Oystermouth

Oystermouth is one of those places that’s difficult to pin down.  The magnificent 13^th century Norman castle, the church, the library and the local school all carrying the name.   Even so after living here for decades, I don’t really know exactly where it begins and ends.  Like other nearby wards such as Newton and Norton, it’s part of the much larger seaside ‘village’ of Mumbles.  Its name is often interchangeable with Mumbles; we shop in Mumbles (but many of the shops are in Oystermouth) and borrow books from Oystermouth library, which is in Mumbles!

Oysters have been gathered and traded in the village since the Middle Ages and maybe during Roman times.  During the 19^th century, dredging for oysters was probably the main source of income for the village.  The practice has been revived in recent years, and a small commercial fishery now operates beds in the bay.

The sea dominates life here and the best place to appreciate this is from the castle.  The view from the castle field is spectacular.  From a high ridge in front of the castle gate I look down towards the sweep of Swansea Bay and can see for miles.  A grey, bright light shines on the exposed mud of the beach and sea beyond.  I marvel at the extent of the bay and from here I can see it all.  My eyes run from the distant headland at Porthcawl some twenty miles away, past the great industrial conurbations at Port Talbot, the docks and city of Swansea to the picture postcard village of Mumbles spread out beneath me.

 Most impressive though is the castle itself, a great edifice of limestone, perched strategically above the village shouting history.  In winter it seems to sleep, but several pairs jackdaws are already searching for breeding holes in its massive walls.  In summer it’s used for outdoor performances of Shakespeare’s plays, when tourists enjoy its magic, but I much prefer these intimate moments in winter when I can be alone with the great building. 

Solitude

There’s always some gorse in flower on Gower, and of course spring and summer are the best seasons, but in mild winters, we sometimes get a good show, even in January and February. The south-facing limestone cliffs along the coast are the places to go, and in some years can be truly spectacular, with a blaze of bright yellow lasting for months. After the cold weather, there’s not much this winter, but enough to lift my spirit on a cold and sunny day on the cliff-path between Limeslade and Langland Bay.

A strong southerly wind sends great brilliant-white rollers crashing onto the rocky shore, and with the tide rising, the Mixon sands offshore create a line of huge white horses racing along the surface of the sea towards the lighthouse. There’s far too much surf to hear the bell from the buoy marking the edge of the sand bank, and I wonder how many ships have come to grief here over the centuries. The steep climb midway between the two bays is always worth the view from the bench at the top of the path, which today is spectacular.  I can see for miles; Pwll Du Head, Oxwich Point and beyond, and out to sea, the clear outline of Lundy Island on the distant horizon.

 I look for Rock Pipits on the shore below, but in this weather suspect they’ll be feeding amongst the flotsam in the shelter of the bays. Heading back to the beach at Limeslade Bay, I find protection from the wind, a bench to sit on, and drink my coffee, whilst watching the predicted rock pipits, a confiding Turnstone, and best of all enjoy the solitude. I’m the only one here again.

Artistic Light

It’s always seemed to me that there’s a special quality to the light on Gower.  Maybe other parts of Britain’s coast have outstanding light too, but I doubt there’s none clearer than that on a cloudless winter’s day on Gower with the wind in the northwest.  It’s cold on the cliff path this morning, with a light breeze blowing; a few high clouds skit across the sky and the light is truly spectacular.   Against the pastel-blue sky, the limestone outcrops and newly painted  beach huts at Langland Bay look wonderful, and the greens and browns of the cliffs, so dull for most of the winter, have come alive, showing hidden colours.  On similar days in summer, when carpets of flowers are added, the cliff face gleams with natural brightness, difficult to match anywhere in the world.

It’s often said that Cornwall has special light for painters and I wonder how Gower compares.  Perhaps it was the fashionable nature of St Ives and other Cornish villages that attracted artists when Gower was a sleepy unknown place.  I’m no artist, but looking at the silvery light across the bay towards Oxwich Point, it’s hard to image any place more suited to artists than this.

The light brings colour to the sea.  High tide and no gales of late mean there’s not much silt in the water.  Sparking blues and greens move across the surface with the breeze, interrupted by silvery patches when a cloud passes overhead.  I can see for miles and even make out the sun’s reflections from windows in the Devonshire town of Ilfracombe across the channel.  

A Great Man

The walk west from Landimore along the edge of the marsh is bounded to the north by a high wooded escarpment.  Sheep shelter in these woods, particularly during winter months, and there’s hardly any understory.  I clamber up through the trees to North Hill Tor; I chose this route not wishing to pass though the farm, but am soon discovered by the farmer’s sheep dog.  At first he threatens, then his bark is worse than his bite, and now he’s my friend.  Ravens nest below the rocky tor and have probably done so for centuries.  They too check me out and like my newly found friend, accept this strange figure entering their remote world.

