Dry Ford

Like most of the Norman churches on Gower, St Teilos’ at the head of the Bishopston Valley has a sturdy castellated tower. A neat black clock-face with golden painted hands and roman numerals tells me it’s just before one o’clock, but the hands don’t move. I wonder if they'll correct it for summer time.  There’s no great yew in the old churchyard, just a vast Wellingtonian dominating the church; I dread to think of the damage it could do to the beautiful old building in a big storm.

Two grotesques are missing from the sides of one of the church windows, but six remain, mostly in fine condition. I wonder at their meaning, but have no clue. Such a feature of old Gower churches, they add mystery to this place of worship shrouded in centuries of history.

There’s been no rain for at least two weeks, and the stream running in front of the church is bone dry; it’s fed from Fairwood Common, and comes and goes at this point depending on rainfall. There’s just a small murky pool below the parched old cobbled ford, and the wagtails that usually patrol this spot are nowhere to be seen. The path down the valley starts at the ford and follows the dry bed of the stream for a while, before disappearing underground, before emerging again down the valley. There's moss everywhere, and wild garlic decorates the green carpet underfoot. It’s a good two miles down through the valley to the beach at Pwll Du, but it’s cold, and I decide to head back to the tranquillity and shelter of the churchyard; summer’s the best time for this walk.

Fritillaries in Bud

Winter doesn’t want to let go.  Although it’s clear and sunny, there’s still a nip in the air.  Apart from a few horse chestnut leaves, most large trees remain tightly in bud.  Hedgerows are trying to wake, and bright ivy and patches of greening hawthorn slip by as I drive west to the Penrice Estate.

Inside the Estate, moles have been active; it’s that time if year.  Their earth mounds litter the sheep-grazed meadow, dotted by celandines and daisies.  In the formal gardens, the last snowdrops hang on, peeping out amongst extraordinary carpets of purple crocuses.  Under great beeches even more crocuses, and clumps of primroses, many growing around limestone outcrops, compete with a mass of brilliant yellow daffodils shining in the late morning sunlight.

The Serpentine Lake is free of lilies, and the winter wildfowl seem to have left.  It’s that inter regnum period between the end of winter and the beginning of spring.  There’s very little sound, it’s more or less silent; I hear the squeaking wings of a ravens as it passes low above the canopy.  In a sheltered spot a few violets look feeble; they’ll be out in force here once the weather turns warmer.  In front of the old orangery, snake’s head fritillaries are in bud; I’ll need to come back in a week or so to see these most wonderful flowers at their best.  Inside the orangery, withering fruits of oranges and lemons from last year hang from small pot-bound trees, but already new green ones are getting ready to ripen in the months ahead.

By the Garden Lane, the blond marsh is silent.  New shoots of reed and yellow flag are starting to show, and the green leaves of marsh marigolds creep along the edges of pools, and under the shade of willows. I have the feeling that when spring arrives it will be quick.

Changeover

On the South Pond at Oxwich little grebes seem to have quartered the lake into territories, their constant bubbling a feature that will last well into the autumn.  Necks in unison, the resident pair of mute swans performs a silent, graceful ballet, in contrast to the raucous sounds from a pair of shelducks.  Quiet mallards, teal and shovelers travel about in pairs too, their courting much more discrete.

There’s a sense of changeover in the marsh, an overall mood of preparation for the new season.  Overhead, a carrion crow carries lichen to an almost finished nest high up in an alder, and the song of resident birds increases now at every visit.  Cetti’s warblers sing all year round, but there seem to be more now, their explosive song echoing over the marsh.  I hear woodpeckers drumming in Abraham’s Wood, and a melancholic mistle thrush has a territory somewhere near the village.

It’s not just birds that herald a changeover of seasons, many flowers are already out, and the green shoots of yellow iris and reeds show above the water line in the still golden-coloured marsh.  Woodland trees are decorated with buds waiting to burst, with willows, alders and hazels showing off their catkins. Blue tits, their heads dusted yellow from the catkins, feeds avidly as they move along the Garden Lane dragging with them a goldcrest and a tree creeper.  This could be the last winter flock I see till autumn, as everything changes into breeding mode very soon.

Taken for Granted

The view across Hunts Bay to the limestone headland is spectacular, one of a myriad I can choose round here.  Every few yards along the path the changing angle subtly varies what I see; only a few yards makes such a difference.  Wherever I walk on the cliffs I’m confronted with magnificent vistas; I never tire of living here and fail to understand how some take the coastline for granted.  Emergent yellow gorse contrasts the bare winter browns of bracken and flattened grass, a reminder of how hard this winter has been.  Little grows on these dead looking slopes in early March; a bare canvass that nature will soon paint with washes of greens decorated with multi-coloured flowers insects and birds. 

