Camouflaged Darter

I’m drawn back time and time again to three Gower churches, Penrice, Ilston and Cheriton, and my favourite is always the one I’m visiting. They have many things in common, old, sturdy and beautiful, and each has a strong feeling of history, but it’s their atmosphere that really attracts me. They have similar birds too, and there always seems to be a coal tit somewhere in the churchyard.  These lovely little creatures like conifers, but only Ilston has a great yew tree, which some say dates back to the building of the church in the 12^th century.

In September, Ilston is quiet. There are no tourists with maps in hand looking for the path down to the sea through the churchyard. Beyond the lower gate, overnight rain has made the track wet, and it will stay this way from now until spring. I’ll need better footwear to walk down the valley over the next months. I retreat to the quiet of a bench with my back to the stream. I’m alone, there’s just the gentle sound of  water behind me, and the distinctive rustle of hardening autumn leaves. Only a robin sings.

With the nights drawing in, and the sun getting lower in the sky, there’s much less warmth in the middle part of the day. The slight breeze is a little chilly, but not too cool to prevent a red admiral butterfly taking to the air. In the sunshine, golden lichen-covered gravestones are warm to the touch. On one, a female common darter sits motionless and beautifully camouflaged against the lichen, she doesn’t move, even when I get very close.

The swallows are gone from the stables across the road, I haven’t seen a migrant all morning, and it will soon be the time of year when we start looking for winter visitors. How quickly the seasons change.

Sea Watching

Living by the sea gives an extra dimension to life, but especially at this time of the year when large numbers of seabirds head south from the Arctic. The best places to see them around here are the western headlands of Pembrokeshire, but even this far away from the main Atlantic flyway, it’s worthwhile getting up early and heading out.

I usually make my way to Port Eynon Point, which protrudes out into the Bristol Channel further than any other on Gower. It’s always a bit of a lottery, and you never know what will turn up. Waiting to hear on the grapevine that birds are on the move is the trick, but I risked an early rise this morning, and headed out ‘cold’. It’s wise to take a telescope, but even with binoculars it can often be good. Nestling in the soft, salty turf above the rocky shore provides the best vantage point, and I’m at once watching Manx shearwaters in groups of 20 or more moving steadily up-channel. Hundreds of gannets dive in the turbulent waters off the Point, and with sandwich terns resting on the rocks below, I’m more than happy to have got out of bed early. It isn’t long before I’m joined by a couple of serious birdwatchers bedecked with all manner of expensive paraphernalia. They soon get to work on the parts of sea beyond my reach, turning up great skuas, a Balearic shearwater, and several storm petrels, the latter far too small for me to see with binoculars. In the two hours I stayed, the tally of Manx shearwaters exceeded 2,000, but with plans to stay the whole day, their final counts would probably end up many times this. The shearwaters return down-channel in the evening, and I wondered if the morning and evening counts would match, or if the birds would return by a different route on the English side of the channel.

Old Oaks

We often eat lunch on the bench in front of Penrice church. It’s peaceful, with a view of the sea, and few people pass along the path leading down to Oxwich. After rain, we make our way down the muddy lane to the meadow below, where lines of ancient oaks mark boundaries of long-gone hedgerows. Under the branches of one, churned up muddy ground marks the spot where cattle shelter from the elements. The poorly drained land is only dry in high summer and feels old, as if from another age. After a dry summer, a pond dug by the farmer is gradually filling, and still attracts common darter and southern hawker dragonflies. As the sun comes out, red admirals take to the wing, settling on the small island in the middle of the pond.

Winter is still some way off, and the long dry summer seems an age away now, but water already flows along the footpath through the corner of Abraham’s wood. This walk will become more difficult as the season progresses. Peacock butterflies feed on the few ripe blackberries, and speckled woods rest on ivy in sunny glades. The odd red campion peeps out from the undergrowth, but there is little colour left on the woodland floor.

The sun breaks out again as I climb the stile into the meadow dividing Pittsog’s Wood from Oxwich Marsh, where  again, isolated old oaks define the landscape. A slight breeze sends waves across the top of blond grass, sloping gently down to the marsh. Thistles, some shoulder high and mostly covered in seeds, dot the field are a bonanza for noisy goldfinches, and it’s been a very good year for these lovely little finches, which will gather into large flocks in the coming weeks.

It’s still a good walk to Oxwich village and I think better of it. The return brings swallows moving south, buzzards in the sky, and signs of badgers in the wood that I’d missed on the way down.

Left at the Lookout

Most people who visit Rhosilli and Worm’s Head for a walk, head down from the car park in the village to the coastguard lookout. A few adventurous souls go over to The Worm, but most stay a while, take in the view, and then return, but few seem to realise there are great treasures along the cliffs to the east of the lookout.

