tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35283226258213556312024-03-12T21:17:53.934-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast PathSouth to north, May 2013Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-532305163566183232013-05-23T12:52:00.000-07:002013-09-18T03:19:26.110-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 13, from Newport to St. Dogmaels<br />
Time: 6.5 hours<br />
Distance: 26 km<br />
Grading: Moderate to difficult; narrow, sometimes exposed clifftop paths. Care needed in windy weather.<br />
Height gain/loss: 800 metres<br />
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<i>Newport – Traeth Bach – Ceibwr Bay – Poppit Sands – St. Dogmaels</i><br />
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And so to the final stage of the walk. All good things come to an end of course, and after almost two weeks of ups and downs, rocks and beaches, gorse and cliffs, this is the thirteenth and final day of my coastal hike. As soon as I wake up, I can sense that it is going to be a wild, windy day. There is a skylight window just above my bed and, through the translucent blind, I do not even need to open my eyes fully to know that the colour of the sky is changing every twenty seconds as a succession of dark clouds and clear blue race across the sky, constantly lightening and darkening the dawn. The impression is confirmed when I open the blind: though the sky is blue in very large parts, successive waves of big, dark clouds are sweeping rapidly in from the sea, crossing above the window in a few seconds then disappearing inland. It is an intensely interesting sky and, I hope, one that will prove to be fantastic for photography.<br />
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I have breakfast – a rather disappointing one for my last morning – alone in the conservatory of this suburban bungalow turned B&B. I comment to the landlady on the size of the house, much bigger inside than it looks from the street, and she tells me that until they took the place over two years ago, it was inhabited only by an elderly couple. The house must have at least four rooms downstairs and five upstairs, and I wonder how an old couple managed to fill the place at all. The landlady also tells me about a far more serious long-distance hiker who stayed there two or three nights ago; a man who set off from London to walk all the way round the British coast. At the point where he stayed in Newport, he had already walked all the way up the east coast from London to the far north of Scotland, then back down along the west Scottish coast, the Lake District and North Wales. I forget how many days he had already walked, but it was upwards of 300, putting my own efforts well and truly into perspective!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Morning light on the estuary at Newport</i></td></tr>
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I leave the B&B at 8:40, and ten minutes later pick up the coast path again at the iron bridge where I left it yesterday evening. The light is wonderful, with great clouds scudding across the sky from north to south and dazzling shafts of sunlight bursting through to add colour to the landscape. Away behind Newport, thicker cloud clings to Carn Ingli; I hope that a ray of sunlight will hit the mountain at the right moment for a photograph, but it doesn’t quite happen. Still, the light along the north bank of the estuary is beautiful, the sandbanks and reed beds lit by clear blue reflections from the pools and creeks that separate them. At the mouth of the estuary, the waves are crashing in even bigger than yesterday evening; I very much doubt if any boats will be chancing the passage out to sea today. The path crosses four fairways of a deserted, gale-swept golf course: keeping the ball under any kind of control at all this morning would be a serious challenge for any golfer. I am reminded of the first day of my hike, watching golfers battling against the wind at Penally: today is far, far windier. Beyond the golf course, at the edge of the beach, I stop to fill up my water bottles and use the public toilets, there will be no more facilities of any kind until the end of today's walk. Carn Ingli still refuses to light up in the sun but away to the south, Dinas Head stands out bright green between the dark blue sea and the blue-white-grey sky. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Looking back to Dinas Head</i></td></tr>
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This final leg of the coast path has the reputation of being the toughest, with more height gain and loss than any other stage. Possibly its reputation comes partly from the fact that many people walk north to south, and so are thrown straight in at the deep end on their first day. My guidebook also tells of some exposed passages where the path runs very close to the edge, and warns that great care needs to be taken in wet or windy weather… well, it could hardly be windier than it is today and, while after thirteen days I do not find the ups and downs in any way difficult, the wind proves to be a real challenge. As the path rises up above the northern end of Newport beach, a large sign in English and Welsh warns of the difficulty of the route ahead: no refreshments, no escape route for the next 465 miles, vertical cliffs with tentacles that deliberately grab hikers and throw them over the edge; lions, tigers and bears with wings… well no, I'm exaggerating a bit, the sign doesn't really say anything about bears. Joking apart though, this is the only place along the whole coast path where I have seen such an explicit and detailed warning notice. </div>
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The first quarter of an hour past the end of the beach sets the scene for the day; the path climbs up steeply to an altitude of 50 metres, then immediately drops back down to sea level and up again. The overall trend is uphill though, the cliffs getting gradually higher as they climb away from Newport beach. And as the cliffs get higher, the path gets closer to the edge and the wind becomes stronger and stronger. It is coming at me from an angle, blasting in off the sea and onto my face. Just keeping upright is a real challenge, and keeping both feet on the thin ribbon of path is impossible; every time I lift a foot, the wind forces me a few inches inland and unbalances me, pushing me off the landward side of the path. It begins to feel rather dangerous and frightening; I cannot help wondering just how strong a gust of wind would have to be to pick up a human being and throw him through the air. Luckily, the wind is coming off the sea and so is unbalancing me towards the "safe" side of the path; had this same wind been coming off the land, I think I would have been forced to turn back. Even with the wind blowing the "right" way, there are places which feel decidedly risky, where the path is so close to the cliff edge that a sudden gust from a different direction could quite feasibly tip me over into the void and down onto the jagged black rocks eighty metres below. In these places, I abandon the path itself, preferring to struggle through the long grass between the path and the boundary fence of the fields… it makes the going harder but puts an extra couple of metres between me and the edge. Inevitably, the place where the path is the narrowest and the most exposed is also the place where the gale is blowing hardest (at least in my mind); here, for about fifty metres, I advance very slowly, one step at a time, gripping the barbed wire fence with one hand and hanging onto my hat with the other. The wind is making my nose run, and I have to keep blowing it… at one point I do not grip my handkerchief hard enough and the wind instantly seizes it, sending it way up into the air and off across the fields, to land goodness only knows where inland. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Close to the edge and high above the sea</i></td></tr>
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So far, the morning has been dry, but just beyond this particularly exposed passage, a squall comes rushing in from the sea. The sky to the north goes from blue to black in the space of a couple of minutes while, out to sea, successive rainy squalls chase each other southwards. I decide to put my rain gear on now, rather than waiting for the inevitable wetting; it is quite a struggle to get into my waterproof jacket and trousers in the wind, but it is a good move. Five minutes later, at another rather exposed place, the rain hits me and the wind seems to redouble in intensity. The rain lashing horizontally into my face is quite painful, and I really feel that going on would be unsafe. I huddle down in the long grass on the landward side of the path, making myself as small as possible, knowing that I must look very odd and rather stupid. The squall is short-lived though; five minutes later, after a good drenching, the sky overhead is blue again. There will be three of four of these short but intense showers during the course of the day, but none of the others will be as frightening as this first one. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>A wild morning</i></td></tr>
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I can see that the cliffs up ahead are slightly lower, and hope that the loss of altitude will bring at least a relative degree of calm. This is indeed the case; as I drop down towards the next headland, looking back to an impressive natural arch being pounded by the sea, conditions gradually become a bit less extreme. The wind, though still blowing hard, seems less dangerous and is no longer trying to pick me up or knock me down. It's all quite epic though, and it is hardly surprising that I cannot get Sibelius' second symphony out of my head today.<br />
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Along this stretch of path, I meet the only other people I will see all day; first a group of four huddled up having lunch, then a young man on his own, and finally two young women, all of whom have presumably set off from St. Dogmaels after an early breakfast. We exchange remarks about being relieved not to be the only lunatics out today, and compare the strength of our respective winds. I'm pretty sure my wind is stronger than their wind though, as it is definitely calmer from here onwards.<br />
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At half past twelve, I reach Traeth-bach, the Witches' Cauldron, one of the most spectacular settings along the whole coast path. I am pleased with the progress I have made despite the conditions; this is pretty much where I would have expected to be at lunchtime. The path twists down another steep, exposed hillside into a narrow valley where, in millennia long gone by, a huge cave collapsed into the sea, leaving a natural arch that divides the beach from a rocky bowl behind it. At high tide on a rough day, I can imagine just how noisy and spectacular this place must be, with the sea forcing itself through the narrow gap of the arch then exploding into the cauldron behind. Today the tide is out though, and despite the rough sea breaking against the rocks on the beach, the cauldron itself is not hubbling or bubbling. Although I suspect that the next valley, Ceibwr Bay, will give me more shelter, I decide to stop here for my final picnic: the sun has come out again, the day has become warm and the setting is superbly wild. The waves come crashing into the bay, sending huge plumes of white spray up into the sky. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Lunchtime at Traeth-bach</td></tr>
