s been very dry of late, giving time for the boggy ground to dry out a little.  Although the sun is finally out, there’s a keen wind from the north, ensuring that it will be some time before any spring migrants arrive.  Deep footprints of cattle and ponies hardened by recent frosts make walking difficult, as I head off the path looking for signs of spring.  On leggy gorse, clumps of yellow flowers promise spring, but there’s always some out in every month.  I flush a snipe; there are lots here in winter, but they’ll be gone from Gower shortly; sadly none breed here anymore. 

The lane behind the Gower Wildflower Centre on the edge of Fairwood Common is protected from the worst of the weather, and there are more signs of life.  The hedgerow is bare, but moss and lichen forming perfect carpets of green, coat limestone boulders left over from an ancient stonewall.  Contorted horizontal hawthorns, remnants of a hedge laid years ago are also covered, some with tiny shoots of ferns, which have survived winter in this sheltered spot.  Here and there small clumps of snowdrops peep out, and I wonder how long ago this land was woodland.  A chaffinch and a robin sing, I disturb a buzzard by the hedge, and a wren gives out a loud blast a few yards away.  There are blackbirds and a song thrush in the fields, but it seems that the recent relatively mild weather has cleared out the redwings and fieldfares.  Spring is not too far away, but as ever, it’s a waiting game.

Beach Huts

The line of about 80 beach huts along the sweep of Langland Bay dates back to the 1920s.  All tastefully decorated in white and green art décor style, they’re a feature of the bay.  Owned by the city, they are leased to local residents and much sought after.  Set a couple of meters above the curving coastal path, and fronted by occasional mature palm trees, they give a real English Riviera feel to the bay; I could be south Devon, or even the Mediterranean.  There’s a long established programme of restoration and maintenance, and in lovely early spring sunshine, a small team of painters are hard at work touching up these lovely wooden structures.

I head westward past the golf course to Snapple Point.  A constant stream of walkers along the path has made robins very tame here, and they’ll sometimes take crumbs from an outstretched hand.  Sheltered from the weather, celandines are in flower by the path, my first for the year, and garlic leaves a good six inches high are beginning to colour the ground with a new rich green.  At the Point, ten empty ‘In Loving Memory’ benches look out over a hazy sea.  I pause for a while on one facing due west towards Oxwich Point; there’s no horizon, just bright grey-blue light over a glistening sea.  Onshore a yellow carpet of gorse flowers not yet fully out, stretches to Whiteshell Point and beyond.  It promises a good gorse spring, and the cliffs could be a riot of yellow a month or so from now, but I never seem to predict this accurately.

The tide’s up, there’s just a gentle swell lapping against the rocks, and on the sea just a few gulls.  Many black-headed gulls, such a feature of this coast in winter, have donned summer plumage now and departed for their breeding grounds.  The walk to Whiteshell Point is sheltered and in some places windless, and I pick up the soft coconut-like scent of gorse; spring is just around the corner.

Living Decoys

Teal are easily spooked; even at this distance I have to be careful to keep out of sight.  They fly in, land in a flash of green wings, and head straight for the cover of the reeds; the South Pond at Oxwich is silent again.  I keep out of sight, but they know I’m here; shovelers, mallards, gadwalls sit motionless like decoys, eyes fixed.  One step into the open, and they scurry across the water to resettle at a safer distance.

Below the bent and broken stems of last year, and virgin shoots of yellow flag and phragmites break through the murky waters of the reed bed.  It will be some time before the watery green carpet of spring appears properly, but I’m content with the vibrant mosses and lichens on ancient willows and alders.

There are threatening clouds over Oxwich Beach. It’s warm, and apart from a few distant walkers, the great expanse of sand is deserted.  At the mouth of Nicholaston Pill, a motley collection of gulls loaf about and bath in the shallow water as it gently creeps into the sea.  There’s a grace and softness to the common gulls, reminding me of the gentle nature of kittiwakes, very different from the severe looking herring and black-backed gulls sitting on the wet sand by the tide line.

Overcast skies clear, the blond-coloured marsh lights up in a rosy evening glow, and I listen in vain for my first spring chiffchaff in the wood beyond the stream.  Excited greylag geese shatter the peace, honking loudly as they crash into roost; more arrive, settling in pairs ready for breeding in the weeks ahead.  Silhouetted grey herons float gracefully towards the alder wood by the Middle Pond, soon to be a hive of breeding activity.  A snipe flies up almost from beneath my feet, twists and turns, and disappear into the twilight. In the diminishing light, a thin reddish line appears in the sky over Oxwich Wood, the plaintive, distant song of a mistle thrush near the village fades long before a nearby song thrush, and both gradually merge with the tawny owls calling in the near darkness.

Wild Daffodils

I know just a few places on Gower where I can find wild daffodils.  There are not many left and even where they occur, only small clumps hang on.  A few woodlands have them and there’s a place at the edge of Pengwern Common where I can be certain of finding a few.  Although this month has been cold, I find a clump in flower on the soggy bank of a stream shaded by woodland.  A remnant of how it was before the commons were cleared for grazing, this relic wood is also home to flowering snowdrops, primroses and emergent garlic leaves.  It feels ancient here.  Walking upstream past willow and hazel catkins, I flush a grey wagtail and disturb frogs courting in tiny ponds, probably made by cattle sheltering from winter weather.