It’s flat up here, the footpath is away from the cliff edge, and the walking is easy. The sound of the wind and crashing surf on the rocks below is invigorating, and it feels wild. It’s midweek, only a few walkers venture this way, and I could be at the end of the world. From up, here looking west, the Worm is obstructed, but replaced by an equally beautiful view. Rhosilli Vile slopes gently upwards towards the village, most summer crops have been taken off now, and the fields, showing a mixture of fading greens, look untidy. Much of the wall by the path from the village towards the lookout was restored several years ago and is in fine condition, but here stretches are still in need of repair, somehow adding to the remoteness of this magical place. A narrow gully slopes down to the lower cliff path, providing gorse perches and food for a solitary stonechat, whilst a migrating wheatear prefers the dry stonewall.

At Tears Point, I sit on the top of the cliff and watch the boiling surf below. There are some sheltered places on the south Gower coast where the sea can be more or less calm, but never here. Exposed to the full force of the Atlantic swell, the sound of crashing waves defines this beautiful spot.

To the east I look into Fall Bay with not a soul in sight. Nesting fulmars still patrol Lewis Castle; they’ll have young about to fledge now, but will be gone soon to spend just a few months at sea, before returning in early January. I realise I haven’t met a soul since turning left at the lookout, exactly as I’d hoped.

The Hard Way

Since my last visit to Blackpill about a month ago, there are certainly more waders at high water, but nowhere near the numbers I would have seen here in the 1990s. The reason may be the increased disturbance from walkers, or the constantly changing shape of the sand-spit over the years, which no longer provides a temporary island refuge before high tide. In any event, apart from the every present flock of oystercatchers, I’m treated with fine views of knot, dunlin, sanderling and ringed plover, all in winter plumage. Spring tides push the birds quickly towards the shore, and timing a visit at high tide is critical so as not to miss the precious few moments when they come close.

A lone jogger, or loose dog, can easily spoil the fun, but I’m lucky, and able to capture those few magic minutes when these wild and jumpy creatures are really close. Without a telescope it’s essential to sit still and allow the dunlins to get as near as possible, and only then is it possible to see if there’s anything out of the ordinary amongst them. I certainly wouldn’t have picked out the little stint today without an intimate view. The smaller size of the stint is the give-away, and closer examination also shows the characteristic V-shaped stripes down its back, and much shorter bill than the bustling dunlins. We get Little Stints every year, but only in ones or twos, and it feels good to have found one without the aid of an expensive telescope. Doing things the hard way is often much more rewarding.

Purple Carpets

The beautiful combination of deep purple heather and brilliant yellow gorse against a pastel blue sky defines Gower’s cliffs during September and October. The autumn flowering of gorse can sometimes be disappointing, but in good years, when both heather and gorse bloom together, a cliff walk can take one’s breath away. 

At this time of year some Gower commons are also at their best, and I need only walk a short distance from our cottage to be confronted with a magnificent display of heather. Clyne Common seldom disappoints, particularly the south side, which in soft evening autumnal light, is simply stunning. Purple carpets stretch as far as the eye can see, mixing with occasional clumps of flowering gorse and fading summer greens, to form a mosaic of exceptional beauty. The well-trodden footpath across the common is mostly dry, reminding me of the wonderful summer weather this year. The sinking sun forces a dark shadow to gradually creep from west to east, partially hiding the few ponies grazing on the near side of the common. Swallows and house martins appear and head for the sunnier side of the common, and jackdaws start to head east towards their roost.

In the hedgerows on the edge of the common, dock seeds are everywhere, giving a distinct end of season look, and oak trees bearing green acorns are beginning to the look autumnal. Wilting stands of great willow herb still have a few flower heads, and fading bindweed supports the odd pure white bloom. Ragwort is far from over, decorating the hedges with flashes of yellow. Most blackberries are red, but the few ripe ones already taste good, promising a good crop this year.

I cross the road and wait for the sun to set behind Cefn Bryn. The evening kestrel fails to appear, as does the sunset I’d hoped for.

Something Missing

The August bank holiday weekend is over, and the schools are back. There’s a feeling of calm as I walk the tide line from the car park along the golden sands on Oxwich beach. There are no children making sand castles, just a few holidaymakers gently making their way towards Nicholaston Pill. The few boats that were moored for the summer are gone, and it’s as though we have Gower to ourselves again.

The new stylish restaurant by the water’s edge, with its distinguished chef, looks like it’s had a good summer. The renovated old coalhouse building is now an addition to the landscape in contrast to the dilapidated eyesore it replaced. Open even during the off-season, it offers quality food in an upmarket environment, and will no doubt be a luncheon refuge for some of the more discerning walkers on the beach today.

The high sand dunes end abruptly as I approach  Nicholaston Pill. Many years ago their existence was threatens by wind erosion, but extensive planting of marram grass saved them. I take a detour along a well-trodden path looking for a late orchid, but find only shrivelled remains. Autumn colours are gaining momentum now, and bracken and blackberry leaves, painted red and gold, cling to the ground, and deep purple dewberries are almost ready to pick.

Intimacy with the places we live in and know, induces an expectation of what to find. I know there’ll be gulls bathing in the stream as it crosses the beach, and would be surprised not to find a small flock of pied wagtails there too, but it’s what’s missing that’s often more intriguing.  There are no sanderlings along the shore yet; a small flock winters here along with a few ringed plovers. They’re a bit late this year, but I know they’ll be here in a few days time.