Other Senses

Everything is grey. I wake to find a deep mist blotting out the end of the garden, and thick dew covers the grass. I wrap up and head out into the damp, keeping my binoculars covered against the fog. Wellies and warm socks give protection from the dripping tussock grass on the common, but the raw chill gets right through my jacket making me walk faster. There’s nothing to be seen, but clapping hands puts up invisible snipe. The mist fogs my glasses, but gradually the gloom is blown away, and I wait for my first sight of a bird. As the sun breaks through, and I reach higher ground, mini valleys of fog form along the little streams and gullies meandering across the common. The disappearing mist changes the sound of the morning, and pipits break the silence. The world is waking, and I’m privileged to watch the magic of the slowly unfolding day. I hear the signature sound of ponies munching wet grass from across from the other side of a small stream, and the squelching of feet digging deep into the peaty soil comes from cattle, but the sheep are silent.

A weak sun begins to take the edge off the cold, and a drying breeze encourages me to keep going. A kestrel hovers on the horizon, and a buzzard, with no helping lift, struggles into the sky. Pipits become more vocal, and bubbling skylarks skit low over the molinia grass. Inquisitive stonechats always mark the same spots on this walk, and looking pristine, they perch boldly on top of gorse. The rest of the common appears to be in winter sleep, but a distant fox tells me otherwise. There is other life out here, but I would need the fox’s senses to find it.

Utterly Peaceful

There’s a sense of calm walking along the water’s edge on Oxwich Beach. The ripple of tiny waves on the shore makes virtually no noise at all, and there’s a great feeling of peace and space.  In winter, I’m often the only person here in early morning, and today I see just a couple with a dog by the distant Nicholaston stream.  No ships break the line on the wide horizon, and all the small boats that moor in the lea of the Oxwich Head during the summer months are long gone.

The weather’s been calm of late, with little wind, and with the tide out, the sea looks benign. A few gulls rest on the surface near the shore, but many more bathe and preen in the brackish water where Nicholaston Pill widens and flattens as it crosses the beach.

Although it’s December, it feels more like April, and Gower can often be like this during winter.  In the sand dunes it’s more or less silent, just the tinkle of an occasional goldfinch breaks through the still air. It is utterly peaceful. The morning sunrise behind the silhouette of the marram grass is beautiful. Ponies are used in the dune slacks to keep the vegetation in check, and the more inquisitive ones come close, but most just watch me walk by.  The wood behind what once was called the green door has gradually spread into the dunes at this point, and some of the trees are now mature.  Old familiar paths through the woodland to the Middle Pond are now overgrown and gone. What hasn’t changed however is the winter tit flock, which makes its way slowly through the trees as it has done for the decades that I’ve been coming to this peaceful spot. 

What Price a View?

Like a gigantic carrion crow, a raven drifts by low over the sea below as I walk against the stiff wind on the cliff path above Mewslade Bay.   Few walkers take these remote paths on west Gower in December, but on warmer sunny days like this, it feels more like early spring than winter.  With the Devon coast and Lundy Island in the distance, the view south and west is spectacular, just open sea; but for how much longer?  Plans to build what would be the largest wind farm in the UK off the north coast of Lundy would spoil the view from both Lundy and Gower.  At about 92 square miles, the wind farm would cover an area of sea about the size of Gower, dwarfing the lovely island. With perhaps 240 generators, each over 200 meters tall, and toped with a red flashing light day and night, there would be no escaping the blight on the seascape, and I ponder how to put a value on beauty and a view.

I walk on hoping that common sense will prevail.  From the top of Lewis Castle, Fall Bay is pristine.  The tide is out and no footsteps have made an indent in the golden sand, as the pounding surf echoes against the cliff face.  Away from the cliff and over a difficult style, I walk towards Middleton along the edge of fallow fields bordered by wind-bent hedgerows.   I disturb small flocks of chaffinches feeding on the stubble. There are no bramblings amongst them, but I do find a couple of tree sparrows, which are in danger of disappearing altogether from Gower.  Only at Middleton do I realise I’ve met nobody on my walk.

Retuning home, I’m greeted with a message that the company behind the wind farm project has thrown in the towel, and the views from our wonderful cliffs are safe for now.

Mill Wood

Mill Wood, in the centre of Gower, has been worked for generations. Still owned by the Forestry Commission, it is changing again. Native deciduous trees are slowly replacing the introduced conifers, creating a mix that is ideal for birds. The restored remains of the old 18^th century water mill and its trout-rearing ponds are also an added feature of this now recreational woodland, with paths providing wonderful walks, and a great venue for school parties at any time of the year. Mixing people and wildlife is something close to my heart, and I’m happy to join in the enthusiasm of a group of young teenagers on a ‘discover day’ this afternoon as I walk my familiar route through the damp woodland.

The wood is sheltered, away from the wind, and a great place to hear the soft sounds of winter birds as they busily search for food during these short days. The usual common tits are never far away, but tend to move in flocks, dragging along nuthatches, goldcrests, chaffinches and the odd marsh tit. A wintering chiffchaff, or is it two, flits silently at the ends of branches, but is gone before I can get a good look. I’m told that there are lesser-spotted woodpeckers in the wood, and they sometimes join in with the tit flocks in winter, but I’ve never been lucky enough to find one.