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I eat my lunch, then stay and rest for half an hour or so, admiring the view, until the sky begins to darken again, signalling the arrival of another five-minute squall. The path takes me up over the top of the huge natural arch, steeply up onto the cliff top, then down again to Ceibwr Bay, the closest thing on this section of the coast to a gentle pastoral valley. After all the epic wildness of the morning, it comes of a bit if a shock to suddenly find myself on a lane with a tractor chugging up towards me. This lane is the only "escape" possibility between Newport and St. Dogmaels, although the nearest village is a couple of kilometres inland. I cross the bay, which is very similar to all the previous Aber Bachs: a narrow shingly beach, a stream to cross, an isolated cottage and a pretty wooded valley running away inland. On the hill that climbs up the far side of the valley, two white horses pose most obligingly and fetchingly while I take their photo against a backdrop of sea and rocks.<br />
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Beyond Ceibwr Bay the walking becomes somewhat easier. The path is wider and less close to the edge, though it continues to apply the "what comes down must go up" principle. The cliffs are a bit less vertical as well; though they are still getting higher, the proportion of steep grass slope to vertical rock is tipping in favour of the grass. Ahead, the layers of rock in the cliff face have been folded into strange shapes by some past geological event of vast magnitude. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Ceibwr Bay</i></td></tr>
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Now begins the final, long climb as the path struggles up to an altitude of 175 metres, the highest point of the whole coast path. The downhill dips are still there but they are shorter, the uphill sections longer and ever steeper. The wind, which seemed to have given up the fight, now comes back with a vengeance, stronger than ever. Another squall comes out of nowhere; horizontal rain lashes my face even though the sky all around is blue. The cloud producing the rain must be half a mile out to sea, but so strong is the wind that it is carrying all the way to the coast. Behind the fence, oblivious to all the drama out to sea, calves graze quietly in a field. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Close to the edge, approaching the highest point of the coast path</i></td></tr>
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Finally, after one last exposed climb above long, heathery slopes of frightening steepness, the highest point is reached and the end, literally, is in sight. There to the north are the Teifi estuary and Poppit Sands; beyond the estuary is Ceredigion, another county, another coast path. Cardigan Island guards the entrance to the estuary. The path, having spent thirteen days bringing me to this summit point, now seems to consider its job done, and the end comes very quickly. Although there is officially still several kilometres to go, this is the psychological beginning of the end. I drop down steeply to Cemaes Head, pass through my last flock of sheep and head inland towards Poppit Sands, another big beach where waves are piling in, pushed landwards by the wind, with a calm estuary behind a big sand bar. I descend one last time through a tunnel of high gorse bushes; their bright yellow has been one of the most prominent features of the walk. As the smell of the sea makes way for whiffs of a more agricultural variety, I reach the last of the dozens and dozens of wooden gates that I have passed through. Beyond the gate is a scruffy farmyard, and beyond that the path is no more: the final hour and a half of the walk is on roads.<br />
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I follow a very pretty lane eastwards from the farm, through woods and between fields, with occasional views opening up across the estuary. The lane brings me down to the car park at Poppit Sands where, until a few years ago, the Pembrokeshire coast path officially ended. Now it has been extended to the village of St. Dogmaels, but the end is something of an anti-climax, an uninteresting, flat walk along a fairly busy road. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOW4XcJ32F_dmej43Kn3iLE7iQCl36WSONgyIGgX7Zox8MWUOv9jIBgSdJwmnYBJJfHTwiGMrfx4wv0zJisM2I1pUMW5Y3dYQbzTyHB_WB8dfGjzNCQlJNoC5S58c6Ji43beZ5XcxVYBE/s1024/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOW4XcJ32F_dmej43Kn3iLE7iQCl36WSONgyIGgX7Zox8MWUOv9jIBgSdJwmnYBJJfHTwiGMrfx4wv0zJisM2I1pUMW5Y3dYQbzTyHB_WB8dfGjzNCQlJNoC5S58c6Ji43beZ5XcxVYBE/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+27.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Poppit Sands, the last of many beaches on the coast path</i></td></tr>
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At last though, here is the sign announcing that I have made it to St. Dogmaels and, a few hundred metres further on, a stone plaque set into the ground that marks the official end of the path. Here, of course, I should stop… but after thirteen days, it does not take too much mental self-persuasion to extend the walk by an extra hundred metres to the Ferry Inn… </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>300 kilometres, 186 miles... </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjaAOXJbFAjPBocWL26PoJPrQmTWXW473p5ASiG77tSPp1uXbRjEpvrwZCNuX4TElcEIiKZfisdcFz6k6fMz8FaUl_oYzpiiH07Ah-7KjiEFQVKL57ABgyU4f8segDlSwspGkAKRHoVqg/s1024/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjaAOXJbFAjPBocWL26PoJPrQmTWXW473p5ASiG77tSPp1uXbRjEpvrwZCNuX4TElcEIiKZfisdcFz6k6fMz8FaUl_oYzpiiH07Ah-7KjiEFQVKL57ABgyU4f8segDlSwspGkAKRHoVqg/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+46.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Here ends the Pembrokeshire coast path...</i></td></tr>
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It is ten to five, and I am being picked up at six. I order a pint of bitter and take it out onto the sunny but windy and deserted terrace at the back of the pub, overlooking the estuary. I am happy and sad at the same time: happy to have achieved a 35-year-old dream, happy to have been physically and mentally up to it, to have never for one second got bored or wanted to give up. Sad that it is over, that the dream to "do the coast path" will no longer be there bacause it's been done, sad to be going back to the real world. I have written before on here about the strange mixture of sentiments that the long-distance walker feels on reaching the end of the final stage; having walked for thirteen continuous days with no breaks, that feeling of achievement mixed with sudden emptiness is stronger than ever. Already, in my mind, I am wondering what I will do next, how can I follow this. It won't be easy. </div>
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The tide is coming in incredibly quickly, flowing regularly up the estuary, quite choppy in the middle, visibly covering the sand second by second as I sit and watch. A teenager in school uniform – presumably the landlord's son – comes out onto the terrace, stares at the water for a while, then comments "It doesn't usually come in like this, it must be the wind", before disappearing back indoors. The wind was there on the first day of my walk, it was there again on the last day and, probably more than any other feature of the weather, has been the main constant, rarely altogether absent.<br />
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I take a photograph of myself to mark the end of the road, and sit back to enjoy the sun. As quickly as the level of the water in the estuary rises, so the level of the beer in my glass falls. I order another pint… </div>
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-12-from.html">Previous stage</a><br />
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-5845007682665776152013-05-22T12:48:00.000-07:002013-09-18T03:18:36.118-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 12, from Fishguard to Newport<br />
Time: 5.75 hours<br />
Distance: 18 km<br />
Grading: Easy; some narrow clifftop paths on the east side of Dinas Head<br />
Height gain/loss: 550 metres<br />
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<i>Fishguard – Dinas Head – Cwm-yr-Eglwys - Newport</i><br />
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After yesterday's eight and a half hour marathon, and before tomorrow's final stage, today's shorter and easier stage feels almost like a rest day, a chance to recuperate before the reputedly tough walk from Newport to St. Dogmaels. I have a really long, lazy lie-in, not getting up until half past eight and only going down to breakfast at nine. It proves to be one of the best breakfasts of the walk, with all the usual options plus the local speciality of laver bread, made out of seaweed and oatmeal. I am expecting it to be either absolutely delicious or truly disgusting, and am slightly disappointed to find that it has no taste whatsoever. The owner of the guest house tells me that a real, proper Pembrokeshire breakfast would include cockles in addition to the laver bread; thankfully, he does not offer this option, as I would have felt obliged to try it and suspect it would not have gone down well first thing in the morning!<br />
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At the next table, I am surprised to hear that the young couple sitting there are talking French, and even more surprised when I gather from their conversation with the owner that they are on honeymoon here. I think of Fishguard with its boarded-up shops and almost complete lack of anywhere to eat, and wonder what strange motivation would bring a honeymooning couple here from Paris… maybe some family connections?<br />
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After breakfast, still taking my time, I wander up the high street to the Co-op supermarket, buy food for my last two lunches, then make my way back towards the coast path. Fishguard redeems itself somewhat in the shape of a really nice art gallery, where I spend a happy half hour looking at the paintings, all of a very high standard and mostly by local artists. There are some really magnificent seascapes and also a series of semi-abstract woodland scenes, all about light and shadow rather than specific forms. Had I had a spare £8,000 in my pocket, I could have come away with some really original art.<br />
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I stroll back down towards the shoreline along a steep street called The Slade, which may or may not (probably not) be a reference to the 1970s pop group of the same name. A sign beside the road says SLOW CHILDREN PLAYING, warning motorists to take their foot off the accelerator, but the words on the sign have been arranged in such a way that it appears to be informing passers-by that the children of Fishguard are not the quickest in the world…<br />
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It is 10:45 by the time I finally reach the coast path again. The weather seems to be following the same pattern as yesterday: it was cloudy when I got up, even drizzled a bit while I was trying to be enthusiastic about laver bread, but by the time I reach the shore at Lower Fishguard there is an increasing amount of blue sky in evidence. The tide is out, and the boats in the sandy harbour make an attractive scene against the backdrop of the old fishermen's cottages, mostly painted white but with some vivid blue also adding a touch of colour. I cross the bridge over the river Gwaun, then climb up away from Fishguard, a town which seems to have great potential but which has not yet worked out how to exploit it. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Lower Fishguard</i></td></tr>
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After the rugged scenery of the last few days, today is somewhat tamer, resembling the coastline between Amroth and Tenby more than anything else. The cliffs of Fishguard Bay are lower and gentler than those of the surrounding coastline, the fields are greener and the path is frequently overgrown, a sign that this may be a less popular section than the previous ones. I see nobody at all for the first 90 minutes, and very few people after that. I am mentally not quite in tune with the walk this morning, feeling a bit detached from it and not getting quite the usual level of enjoyment and inspiration from the landscape; possibly because the scenery is less dramatic than the last few days, possibly also because the end is now very near and I have already started to wind down.<br />