I’ve timed it just right at Fairyhill.  The wooded gardens, surrounded by old limestone walls, are awash with daffodils.  This charming 18^th century house, set in mature grounds, is delightful; I knew it well years ago, before it was tastefully restored and converted into an upmarket hotel.   I walk the grounds amid the thousands of blooms.  Most daffodils are cultivated, but some look wild.  Multicoloured crocuses, snowdrops and primroses also light up the woodland floor. I’m alone and it feels special.  The old house is a riot of Virginia creeper in summer, but even now the tangle of branches weave beautiful patterns on the south-facing wall.  A pair of domesticated white ducks loaf about by the edge of the pond and the rippling sound of a small stream completes an atmosphere of peace, wellbeing and affluence.  It’s certainly an expensive place to drop in for lunch, and I have dined here on rare occasions, but the flowers are free, making my coffee on the terrace feel like great value.

Slow spring

Cold weather has held back the onset of spring.  Snowdrops, crocuses and primroses have all been a little late this year and although some birds are starting nest building, there’s not much bird song yet.  Daffodils are normally in flower by St David’s Day and although some are out on shaded roadsides, the majority are still in bud.

In the woodlands, trees show signs of the awakening spring.   Carpets of new garlic shoots are beginning to spread over woodland floors, fighting for light amongst the dull greens of last year’s ivy leaves.  Hazel catkins and their attendant little flowers have been out for a couple of weeks already and the soft catkins of goat willow shine in a rare shaft of sunlight.  Green alder catkins, with tints of brown hang in clumps from branches, they too catching the morning rays of the sun.  There are closed buds on most trees, but horse chestnuts are showing signs of breaking out.

In some field margins and hedgerows, a few early meadow buttercups and common field speedwell flowers have appeared in the last week, and the odd coltsfoot gives another dash of yellow to an otherwise drab wintery picture. 

There seem to be lots of blackbirds about at the moment.  Six males in the garden this morning was unusual, and the fields by the wood is dotted with them.  I wonder if they are winter visitors preparing to move back to the Continent.

Early Bumblebees

It’s not unusual to have an odd day or two of warm weather in late February, which can often bring out early insects.  There are buff-tailed bumblebees and honeybees in the garden and, in the sand dunes down by the bay, a tortoiseshell butterfly was on the wing in early afternoon.

Bees and their demise have become a part of life in recent times, as the issue of neonicitinoid pesticide poisoning has gained more profile.  My friend Rosemary has played a central role in the fight against this, not only locally, but also as part of a worldwide campaign to ban these most lethal of pesticides, which are almost certainly responsible for much of the demise of our wildlife in recent years.   In an attempt to redress the balance, Rosemary and Palle turned a field behind their house into a wildflower meadow.  Over a few years the meadow gradually changed into a riot of flowers in summer, attracting a myriad of pollinators.  Hay was taken off at the right time in summer and in a traditional way, leaving seeds for winter birds.  The whole enterprise was inspirational and showed what can be done with common sense and effort. Sadly in the end, their effort was to no avail, the poisons won out and the all the flowers  died.

I call Rosemary.  Yes, she has a couple bumblebees in the field today and butterflies too, but she’s more occupied with the campaign and making sure that the Select Committee taking place in Westminster at present, has sufficient information to persuade politicians to ban these insidious pesticides before it’s too late.  Rachel Carson’s ‘Silent Spring’ could pale into insignificance if the pesticide industry wins out and these silent killers are allowed to persist.

Horse Cliff

It’s the sea that does it for me.  I know I’m not alone in this, but after almost half a century living by its side, I can’t imagine a life inland.  It’s not just any sea that’s the magnet; it’s these wild western coasts that have a special hold on me.  There’s a feeling of mystery and awe about the Atlantic rollers as they crash against the rocks at The Knave below Horse Cliff.  I rarely venture out to this remote spot in winter; there’s not much wildlife at this time of year and it’s usually too wild, windy and cold, but something in my soul draws me to what is one of the most beautiful Gower views.  Looking west from Horse Cliff towards Worm’s Head has got to be a view that ranks with any in the world.  I’ve been lucky enough to see the Grand Canyon and California’s Big Sur and many other grade 1 views; this certainly compares and is a secret shared only by a discerning few.

In winter it’s different; no soft green sward on the cliff top, just a flat rabbit-grazed light brown mat, with no sign of summer flowers.  On the rocks below the sea boils, seeming not to bother the grey seals looking up at me with a puzzled gaze.  There are sheep here, some grazing the only green bits of turf left in sheltered spots on what look like dangerous ledges.  Rock pipits are just audible above the roar of the sea, and a flock of linnets keep low to the ground searching for seeds between scattered gorse bushes on the cliff top.

Out to sea, gulls commute east and west, and the usual shags sit drying wings on the rocks just south of The Knave.  Under the cliff face fulmars, not long back from mid-Atlantic, gracefully patrol their breeding ledges, but don’t land. I realise that this wonderful place is as beautiful in winter as in high summer, but at this time of year the land is rich in shades of brown rather than green.