I can usually find siskins here in mid-winter, and they’re in exactly the same spot again this year. About 20 systematically search the alder cones for insects in the high branches of small trees by the pond in the middle of the wood. Redpolls are sometimes here too, and although the light is poor, I’m sure I can make out a few at the very tops of the trees. When the weather turns cold, good numbers of redwings take up residence in the wood. At least 40, with a few fieldfares, gorge on the soft ivy berries, and I wonder how many more will arrive in the coming weeks; snow is forecast for the weekend.

The Doyen of Gower Photographers

Photography is a real art form. In the 1950s two young men from Mumbles developed an interest in wildlife and photography. They had a healthy rivalry, producing some fine black and white images of Gower. Over the years, through publications such as ‘The Gower Journal’, Harold gradually emerged as the ‘unofficial’ photographer of all things Gower - the doyen of local photographers. His work became know well beyond the confines of Gower, and he is still a national force in the Royal Photographic Society, of which he is a fellow.

Naturally Harold’s work eventually appeared in book form, ‘Gower Images’ in the 1980s containing a lovely set of black and white images, and ‘Gower in Focus’ in 2007, a similar work, but this time on colour. Harold’s unique style and quality shine through in both publications, as do his intimate feelings for Gower in the images portrayed.

On a cold winter’s afternoon, with a gale blowing outside, I thumb through the pages of Harold’s books. There are several photographs of birds, but it’s the mood of the images that is most striking. Sea and sky feature large, but perhaps the most captivating photograph is the one on the front cover of ‘Gower Images’ of the sun setting behind the wreck of the ‘Helvetia’ on Rhosilli Beach; it’s magic.

There are other Gower photographers of course, and several come to mind. Peter Douglas-Jones, a disciple of Harold, published ‘Three Corners of Gower’ a few years ago. Containing a wonderful selection of colour photographs, it is mostly devoted to landscape. Since the advent of digital photography, many have turned their hands to taking pictures on Gower, and there is now a plethora of postcards and booklets for sale at touristy places. Several photographic calendars appear each year, and there are no doubt millions of photographs on countless websites. All these have their own special merit, but to capture the real essence of this wonderful place, I need to return to Harold’s early black and white masterpieces, and I sometimes have the privilege of seeing the original prints.

Night Sounds

On crisp, still winter evenings like this, I like to wrap up well, and walk along the shore as the tide comes in. There’s little light from the stars, but the rising moon begins to light up the gentle breakers, shining against the darkness of the water.  The streetlights across the bay, and over the Channel on the Devon coast, create orange necklaces of light along the shore. The noise from the main road just a little way away is muffled by the sand dunes, and the yellow glow from the streetlights reminds me that I’m near the town.

I walk briskly in the cold air. The sound of crunching shells under foot seems deafening, but I’ve come to listen to the waders. As the sea creeps ever nearer, oystercatchers pipe up and begin flying in the darkness. I pick up the soft shrills of dunlins, but have no idea where they are. I disturb a solitary grey plover, such a plaintive call, and one I don’t hear often. Ringed plovers are about, and as I near the river, redshank alarm calls fill the night air. I rarely hear curlews after dark; I know they’re here, but even during the day, they’re not very vocal in the bay. I’m not alone, as a few joggers pass by on the beach, and even at this late hour, dog walkers need to exercise their charges. I spot two lights moving about on the mud, and guess they’re fisherman digging illegally for lugworms in this protect site.

I turn my torch towards the sky and catch the flashing wings of oystercatchers as they fly between the beach and the playing field on the other side of the main road. Although there’s little to see, the hive of activity, missed by most, is magical and easily compares with the daytime spectacle.

Such is Progress

At last overnight frost has whitened the fields behind our cottage, and it feels as though winter has finally arrived. The old medieval field strips, still run as a market garden, are cold and uninviting. Only brussel sprouts are ready for picking, and there will be no other crops until the first potatoes are gathered in spring.  Barren long plastic polytunnels used for early strawberries and bedding plants, are open to the elements, providing shelter and some food for blackbirds and robins. Amongst the already ploughed furrows, I can sometimes flush snipe in winter, but there are none again today, and I need to venture out onto the common to be certain of finding them.

I’m not exactly sure of the date of our cottage. Occupied by market gardeners for generations, it could date back 300 years, and our garden is a remnant of what was once a long field strip. Modern housing has gradually overtaken the old fields, and only old names like Long Acre echo the history of the place, clashing with manufactured and irrelevant modern ones.  Such is progress.

From the cold fields, I return home via the farm shop to buy eggs. The farm dates back to 1870, originally selling fruit and vegetables in season, all of which would have been fresh and organic. Today’s offerings are mostly bought from wholesalers in Swansea, and could have come from anywhere in the world, and I know the colour of the yokes in the eggs I buy will not compare with those I knew as a boy.  Such is progress.