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The path follows its usual pattern of clifftop sections interspersed with drops down to lonely little bays, while up ahead, the great wedge of Dinas Head, the day's main landmark, grows closer. For the first time, I see trees in full blossom along this part of the path, maybe a sign that this is a slightly more sheltered bit of coastline, maybe also a consequence of the better weather of the last week after what had hitherto been a very cold spring. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Looking towards Dinas Head</i></td></tr>
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The path climbs up to run right through the middle of a large, very ugly caravan sire and, not for the first time, I wonder how this kind of thing was ever allowed to happen in a national park. Beyond here, the path leaves the shelter of Fishguard Bay and becomes wilder once again, twisting up and down into and out of little valleys. Like yesterday, there is an Aber Bach; this one is a lovely, lonely beach in a secluded valley where a little stream trickles down to the sea. It would make a perfect lunch spot, but with my late start it comes too soon. </div>
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On the next clifftop section, there are some interesting examples of trees that have grown in constant battle with the wind blowing in from the west. These isolated trees have grown almost horizontally, twisted into unnatural shapes in their attempt to get away from the constant battering. I overtake two hikers with big backpacks talking in German; one of them appears to be struggling with the ups and downs, breathing heavily and advancing slowly. The next valley, Pwllgwaelod, is broader and contains a larger beach with road access. More importantly though, it also contains the unexpected luxury of a pub. I have so far resisted the lure of the lunchtime pint on those days when it would have been an option, but this will be my last chance to indulge and, despite having bought everything I need for a picnic, I decide that my sandwich bought in Fishguard should be sacrificed to the cause. I order a pint of Double Dragon and – it seems the most suitable thing to eat on what is still quite a chilly day – a bowl of cawl, a typically Welsh soup made from mutton and vegetables. For some reason, cawl always seems to be served with a hunk of cheese, and I am never quite sure what I am supposed to do with it according to cawl etiquette… chop it up into little bits and put it in the soup, or eat it as a side dish. The cold wind only slightly takes the edge off the enjoyment, as the soup is close to cold by the time I get to the end of my portion. The two Germans arrive and order Coke, which seems a very un-German thing to do when there is beer available… </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Trees versus wind</i></td></tr>
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Now for Dinas Head, the main feature of today’s stage. Dinas stands out from the coast, a great wedge of grass-topped rock that thrusts northwards, rising as it goes until it culminates 125 metres above sea level at its northern end. There are quite a few people on this stretch of the path, who have just come for the afternoon to do the hour or so’s walk around the headland and back to the car park by the pub. All the way up the steep western side of the headland I am buffeted by the wind, but when I reach the highest point there is a sudden and strange calm. The eastern side of the headland has a wilder feel to it, the path a thin, sometimes slightly exposed ribbon of dirt halfway up the steep grass slopes above the cliffs. Away to the south-east I can see the entrance to the estuary at Newport, my destination for the night; between here and there, I can see that the path runs round the edge of two headlands topped with very green fields. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The way ahead from Dinas Head. Carn Ingli is the hill in the background</i></td></tr>
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I drop down through a tunnel of trees in full blossom to reach sea level once again at Cwm-yr-Eglwys, a pretty little hamlet which remains hidden until the last minute and where there is a sheltered beach, behind which stands a ruined church. In reality there is very little left of it, just one end wall and a few gravestones, but it makes for an atmospheric setting right beside the sea. I leave Cwm-yr-Eglwys by a very steep lane, which I follow for a quarter of an hour before the path once more breaks off to the left. Here, a detour has been put in place to get around a large landslide: over a distance of maybe 50 metres, a huge section of cliff and the land backing it has vanished into the sea, taking part of the path with it. I hope it happened at night when nobody was on the path! I drop down to the sea again at Fforest, another deep, narrow valley with a lovely secluded beach, very similar to this morning’s Aber Bach. This particular valley has the added original feature of some marshland and a miniature lagoon behind the shingle bank at the top of the beach. Then steeply up again to contour round the edge of the two green fields that I saw earlier from the top of Dinas Head. Big waves are booming against the base of the cliffs here, and as I turn into Newport Bay I can see all the power of those waves, as they rush towards the shore in a chaos of white foam. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Approaching Newport</i></td></tr>
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The arrival in Newport is, without any doubt, the prettiest of any stage of my walk. The coast path follows the big waves inland towards the beach, where they break against the huge sandbar that separates the wild sea from the calm of the estuary behind. A little river flows into the sea past the southern end of the bar, but today is isn’t doing much flowing; the wind is forging the big waves into the channel of the river mouth. There are numerous small boats moored in the calm waters behind the sandbar, and I cannot help thinking that getting a small boat from Newport harbour out into the open sea must be a real challenge; the passage of the bar where river meets sea looks really wild. Behind this agitated foreground, the first houses of Parrog, Newport’s westerly outlier, sit prettily pink and while against a sky of grey and blue. A man is fishing on a rock, standing just high enough above the spray to keep dry as he casts his line. I get a nice smile from a short-haired woman walking a huge white dog; altogether, my first impression of Newport is a really good one.<br />
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My lodgings for the night are at the far end of the village, so I stay on the coast path as it runs inland along the estuary; woodland on one side, marshy reed beds, mudflats and pools on the other. In contrast to the wild sea, all is calm here, and children are going up and down in kayaks. At the Victorian iron bridge that carries the road across the river I leave the coast path and head into town.<br />
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After eleven nights of pubs, farms and Georgian town houses, it comes as a bit of a shock to discover that I will be spending my last night in what looks very much like a suburban bungalow, albeit a very large one. My bedroom is lovely though; big, comfortable, and the bathroom has possibly the biggest walk-in shower I have ever seen. I waste no time in making full use of it, then have a rest on the big bed as it is still quite early.<br />
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Despite being considerably smaller than Fishguard, Newport has a lot more to offer in terms of eating and drinking options. For my last night I am spoilt for choice; along the main street there are two or three restaurants and any number of pubs, all serving food. I settle on the Golden Lion, a busy pub down towards the eastern end of the village, close to my B&B. I order a Thai chicken curry and a pint, and sit down to my evening routine one last time: recap today’s stage in the guidebooks, write some notes as a basis for my future blog posts, look at the map and books to see what tomorrow has in store for me. The curry arrives, hot and tasty, though for the second time today I am not altogether sure how to eat all the ingredients. The curry comes in a soup bowl and has lots of sauce, the rice is in another bowl, there is no plate. Am I supposed to dip the rice in the curry sauce, pour the sauce over the rice, or am I missing the point completely. Technical issues aside, it is a very good plate of food and it is in a happy frame of mind that I go to bed for the twelfth and last time of my tour. By this time tomorrow I will be back in the real world (or at least in Tenby). </div>
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/09/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-13-from.html">Final stage</a><br />
<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-11-from.html">Previous stage</a><br />
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-5743712579650644102013-05-21T12:46:00.000-07:002013-09-18T03:17:09.957-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 11, from Abercastle to Fishguard <br />
Time: 8.5 hours<br />
Distance: 35 km<br />
Grading: Moderate; very long with lots of up and down from start to finish<br />
Height gain/loss: 750 metres<br />
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<i>Abercastle – Pwll Deri – Strumble Head - Fishguard</i><br />
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This eleventh stage, from Abercastle up around Strumble Head to Fishguard, is the longest of the whole Pembrokeshire coast path. Although my Achilles tendon has not bothered me for the last couple of days, I know that today will be a much tougher challenge and that if I come out of it in one piece, I can be confident of completing the walk. This is make or break day.<br />
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At breakfast, I share a big square, wooden table with David and Susie, the retired couple with whom I briefly talked yesterday evening. They are Scottish, from Aberdeenshire, though I would never have guessed it from their very un-Scottish accents. They have both done a lot of walking and David is a serious amateur artist, which gives us plenty to talk about. Although I should be getting away quickly this morning, I enjoy the conversation and we dawdle over an excellent breakfast including black pudding in addition to all the more common ingredients. They started a couple of days ago from Newport, where they left their car, and are walking southwards from there, heading on to St. David's today. I recommend the Bishops as a good place to eat, and tell them that they will probably meet the Dutch couple who are now a day behind me. I describe them, and David tells me that he will make knowing remarks about Eindhoven as they pass. I later receive a postcard from the Dutch couple, telling me how surprised they were to meet a random couple on the path who started asking them questions about Eindhoven without having a clue who they were.<br />
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I like the way that on these long walks, a kind of virtual community builds up among people who meet over breakfast, or over a pint in a pub; a community that includes anecdotes about people heard of but never quite met. I never really feel alone on a long, solitary walk, much less so than when alone in a city. Eventually, at half past nine (having started breakfast at eight!), I face the fact that it is really high time I was getting going. The landlady returns my two nights' worth of washing to me still distinctly damp; I hope that at least one set of clothes will dry before this evening, otherwise I will have to keep my smelly stuff for the evening and for tomorrow.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>A grey morning at lonely Abercastle</i></td></tr>