It’s rugged on the top of the tor.  A cold, keen wind blows from the estuary and as always, I’m alone in this remote spot, the entire estuary north and east is set out below; it’s magnificent.  Miles of salt marsh dotted with thousands of glistening pools look like tiny jewels in the sunshine.  A few sheep graze on the emerald green meadow below, but thousands more dot the salty estuary.

I can’t come to this corner of Gower without remembering my old and dear friend William Wilkinson.  A real gentleman, William was knighted for his services to nature conservation.  He was Chairman of the Nature Conservancy Council and helped raise the profile of wildlife conservation in these islands at a critical time. His family still own the two cottages along the path below me, and his father’s grave is in the garden of one of them.  How well I remember happy times at dinner with William and his wife a generation ago; good wine and fellowship was always followed by plans about how we might save the world.  He lies in Cheriton churchyard.

Merlin Supper

It’s been good for hen harriers of late, and they’ve been seen far and wide on the peninsula this winter; perhaps the severe weather has driven more of them further west.  There’s a roost on the south side of the Burry Inlet, but numbers vary.  It needs lots of evening visits to get a good idea of the number of individuals involved, but even then it’s not easy to be sure how many are there.

Arriving in late afternoon well before the light fades is best.  The salt marsh at this time of day is quiet and not much moves.  With the tide out, I can see for miles and find only two males and a ringtail.  An hour passes before they finally drop out of sight into the rank vegetation.  I’ve heard that a male marsh harrier was seen here recently. Most migrate south in the autumn, but some stay, especially in the east of England, and we’ve had them on Gower in previous winters.  No luck this evening and my hope of a short-eared owl also brings no joy; they too are unpredictable, but in some winters can be guaranteed here at dusk.

The light fades and I drive slowly along the deserted marsh road.  A silhouetted kestrel hovers away to my right; it’s far too dim to say male or female, but a merlin makes up for everything.  Sitting obligingly on a fence post only a few yards away, he tears away at a meadow pipit, or is it a linnet?  The light disappears as invisible tawny owls appear in the woods.  These are much easier to count, especially at this time of year, when vocal males ready themselves for the breeding season just round the corner.

Great Dunes

It’s good to live by the sea, especially near a great bay.  I hear there are lots of seabirds offshore and know the best places to find them.  At Blackpill there are just a few and I need to go east along the shore, escaping the confines of Gower, to see what's out there. 


On the other side of the bay, beyond the old docks at Swansea, are great sand dunes, which I'm told are the most extensive in the UK. Designated as part of  a national nature reserve, these dunes are wonderful in summer, but attract few visitors at this time of year. It's ironic how often places so close to major industrial areas attract wildlife. Port Talbot steel works and a new gas-fired power station are just a short distance away, and from the top of a high dune I look down on the incoming tide. I'm alone save for skylarks, meadow pipits and linnets. There's no wind; it's one of those raw days when everything is grey. Flat light is good for sea-watching and I can see for miles, and there are lots of birds out there on the water.

The beach here is mostly undisturbed, and I see nobody save for a lone fisherman in the far distance. I walk the tide line chasing sanderlings, but can’t catch them up.  On the firm sand and amongst the small pools by the sea's edge, running pied wagtails move in exactly the same way, but are looking for different things to eat.

  

Moonlight Fox

I lie awake, unable to sleep.  It’s nearly five o’clock in the morning and it won’t be properly light for at least three hours. The moon casts a silver sheen across the bedroom ceiling; I get up and head for the beach, hoping for something special.

Dark clouds flit across the sky, leaving shadows on the moonlit sea.  The moon, sometimes hidden behind jet-black clouds, suddenly bursts with light, continually changing the mood and illuminating the silhouettes of gulls resting on the surface of the sea.  The faint lights from stars seem to turn on and off as the clouds move quickly east, and only once do I glimpse a planet.

I sit on the beach below the cliff path sheltered from the elements, wrap a scarf tightly around my neck and wait.  A tanker, anchored offshore and waiting for the tide, lights up the horizon.  The rhythm of the pounding surf and noise of the foghorn from the lighthouse are the only sounds.  Nothing else stirs. Peace and a lack of sleep cause me to doze off for a moment.  Half awake, I’m gradually aware of movement; it’s a fox, he’s close and totally unaware of me snuggled into the cliff.  He moves steadily, searching through the wrack of kelp along the high water mark.  His movement disturbs an invisible flock of turnstones, which fly and most likely alight a safe distance away.  Through binoculars I can just make out sand hoppers fleeing his advance, but he’s able to snap them up at will.  He moves away, becomes another silhouette and fades into the darkness.

Moonlight gradually merges into first light and I hear voices on the footpath.  Early risers are exercising their dogs; they probably do this daily, but I wonder if any of them have experienced the magic of a moonlit fox.