The choughs are busy again at Bacon Hole; there’s much toing and froing in and out of the cave. It’s not clear if the neighbouring pair by Boscoe Lane will nest, but we sometimes have two pairs each year at this end of Gower.  The peregrines are much in evidence and will start nest building on the cliff face across the Bay very soon.  Stonechats should be singing by now and the pair on the slopes below is the first I’ve seen since the snow.  They suffer from bad winters, but will recover in time.  On the rocky shore it’s still winter, oystercatchers, curlews, turnstones and a few purple sandpipers root through rock pools, and the usual grey heron stands alone.

Daffodils are at their best in sheltered gardens above the cliffs, these warm sunny days with frosty nights have brought them on, and they should produce a blaze of yellow in the next week or so.  Horse chestnuts are one of the first trees to burst into bud, and some south-facing branches have turned bright green, probably this very morning.

After the Gale

We can get gales here at any time of the year, and they’re still common in March. This one was quick, and as is often the case, came in and out with the tide; it lasted just six hours, and was gone by noon.  From reckless surf at the height of a gale, to flat calm when it’s all over, the sea can change dramatically in such a short time. On the cliff path, everything is wet and fresh, below pure white surf boils against the rocks, but the distant sea is already calming. There’s still a sense of energy from the gale, but this will die soon. I watch in awe the force of the Atlantic.

The recent mild weather has brought more colour to the mass of gorse on the cliffs. New vibrant yellows show up against the duller ones of winter. Molehills dot the path on each side, and further along, badgers have been busy overnight. The year’s first delicate violets are appearing, beautiful against the limestone, and from under low-growing blackthorn, their delicate flowers reach for the light. The sun appears in a watery sky, the sea turns quickly from grey to blue, but along the coast the small coves are still shrouded in mist.

Garden Changes

Warmer days has set off spring in the garden, and there are gentle changes afoot.  The grass is shooting up, the willow tree will burst into light spring-green soon, buds are showing on the St John’s wort, and flowers have appeared on the heather by the pond.  Winter redwings are long-gone, the garden is now left to resident blackbirds and a song thrush that pops in from time to time.  Goldfinches sing front and back, but only a few take seeds from the feeders, with the large winter flock now out and about in the surrounding countryside.  Greenfinches wheeze in the conifers, but as yet I see no song flights.  Chaffinches come and go, males looking quite beautiful now, with one singing daily at the bottom of the garden.  Dunnocks sing more, midges fly, frogs are active in the pond, and bumblebees visit.  Cold days can put everything back, but as the equinox gets closer, spring is gradually winning.

I lift the lid of the nest box to find blue tits have been busy; the nest is not complete, but already a soft green lining of moss is in place.  There won’t be any eggs just yet, it’s just a message to spring that they’re ready to go.  Robins too have started building, the nest as usual in a hole in the brick wall of the old stable block.  I can usually find these early nests, but they’ll defeat me later when the leaves are out.

Soon I’ll need to rescue the garden from winter, clear away fallen branches, take out the lawn mower, cut back the shrubs, and begin the never-ending task of trimming hedges.  I can then settle down, wait for the house martins to return, and the first hedgehogs under the night-light by the willow.

Common Fires

The little rain that fell overnight might help to keep the vandals at bay from killing the wildlife on our cliffs and commons again.  At this time of year, and every year before the end of March, it seems as though its open season for anyone with a box of matches to set fire to the dry grass and bracken, causing untold damage to the flora and fauna.  Commons and cliffs should be alive with invertebrates, but these annual fires have ensured that many of them are impoverished.  Some selective burning is beneficial, especially when the gorse gets too leggy, but uncontrolled fires burn deep into the ground, and make recovery very slow.  The loss of biodiversity and carbon cost is incalculable.

Large areas of Wales are ablaze, with fire crews wrestling to keep fires under control.  Forests are at risk, and each year hundreds of hectares are lost to vandals; even lives are in danger when fires invade urban areas.  Our local common and cliffs have escaped so far, but there are still two weeks remaining before burning becomes illegal; I keep my fingers crossed, hope for rain, but the forecast is for perfect fire-raising weather.

Powerless, I retreat to the beach away from the plumes of smoke inland.  A natural smoke-like flock of dunlins tempers my anger, and a male wheatear, my first for the year, heralds hope for the season of renewal ahead.