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It's another grey, cloudy morning, but there is a strong wind which moves the clouds around and makes for a more varied atmosphere than yesterday's uniform blanket of grey. I return back down to the path at Abercastle harbour, where a solitary fishing boat is beached, facing out to the island that guards the entrance to the inlet. There are whitecaps on the sea and, away to the north, occasional half-rays of white sunlight drilling down through gaps in the dark grey clouds.<br />
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Buffeted by the wind, I climb up onto the first headland north of Abercastle. The view ahead encompasses a wild, rocky, rugged coastline that stretches away over successive heads to Strumble Head, one of Pembrokeshire's major headlands, beyond which my route will turn eastwards towards the port of Fishguard. At the base of the cliffs are innumerable jagged black rocks standing just offshore. Inland, the terrain is rough and hilly, building up towards the 213-metre summit of Garn Fawr. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>Pwllstrodur</i></span></td></tr>
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After climbing up to 50 metres, the path soon returns to sea level at Pwllstrodur, where a footbridge crosses a stream above a wild, rocky beach. It's a lovely little spot, perfect in its isolation… even in mid-August, I bet this beach does not see too many buckets, spades or deck chairs! There is a truly desolate feel about this part of the coast, just as there was yesterday morning on St. David's Head. By contrast, the next bay, Aber Mawr, is a wide sweep of shingle-backed sand, where big surf waves roll powerfully towards the shore in orderly formation. On the way down to the beach, I meet the young couple already seen yesterday, the girl still wearing her hiking skirt and prettier than ever as the wind whips her hair into a most attractive disorder. They spent the previous night at Trefin, caught the bus further north this morning and are walking back southwards for the day. Aber Mawr is immediately followed by Aber Bach, a similar but much smaller bay which, by virtue of facing in a slightly different direction, is completely sheltered from the wind and waves. Here, a sign explains that there is a river crossing that may be awkward in flash flood conditions, and indicates a 2 kilometre alternative route… not needed today though, the stream is a mere trickle and easy to cross. Several people are sketching on the beach here, presumably a local amateur art club. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Big waves roll in at Aber Mawr</i></td></tr>
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The path struggles up onto the cliffs again, ever higher, dipping down and climbing up, each clifftop a few metres higher than the previous one. The next bay, Pwllcrochan, is an isolated stretch of flat sand at the foot of forbidding, dark cliffs; beautiful but at the same time not the kind of place you would necessarily want to go for a sunny sit on the beach. The path down to it is vertiginous, almost Alpine in character, coming close to the cliff edge as it twists steeply down. A smaller, very narrow path breaks off to the left, leading almost down to the beach itself but not quite making it there… the last couple of metres are straight down the bottom of the cliff face, aided by a rope. Had the tide and the sun been out, I would have gone down for a look, but in toady's conditions I decline the challenge and continue steeply up the path on the far side of the bay.<br />
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Now my way leads up onto the crest of a panoramic ridge which drops away on both sides – a rarity on the coast path. To my left, vertical, ever higher cliffs plunge straight down into the sea. To the right, inland, a patchwork of green fields, copses and stone walls forms an almost unreal contrast to the rugged grandeur of the coast as it rises gently towards the cliffs. The path itself becomes rocky, working its way up and over successive tops, keeping slightly to the landward side of the ridge even requiring the use of the hands to haul myself up some of the larger rocks steps. I reach an altitude of 120 metres, the highest point so far on the coast path, though it will be well and truly beaten on the final day. Now up ahead is Pwll Deri, an inaccessible bay at the bottom of what must be the highest vertical drop on the whole of this part of the coast, more than a hundred metres from cliff top to sea. On top of the cliffs, the isolated white building of Pwll Deri youth hostel, with its mountainous backdrop of Garn Fawr. Here, the path briefly meets a minor road, the lane that runs north-westwards to Strumble Head. Looking back, the verticality of the cliffs on the seaward side of the ridge is most impressive. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The contrast between the rugged coast and the gentle fields inland is most striking on this section of the path</i></td></tr>
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Beyond Pwll Deri, as the path gradually loses altitude after this high point, I start to think about lunch. There are no really suitable spots, and I end up sitting on some bumpy rocks just beside the path, above the headland of Dinas Mawr. It's rather uncomfortable and windy, and I do not stop for long… thirty seconds after setting off again, I round a corner and there in front of me is what would have been a perfect, sheltered, grassy spot.<br />
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While I eat, the weather improves dramatically and suddenly, clearing from the north-west. In the space of thirty minutes, conditions go from total cloud cover to a majority of blue sky, especially out to sea; inland it is still grey and cloudy. Suddenly there is sunlight, colour in the landscape, flowers everywhere once again. Above the bay of Porth Maenmelyn, somewhat disconcertingly, I pass a young woman walking alone, fast and purposefully, and carrying a very large hammer. I really wonder what would bring you out on the coast path with such an implement, and give her a wide berth… but she smiles, says hello and doesn't hit me. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Varied scenery on the approach to Strumble Head</i></td></tr>
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The lighthouse on Strumble Head is visible now, seemingly close at hand, but the path takes a twisty route and it takes almost an hour to cover what appears to be a very short distance. This is one of the points where the land juts out the furthest into the Irish Sea; there is little to stop the waves and they are consequently wild and heaving below the now blue sky, with lots of white caps. The path follows a long dry stone wall down into an unexpected area of marshland, a little valley sheltered behind the cliffs and covered with a bed of tall reeds. And here now is Strumble Head itself, with its white lighthouse set proudly on a huge rock just offshore. After St. Govan's, St. Ann's and St. David's, this is the last of the really big headlands that I will pass on the walk. It's a busy place, with a car-park and a bus stop, but a hundred metres beyond the headland I am back on my own again. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Strumble Head</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The trouser legs finally come off...</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>One of the innumerable steep drops between Strumble Head and Fishguard</i></td></tr>
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Now heading due east, the path becomes somewhat less rugged and the landscape somewhat gentler, although there is still a lot of very steep upping and downing to do. This section of the path is less frequented; over the next three hours I will only see four other people. Someone has very recently been along the path with a strimmer, cutting back the undergrowth; there is a smell of freshly cut hay and I walk on a bed of dry grass and small branches. It has become so warm by now that I even change into shorts – the only time over the whole thirteen days that I will have this luxury. The coastline is a stunning succession of rocky bays, some with a little sand or shingle above the high water mark, others totally submerged. Porthsychan, the first bay beyond Strumble, is particularly lovely; another place whose isolation guarantees that it stays free of ice-cream vans and donkey rides even at the height of the high season. Above the beach is a tiny, isolated cottage in the very middle of nowhere… yet clearly inhabited, as proven by the two pairs of knickers (one white, one black) blowing in the wind on the washing line. The billowing knickers against the wilderness backdrop would make a brilliant photo, but I don't dare… </div>
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More coves follow, where the sea booms and sucks at the rocks. In between, the path constantly goes up and down, there is absolutely no respite, not a metre of horizontal land. Then, in total contrast, comes the surprising and lovely valley of Cwm Felin. Here a deep, narrow, thickly wooded valley runs well back inland. The path drops down its western side, crosses a stream on a little footbridge beneath the trees, then climbs back up, steeper than ever, onto the cliffs east of the valley. I meet two people going the other way; they ask me how far it is to Strumble. They are heading for Pwll Deri for the night; it's already half past four, and I suspect they might be late for dinner at the youth hostel. In return, they tell me that it's about another hour and a half's walk to Fishguard.<br />
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The landscape becomes tamer as I approach Fishguard Bay. The cliffs become lower and less vertical, topped with brownish, scrubby grass. The path no longer follows the true coastline round every single headland but takes a straighter line, having seemingly decided that they can be safely ignored after all the grandiose landscape that has gone before. As the path cuts behind the last headland before Fishguard, I reach a point that is further away from the sea than anywhere since Pembroke!<br />
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Now I head into Fishguard Bay, high above the long pier of the Irish ferry terminal, before the path finally meets civilisation on the outskirts of Goodwick, Fishguard's western suburb. A long street lined with semi-detached bungalows, a steep zigzagging path down through trees and across the road and railway that lead into the port, then a walk along the sea front to the sandy beach at the back of the harbour. Although the town centre is just above me on its hilltop, it is still a fair walk from here, as the path runs round one last headland, climbing then dropping down yet again. Down below is the old fishing village of Lower Fishguard, completely separate from the town centre high up above, pretty with its painted stone cottages and boats. All of this gives me an unexpectedly good first impression of Fishguard, but it's an impression that will not last once I get into the town centre. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Breakwaters at Fishguard</i></td></tr>
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I quickly find the guest house where I am staying the night, in what passes for a high street. It's another luxurious place, perhaps not quite hitting the heights of Pembroke or Abercastle but not far behind. My room is small but comfortable, there's a lovely view out the back over an attractive garden, and it's really nice not to have to go through the clothes washing chore… though this itself is a reminder that in two days' time it will be all over. I have survived the day remarkably well: sore feet are to be expected after eight and a half hours' walking, but I have nothing more serious than that and now know that I will be going to the end. I feel that after eleven days, I have walked myself into a level of fitness where I could basically just keep going ad infinitum.<br />
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Because of the length of today's stage, I only arrive at my accommodation at about half past six, my latest finish of the whole walk. It is past seven by the time I go out for a look round Fishguard and for food. It will not prove easy: Fishguard appears to have closed down permanently. The big Abergwaun Hotel on the central crossroads is festooned with For sale signs, and the shops around it are all equally empty behind dusty windows. My guidebook mentions the fish and chip shop, the Royal Oak and the Ship and Anchor as good options for food; but the fish and chip shop looks like it has been closed for years, and the Ship and Anchor has boarded-up windows. I try the Royal Oak, a big, rough-looking pub, but they don't serve food, or at least are not serving any tonight. I wander down towards Lower Fishguard, but the little harbour has not been developed for tourism at all – a good thing in a way, but not such a good thing when you are looking for somewhere to have dinner. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Lower Fishguard... nowhere to eat but very pretty</i></td></tr>
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Finally, on the outskirts where town proper meets a mixture of housing estates, petrol stations and fields, I find the Pendre Inn, a cosy little pub with three or four real ales and plenty of food on offer. The pub is busy with a mixture of locals and tourists, all of whom have gravitated to what seems to be the liveliest place in Fishguard (lively being a very relative term here). Two very large women on holiday from Liverpool come in, generating some banter from the locals about whether they need two tables or just two chairs each. They take it in good spirit though, giving back as good as they get. The food and beer are good and, in the end, I spend a pleasant couple of hours in the pub.<br />
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Only two more days to go; an easy stage tomorrow, then a tough one to finish.<br />
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-12-from.html">Next stage</a><br />
<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-10-from.html">Previous stage</a><br />
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-41879167933742716352013-05-20T12:44:00.000-07:002015-05-20T12:46:04.173-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 10, from Whitesands Bay to Abercastle<br />
Time: 6.5 hours<br />
Distance: 25 km<br />
Grading: Easy, but with a very wild feel to the first part of the walk<br />
Height gain/loss: 550 metres<br />
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<i>Whitesands Bay – Abereiddy – Porthgain – Aber Draw - Abercastle</i><br />
<i><br /></i>I spend probably the least comfortable night of my walking holiday in St. David's. Though my room is perfectly adequate, the bed is possibly the smallest I have ever slept in as an adult, mountain huts excepted. My feet stick out at the bottom, and the bed is too narrow for me to spread out diagonally. As expected given the absence of heating, the clothes that I washed yesterday evening have not dried at all, and I am forced to stick them all in a plastic bag until the evening. The good thing is that this evening will be the last time I have to do any washing: from tomorrow onwards, I will have enough changes of clean clothes not to need to bother any more.<br />
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For the first time since Pembroke, five days ago, I open my curtains to grey skies. It doesn't look like it is raining – and there is certainly no rain forecast – but the morning is dark, misty and colourless. I go down to the old-fashioned breakfast room, where the stereo is playing a soothing harp arrangement of the slow movement of "Spring" from the Four Seasons. It sounds quite nice until I realise that the movement has been programmed to play continuously. I think I must have heard it fifteen times during the time it takes me to eat breakfast, by which time I am thoroughly sick of both Vivaldi and harps! The owner and the younger waitress who has come in to help serve breakfast are having a conversation about learning to drive; the waitress apparently has her test coming up. I wonder what it must be like learning to drive in a place like this, then to suddenly be let loose on main roads and in real cities after passing the test. The waitress tells me that for "town driving" experience, the instructor takes her to Carmarthen, which must be more than an hour away. Carmarthen may be a West Wales metropolis but London it most certainly isn't… The main difficulty about driving here, she explains, is the narrowness of the lanes and the amount of tourist traffic on them in summer.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>On St. David's Head</i></td></tr>
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The first bus back to Whitesands does not leave until 9:25, which gives me plenty of time to eat a leisurely breakfast and go to the supermarket to buy food for lunch for the next two days. In these small country supermarkets, it is a bit of a challenge finding suitable food for a picnic, or maybe, used to buying specific things in Switzerland, I just don't really know what I'm looking for. The bus comes, completely empty as it was yesterday evening, and ten minutes later I am back at a grey, deserted Whitesands Bay. It's a cool day, not at all unpleasant for walking, but the light is hopeless for photography. During the day, there are times when it looks like the weather will clear and others when it looks like it will rain; in the end though, neither of these things happens and the whole day is uniformly grey and cloudy. The path climbs quickly away from the beach and up onto St. David's Head, a wild, rocky headland where the exact route is often indistinct, though the general direction is perfectly clear. The headland is covered in heather and strewn with huge boulders; the path picks a way through this complicated terrain, twisting up and down and around the humps and bumps and rocks of the landscape. The guidebook tells me of a prehistoric burial chamber that is "unmissable" as it stands out against the horizon, but of course I miss it! The route runs high above the sea along the slopes below the northern side of Carn Llidi, then drops steeply down into a hollow where a few wild horses are grazing, the only sign of life on the path this morning. The cliffs, though not vertical, are noticeably higher today, and the path climbs up to an altitude of 60 metres or more on several occasions. The walking is rough and stony, with lots of steep hills in both directions.<br />
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At about eleven, I stop for a drink of water at the bottom of one of these short, steep climbs, huddled down in a little hollow. A group of four people pass going the other way; they are the first walkers I have seen today. It is Monday, the weekend visitors and locals out for a stroll have returned to work, leaving the coast to those who are on holiday. The path continues along the steep northern flank of Carn Penberry, now rising to 100 metres above sea level, the highest point I have reached so far in ten days of walking. The view northwards towards Strumble Head, my way ahead for the next couple of days, looks every bit as intimidating as St. Bride's Bay did from Martin's Haven. Looking back southward, stone walls and fields draw the eye up towards Carn Llidi and its neighbour Carn Perfedd. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Looking northwards towards Carn Penberry...</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>... and back south to Carn Llidi</i></td></tr>
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Beyond Penberry, a particularly steep descent leads all the way back down to the shore at the stony little cove of Aber-pwll, followed immediately by an equally steep climb up out of the cove. As I have said before, none of these hills is very long; however, over the course of a day on the coast path, you accumulate a huge number of 30-metre ascents and descents that make it very difficult to truly judge how much you have really climbed by the end of the day. What is certain is that this is the toughest section of the path since the peninsula north of Freshwater West on day 3.<br />
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Despite the tough going, I make very good time this morning. I have planned to have lunch at the isolated bay of Abereiddy, slightly beyond the halfway stage of the day's walk. Gradually the path becomes easier and the hills lower, dropping down gradually to meet the sea once again at Abereiddy, where I arrive at half past one. Abereiddy is a great contrast to all the other beaches I have seen so far for one simple reason: the sand is dark grey, presumably indicative of large amounts of coal in the rocks around here. While the fields inland are still very much reddish-brown, the cliffs that border the north side of the bay are black. This perhaps explains the reasoning behind Whitesands Bay's name: the beaches along this next stretch are all of grey sand and, for anyone approaching from the north, Traeth-mawr would most definitely be a "white sands bay" compared to what they had previously seen! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Cottages inland between Abereiddy and Porthgain</i></td></tr>
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Irrespective of the colour of the sand, there is nothing particularly remarkable about Abereiddy: the beach is neither wild nor developed for tourism, backed by a deserted car-park in the middle of which sits a deserted ice-cream and snacks van but not much else. Luckily I have my packed lunch and find a reasonably sheltered spot down on the pebbles, just below a scruffy sea wall made of old metal girders and rocks. I have managed to find a few things to eat at the supermarket in St. David's: a sausage roll, a packet of crisps, a tomato and an apple. I don't know why I persist in buying tomatoes as a lunchtime ingredient for hikes though; without a proper accompaniment of salad and sauces, I fail to find much enjoyment in them.<br />
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Beyond Abereiddy, the walk unexpectedly becomes much easier. A broad path climbs up onto a flat, grassy clifftop which I now follow northwards towards Porthgain, the next village along the way. As I get closer to Porthgain, there is much evidence of this area's industrial past. The flat, windswept clifftops are dotted with overgrown but clearly man-made humps and ditches; ruined buildings stand out against the sky, and paving stones peek through the grass to show where roads ran from building to building. A white obelisk stands on the cliff above the southern side of the entrance to Porthgain harbour, mirrored by a second obelisk marking the northern side of the channel. Porthgain itself is a surprising place; nobody would claim that it is pretty, but it's certainly interesting, and would be fascinating for anyone with a real interest in industrial archaeology. For a brief period in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, this was an important port through which slate and brick from local quarries was exported by sea. Its prosperity only lasted a few years though: too isolated, not connected to the rail network, it was soon overtaken by progress and abandoned. Some of the old port buildings still remain: a little white house beside which the path drops down to the quay, and a larger stone building behind the harbour which has been converted into a restaurant. The harbour itself is now only the home to a couple of fishing boats. Above the southern side of the harbour, the whole hillside is lined with the remains of the huge buildings where the slate and brick were stored while waiting for ships to come and take them away. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Porthgain</i></td></tr>
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After this industrial interlude, the final hour and a half of the day's walk are once again wilder and more rugged, although the walking remains easy. I catch up with a young couple; the woman is very pretty and, unusually, hiking in a skirt. They are walking slowly, looking at the flowers, she is taking photos. We overtake each other a few times over the next hour, hold a few gates open for each other and chat for a while at one of them; they are down here on holiday and "just strolling", they tell me. The path drops back down to the sea at Aber Draw, where there are a couple of cottages, then climbs once again for the final clifftop section to Abercastle. I pass a signpost saying "Trefin Youth Hostel ½ mile". Two minutes later, a family coming the other way ask me if I know the way to Trefin Youth Hostel… which gives me the perfect opportunity to show off my immense local knowledge and tell them exactly how far it is and how to get there!<br />
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Now I approach Abercastle, my goal for the day. This is another long inlet, not unlike Solva in many ways but very different in others. Whereas Solva was surrounded by wooded hillsides, here there is a wilder feel to the landscape, with bare hillsides of cropped grass. Solva's inlet was full of small boats, Abercastle has just two or three moored a short distance off the stony beach. And where at Solva was a busy, tourist-oriented village, Abercastle has just a few cottages; no shop, no pub. The entrance to the inlet is guarded by Ynys y Castell, a flat-topped hunk of an island standing a short distance offshore and almost connected to the mainland. </div>
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The path descends through a grassy field where there is a ring of presumably prehistoric standing stones, then contours around a couple of little bays to reach the tiny village itself. My bed and breakfast for the night is on a farm at the far end of the village and a little way outside it, about ten minutes' walk up a steep hill. The place seems to be deserted; the owners have left a note for me which I completely fail to see, but after ten minutes my walking around and trying random doors awakens the curiosity of two dogs who come up barking and wagging their tails, soon followed by a landlady who has clearly been doing some vigorous outdoor work.<br />
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Until now, I was swearing by the place where I stayed in Pembroke as the ultimate B&B experience, but I have to admit that it may just about be beaten by Garn Isaf at Abercastle, certainly as far as sheer comfort goes. This is by far the most luxurious bedroom of the whole walk, enhanced by a proper shower connected to a proper hot water system, an absolutely massive bed and original artwork hanging on the walls. The landlady asks me not to hang anything out to dry in the room: this is a problem, as I have yesterday's clothes to finish drying in addition to the stuff I have been wearing today. But she tells me that I can give her the whole lot and she will hang it outside until nightfall, then bring it back indoors. I have a long and luxurious shower, do my last clothes wash of the tour – a reminder that the end is now close – and go back downstairs to wait for Sarah and Peter, who will be coming to collect me to drive to a local pub for dinner.<br />
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Downstairs is a comfortable lounge with a good stock of books about local places, wildlife and geography. I talk briefly to a slightly older couple who arrived just before me; we will have a much longer conversation over breakfast in the morning. Sarah gets stuck in the office, but finally makes it to Abercastle at half past seven. We drive back to Porthgain in thick fog, which feels a bit odd given that I have just walked from there, but Porthgain has the advantage of having a highly-reputed fish restaurant and a good pub too. The restaurant is fully booked despite the fact that this is an early season Monday evening, but the Sloop Inn is much bigger inside than it looks from the outside, and we get a table there with no problem. I had expected to be eating a lot of fish and chips during this holiday, but so far have not had anything beyond scampi in Broad Haven. I am determined to have at least one plate of traditional fish and chips, and the Sloop proves to be an excellent place to do it… a portion of monumental size that finally defeats me, but quite possibly the best piece of battered cod I have ever eaten.<br />
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Tomorrow is the Big One, the longest stage of the whole walk by a fair distance. I am confident now that my heel will hold up, but I also know that I am probably going to be walking for eight or nine hours over some of the coast path's toughest ground… I just hope it doesn't rain.<br />
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-27224971086673283382013-05-19T12:39:00.000-07:002013-09-13T09:57:37.982-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 9, from Solva to Whitesands Bay<br />
Time: 6.25 hours<br />
Distance: 21 km<br />
Grading: Moderate; narrow clifftop path opposite Ramsey Island<br />
Height gain/loss: 450 metres<br />
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<i>Solva – St. Non's Bay – Porth Clais – St. Justinian's – Whitesands Bay</i><br />
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The information sheet in my B&B bedroom in Solva has a laid-back attitude to breakfast which, it says, is served "between 8 and 8:30ish". I go downstairs at 8:15ish and am rewarded with an excellent breakfast, the best since Pembroke. The owner is friendly and chatty. Most of the tables in the café where the meal is served are occupied by people who look like they are going to be doing similar activities to me during the day. It's Sunday, the sun is shining and this is one of the best-known and most walked parts of the path: today I will see more people than all the other days put together. I see the Dutch couple for the last time; they are having a rest day and spending another night in Solva. We wish each other luck for the remainder of our walks. A week after returning home to Switzerland, I receive a postcard from them: they completed the coast path two days after me. I have absolutely no idea how they got my address, but it was a really nice surprise.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Solva</i></td></tr>
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Today's walk, though not especially long, involves a lot of up and down and some of the most rugged stretches of coastline yet; I am glad that I will be seeing it at its best. At 9:15, I am on my way. Solva is still very quiet, the Sunday visitors will not start arriving for another hour or so. The harbourside car park is almost empty, making it possible to get some better pictures than yesterday of the village. I walk along the quayside to the old lifeboat station, passing a variety of sailing and rowing boats, still beached until the sea comes in to liberate them. A gentle path leads up through scattered woodlands towards the cliff tops; down below, the tide is just starting to flow into the mouth of the harbour… except that flow is far too violent a word; the morning is incredibly calm and the tide is wafting in more than anything else, a tiny ripple of mirror-calm sea making slow headway inland. So calm is the sea this morning that the reflection of cumulus clouds miles away to the south above Skomer is clearly visible on the surface of the water; I don't think I have ever seen the sea so utterly still. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>An incredibly calm morning</i></td></tr>
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The morning's walk crosses grassy, fairly flat country, dropping only occasionally down to the sea at Porth y Rhaw, Caer Bwdy and Cerfai, where valleys funnel streams down to sandy little beaches. Cerfai in particular must be a lovely beach at low tide, and probably also gets crowded in summer; today, there is nobody on the beach apart from two toddlers paddling in the calm water and their parents sitting Sunday-lazily on the sand. From these bays, paths run inland to reach St. David's, where I will be spending the night, in only two or three kilometres… my own way is much longer!<br />
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There is a car park at Cerfai, and significantly more walkers join the path here. Down at the base of the cliffs there are all sorts of interesting geological formations; stacks, arches, rocks of every conceivable shape and size. Above the wild St. Non's Bay are a big country house and a chapel. St. Non's is supposedly the birthplace of St. David, patron saint of Wales, the Non in question being not a French refusal but David's mother. The chapel is a disappointment though; I was expecting something old, but in fact it is a 1930s construction built by the owner of the big house. </div>
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Now I come to the surprising inlet of Porth-clais, an unexpected mini-Solva with a touch of Stackpole Quay thrown in for good measure. The path dips down a hillside ablaze with flowers, from where a steep flight of steps leads down to a tiny stone quay thrown out across the entrance to the inlet. There are two more quays further up towards the inland end of the inlet, but they are unconnected to each other though clearly all part of the same port. My stairway goes nowhere beyond the first quay, I have to retrace my steps back up onto the main path, which continues down to sea level to cross the valley where the river flows into the sea. An elderly woman points up the path I have come from and asks me if it goes to St. David's; I show her where she is on the map and point out a couple of shorter alternatives. There is no village as such here, just a few houses clustered around the place where road meets water, but it's a busy little place, apparently a popular starting point for adventurous nautical activities judging by the number of outboard dinghies and people in wetsuits. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Porth-clais</i></td></tr>
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I decide to push on to Porthlysgi, the next bay, before stopping for lunch. The path runs southwards and seawards again, gradually climbing back up onto low cliffs, some thirty metres above the water. Some people are calling down to friends in the water at the base of the cliffs; eerie answers come echoing back up.<br />
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Porthlysgi, despite being unpronounceable, turns out to be a great choice for lunch. Set down in another one of those little valleys, the beach is relatively isolated and has a wild feel to it, pebbly at high tide but with wonderfully clear turquoise water covering a sandy bottom. Offshore, a number of islets and smaller rocks add texture to the base of the angled, grassy cliffs at the top of the beach makes a perfect backrest for sitting facing into the warm midday sun and enjoying lunch. The peace is disturbed occasionally by passing walkers who come down to have a look at the beach, then somewhat more by a couple who arrive with an annoying, yappy dog called Alfie. The woman is absolutely desperate for Alfie to go into the sea so that she can take some wet doggy photos, but Alfie is more interested in eating pebbles. They leave, but are replaced shortly afterwards by another couple with a much bigger dog, confusingly also called Alfie. A third dog arrives and tries but fails to have sex with Alfie No. 2. A long and noisy session of barking and bottom-sniffing finally comes to and end and all the dogs depart, leaving me alone for a pleasant half-hour snooze, the first since Freshwater West on the third day. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Porthlysgi</i></td></tr>
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Beyond Porthlysgi, the scenery starts to change. The path becomes more rugged, with considerably more upping and downing. Inland too, there is a different feel to the landscape. Pretty much all the way from Amroth on the first day, the landscape to the landward side has been fields and copses, either flat or sloping gently downhill away from the cliff edge. Now though, the pastoral fields give way to a much wilder landscape of heather and rough grassland, out of which a number of hills rise up higher than the surrounding land. These hills culminate in rocky outcrops that in the south-west would be called tors. Between the hills, marshy lakes lie in the hollows. The path itself becomes rocky underfoot for the first time. All the guidebooks agree that the northern part of the path is rougher, wilder, harder; this new landscape is the first sign of that change.<br />
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I have finally reached the northern end of St.Bride's Bay. The path climbs up to a saddle between the headland of Pen Pedol and the inland hills. Here I turn back and look for the last time across the wide sweep of the bay, all the way back to the cliffs in the far distance that stretch away to Skomer. Three days ago, from the cliffs above Martin's Haven, this point looked impossibly far away; looking back, the distance that I have covered is equally impressive. On the very furthest horizon, even the chimneys of the refinery at Angle Bay can just about be made out. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Inland, the scenery starts to become wilder</i></td></tr>
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Now I turn ahead, northwards. The major feature of the next part of the walk is the large island of Ramsey, a kilometre and a half away across a wild channel of water. I can now see that Ramsey is what I thought might be part of the mainland when looking north from Broad Haven, the feature that the waitress who "wasn't very good at coast stuff" was unable to help me identify. Ramsey is a wild-looking place; its southern end looks almost mountainous, the northern end somewhat lower, with stone field walls and a solitary farmhouse. High cliffs border the full length of the island, and I can see from my map that the hidden western side has even higher cliffs. Between the island and the mainland, even on this perfectly calm day, the tide is running at a furious pace and whipping the sea up into whitecaps… this would be no place to go swimming or even to adventure into with a small boat. The path runs northwards along the top of the cliffs opposite the island, narrow and quite close to the edge in places. This is the first section of the path where there is such a feeling of airiness; anyone suffering badly from vertigo would definitely not be at ease here. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>No such thing as a calm day in Ramsey Sound</i></td></tr>
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I approach the bay of St. Justinian's with its lifeboat slipway, a carbon copy of the old one in Tenby which has now been converted into a private home. I hear someone saying that the one at St. Justinian's is also going to be replaced in the near future. The clifftop flora is absolutely stunning along this section – probably the best of the whole path in terms of the variety of flowers and the intensity of their colour. In places, clouds of pink and white flowers are growing halfway down the near-vertical cliffs, above a turquoise sea. An artist is sitting just above the lifeboat station, working on an oil painting of the slipway with the island in the background. I stop to watch for a while; he tells me that he started the painting yesterday "but the light failed". I feel quite sorry for the light, being so bluntly accused of not being up to the job… Now though, the painting looks close to completion, and there is no indication of a second failure being imminent. </div>
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The final hour to Whitesands Bay is an easy walk across fields, less wild once again as I leave Ramsey Sound behind and turn eastwards. Whitesands occupies a perfect location, a large horseshoe of a bay against the rocky backdrop of Carn Llidi, at 182 metres the highest hill I have seen since starting my walk, and looking much more mountainous than its modest altitude would suggest. If the southern part of the coast path often felt like Brittany, this is most definitely Scotland. The sands themselves are lovely, though no whiter than any of the others I have seen over the last nine days. Whitesands Bay's Welsh name is much more pragmatic: Traeth-mawr simply means "big beach".<br />
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In summer, this is a very popular and crowded holiday beach; in May it is absolutely deserted, as is the big car-park above the beach. It is half past four, the beach café is just shutting down for the evening. It's about four kilometres to St. David's, where I am spending the night: I could walk it in less than an hour, but I know that there are some long days ahead and prefer to wait half an hour for the bus. When it comes, the bus is just a minibus and I am the only passenger for the ten-minute ride, which costs just £1. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Whitesands Bay</i></td></tr>
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St. David's is, famously, the smallest city in Wales (or in the UK, or possibly the world, I cannot remember the details of its claim to fame). It has this distinction because of its large cathedral, but in reality is no more than a village: in fact, though I knew it was going to be small, St. David's is even smaller and sleepier than I was expecting. The bus drops me in the "city centre" in front of the "city hall", and I decide to go and visit the cathedral and have a beer before looking for my B&B. The cathedral is an astonishing building for such a small place: set in a little dip of the land, it is invisible from the centre, hidden by houses and geography. To find it, I have to go up the side of a pub, through an archway and down a long flight of steps. Inside, the cathedral has a remarkably ornate carved wooden roof, but its most surprising feature – not so noticeable from the outside – is that it slopes quite significantly upwards from west to east. As you walk up the nave towards the altar, there is a very noticeable feeling of walking uphill. I have never seen a sloping church before and wonder about the reason: was the rock underneath the church too hard to allow excavation, were the builders too lazy to bother digging, did the local bishop want it done on the cheap? Someone is practising the organ inside the cathedral and then, as I leave and walk back up the hill, the bells start to peal as the local campanologists rehearse their change-ringing. It is all rather lovely.<br />
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The pub I walked past, the Farmer's Arms, has a sunny beer garden out the back, which I find impossible to resist. Getting served is a slow process though; the bar is full of thirsty rock-climbers (at least that's what I assume they are given that their conversation is all about harnesses and falling off things) and the solitary barmaid is having trouble providing refills of Double Dragon as fast as they need them! I sit in the hot sun and drink my pint, then wander into the village centre to check from where and at what time I can get a bus back to Whitesands in the morning, and whether it will be possible for me to stock up on provisions before the bus leaves.<br />
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My B&B is out towards the edge of St. David's… though in a city where nothing is more than two hundred metres from anything else, this still makes it pretty central. It's an odd little place; clearly recently renovated, but in the style of a 1960s seaside boarding house with dark-coloured wallpaper, heavy curtains and carpets and totally inadequate lighting in my tiny bedroom. It is very comfortable and the owner (who fits perfectly with the décor) is very friendly, but it is all rather old-fashioned and caught in a time warp. I do my usual showering and washing; there is no heating, which is understandable after such a warm day, but I already know that my clothes will not be dry in the morning.<br />
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For dinner, I go to the other pub in the centre, ambiguously called The Bishops. It is not clear whether the name refers to a single but ungrammatical bishop, or whether St. David's had a whole multitude of plural bishops… It's a nice pub though, busy but not overcrowded. A big hulk of a barmaid with tattoos serves me a pint of Reverend James, then another one to go with a very tasty plate of pork with mustard sauce, which the menu describes as "Dijonnaise". The pub is warm, the evening sun is coming in through the window and lighting my table far better than the ceiling light in my bedroom, so I linger in the pub for quite a long time after I have finished eating, reading my books and looking at my map. Tomorrow's leg will be longer and will take me into the final third of my walk. </div>
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-10-from.html">Next stage</a><br />
<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-8-from.html">Previous stage</a></div>
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All my Pembrokeshire Coast Path photos <a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/113933589097565093472/albums/5884876187227957393?banner=pwa" target="_blank">here</a><br />
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-22171272520622917862013-05-18T12:36:00.001-07:002020-06-14T09:49:39.772-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 8, from Broad Haven to Solva<br />
Time: 5.25 hours<br />
Distance: 18 km<br />
Grading: Easy, quite a bit of up and down between Newgale and Solva<br />
Height gain/loss: 500 metres<div><br /></div><div><i>Broad Haven - Druidston haven - Nolton haven - Newgale - Solva</i><br />
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<b><i>St. Elvis and the Cow King...</i><br /></b>
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It is another beautiful, sunny morning. All traces of yesterday afternoon's thunderstorm have gone, the air is warm and clear. My breakfast table definitely has the best view so far, looking out to sea through a big bay window… except that the window does not yet seem to have got its first clean of the season and is a bit mucky, to put it mildly. The sea, which was turquoise yesterday, is a completely different colour today; a deep blue veering to grey, with whitecaps – it looks like it may be windy. I ask the woman who takes my breakfast order if they got my voicemail from yesterday afternoon about my late arrival. "Dunno, I only work here", comes the unsmiling answer.<br />
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Out of the window, the coastline seems to stretch away northwards to infinity with, just on the horizon, some higher hills. I cannot work out if this farthest bit of land is part of the main coastline or an island so, when yet another different employee comes to serve me a refill of coffee, I ask her. She considers my difficult question for a while, then replies apologetically: "Don't know, I'm not very good at coast stuff". It might not be a bad idea, I think, for this guest house on the Pembrokeshire coast, dealing day in, day out with people who have come to visit the coast and may have simple questions about the coast, to give its staff some basic "coast stuff" training. To her credit, she then adds "But I think St. David's and Solva are that way", and points in the right direction. A good job, as Solva is where I am going today, and I would have hated to start the day in a state of confusion.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Stag Rock, according to the map. I see sphinx, cat, lion... but where's the stag?</i></td></tr>
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There is a small supermarket just beside the B&B, and I go there to stock up on lunch provisions for the next two days. By 9:15 I am on my way for what turns out to be the shortest and easiest leg of the whole coast path. Somewhere along the way today – I don't know exactly where – I will be meeting my sister Sarah, who is setting out from Solva and walking in the opposite direction to meet me. There a surprising number of people on the big beach at Broad Haven; not only the usual dog walkers, but also quite a few joggers. Why so many people, I wonder… then I remember: it's Saturday. One completely loses track of the calendar on these long walks, but I have been going for a full week and Saturday has come around again. By the time the next one comes, I will be on the train on the way home… </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Broad Haven</i></td></tr>
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At the northern end of the beach, near the stag rock that looks like all sorts of feline creatures but absolutely nothing like a stag, the coast path climbs up gently behind houses onto gentle, easy cliffs. A metal memorial plaque fixed to a gate commemorates one "Charles Brian Cowking"… a Pembrokeshire variation on the Lion King, maybe? In contrast to yesterday's wild walk, where signs of habitation were few and far between, today's leg stays closer to civilisation, with several villages and beaches accessible by (albeit narrow) roads. The first of these is the stunning, secluded Druidston Haven, its sand strewn with boulders and its southern end closed by a dramatically black, overhanging cliff. I go down onto the beach here, skim a few stones into the sea, dip my hand in to see how cold it is (not too bad at all, in fact) and sit on a rock for a drink and some biscuits. The Dutch couple overtake me while I am on the beach, I can see them ahead, toiling up onto the next cliff top. The path leaves the haven up a valley behind the cliffs, then heads directly up to their top via a cruelly steep staircase… in Switzerland, they would at least provide a handrail or a rope to help you haul yourself up! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The wonderful Druidston Haven</i></td></tr>
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Another easy section takes me across flat clifftops where ponies are grazing beside the path, which then becomes more awkward as it descends into the next valley. The path is narrow, muddy and ravined by feet and rainwater, it's like walking in a 40-centimetre deep trench that is just wide enough for three quarters of a hiking boot. This descent brings me down to the next valley, Nolton Haven, where there is a tiny village that consists of not much more than a pub, a church and some toilets. Nolton is a much narrower beach than Druidston, a narrow inlet between high cliffs on both sides, with only a small amount of sand exposed: the tide is three quarters of the way in. For the first time on the coast path, here I see signs of traditional beach holiday activities; there are families sitting on the sand with buckets, spades and beach balls, and children are paddling in the sea. There are people in hiking gear waiting for the bus: I will pass them all later in the day walking back southwards towards their starting point from Solva. The Dutch couple are taking a break on the beach and I pass them again; I will see them no more on today's walk. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Nolton Haven</i></td></tr>
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After another short clifftop section, the long beach at Newgale appears up ahead, windswept and mostly shingle as the tide reaches its highest point. The path stays high up above the southern end of the beach and, frustratingly, does not offer any possibility of getting down onto it until halfway along. Newgale Sands is a very long beach, more than three kilometres from one end to the other, backed by a high, steep bank of shingle and popular with surfers. Once I manage to get down onto it, I follow the beach northwards along the thin, ever diminishing strip of sand between the sea and the shingle, until eventually the waves get the upper hand and the risk of wet feet drives me back up onto the shingle bank.<br />
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At 12:25, I reach the "inhabited" northern end of the beach, beside Newgale village. It is windy, a bit too cool for a proper lazy lunch and siesta, but still warm enough to huddle down on the shingle and enjoy an unhurried lunch of sandwiches and an orange. It is lunchtime for the surfers, windsurfers and kitesurfers as well, there are more of them on the beach than in the water. A dinghy arrives from the direction of the cliffs to the north, pulls up and discharges a boatload of people who look like they have been indulging in the new craze of coasteering, which you see advertised all over the place in West Wales. There are also a few people in the water on what look like surf boards, but which they are piloting standing up with a large oar… I have no idea what this particular surfing variation is called. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Newgale Sands</i></td></tr>
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After half an hour on the beach, I set off for the afternoon's walk. The way out of Newgale is steeply uphill, the climb immediately followed by an equally steep drop that brings me almost back down to sea level by a stony beach in a little valley. The place is marked on the map as Cwm-bach which, I believe, means "little valley", so my evaluation of the place's main feature is correct. Another steep climb and drop follow, then another. After three or four of these, the ground finally levels out for a while and I cross a flatter section of clifftop where a herd of black and white cows has set up shop right in the middle of the path. They must have been taking lessons from their Swiss cousins. The metronomic sound of them tearing bits of grass off in perfect unison provides a rhythmic foreground to the more regular accompaniment of the wind. Now the path drops down into a larger valley that runs well back inland; up ahead, the rocky headland of Dinas Fach borders its western side as it runs out to sea above the beach of Porthmynawyd. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Dinas Fach with natural arch</i></td></tr>
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At the top of the climb out of the Porthmynawyd valley, I meet Sarah, who set off from Solva a couple of hours earlier. She has been sitting watching me approach from a fair way off, watching interestedly to see what the cows would do to me. The remaining hour and a bit to Solva is an easy walk across almost flat clifftops; we talk more than we look at the landscape. As we enter a field where horses graze, a sign informs us that we are crossing the grounds of St. Elvis Farm... we have definitely progressed a level from what was not quite Presley View in Pembroke Dock. A young couple pass us in the other direction, walking barefoot... a radical solution to the "mountain boots versus trainers" debate. Only once, just before the end, does the path drop down to cross a stream just where it runs into the sea, before climbing very steeply up over one last headland and dropping down to the harbour of Solva, set at the end of a long, deep tidal inlet. Guidebooks claim that Solva is the prettiest place on the coast path; others say that it has the atmosphere of a fjord. Both of these claims are untrue, but it is still a rather nice little village in a lovely setting. Only the large car park that blocks the view of the village houses from the seaward side and makes it impossible to get a good photo of the place is a bit of an intrusion.<br />
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The B&B where I am sleeping is a yellow-painted house right on the harbour, conveniently located next door to the Harbour Inn. It's warm, still early and we are in no hurry, so we find a table outside and I enjoy a pint of Double Dragon before going to get my key. Going in to order the drinks, I get a sudden reminder that the real world is still going on in some parallel universe to the coast path: on the television behind the bar, Bradford are thumping the goals in against Northampton in the third division playoff final, and Aidy Boothroyd is looking defeated and dejected. Sarah goes off to collect Peter from an event he has been attending in Haverfordwest; they will come back a bit later for dinner.<br />
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This is another B&B that doubles as a "bistro"; this one, though, is much friendlier than the one in Broad Haven. The place is busy, the waitress behind the bar keeps getting distracted by new customers every time she tries to give me my key. In the end, she asks the chef for help: "Would you mind going upstairs with the gentleman?", which sounds like a slightly dodgy offer. My room is large and light, there is a private bathroom when I had not been expecting one, there is even a residents' lounge with cooking facilities. I go through my usual showering and clothes-washing routine, then go out for a stroll round the village before meeting up with Sarah and Peter again. The village only really has one street, running back from the harbour and lined with old stone buildings, many of which house pubs, galleries or restaurants. One or two little lanes lead down to bridges over the stream that flows down to the sea, parallel to the main street.<br />
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We meet back at the Harbour Inn at six, inside as the village is now in the shade and the wind is chilly. The football on the television has been replaced by rugby, I replace the earlier Double Dragon with the Reverend James. We walk up to the other end of the main street for dinner at the Cambrian Inn, a rather upmarket place that is more than halfway to being a really good restaurant rather than a pub. I have a delicious cawl pie, their take on the classic Welsh lamb "main course soup" dish. I feel good, I feel fit, really into my stride now on this eighth day… a good job, as the remaining stages are longer and, for the most part, cover somewhat tougher terrain. </div>
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-9-from.html">Next stage</a><br />
<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-7-from.html">Previous stage</a><br />
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All my Pembrokeshire Coast Path photos <a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/113933589097565093472/albums/5884876187227957393?banner=pwa" target="_blank">here</a></div>
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</div>Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-86567238377447360182013-05-17T12:34:00.000-07:002013-09-13T09:52:09.162-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 7, from Marloes Sands to Broad Haven<br />
Time: 6 hours<br />
Distance: 22 km<br />
Grading: Easy clifftop paths<br />
Height gain/loss: 225 metres<br />
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<i>Marloes Sands – Martin's Haven – St. Bride's Haven – Little Haven – Broad Haven</i><br />
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Today's leg of the coast path is probably the closest thing I will get to a rest day. I have not planned any days off during the walk, for cost and practicality reasons, but I do know that I am putting pressure on my lower body and that shortish, easy days like today and tomorrow will do me good before I start on the much more physical northern part of the coast path. Today there are no major climbs or descents, no road walking, no tidal crossings to put me under time pressure; I am going to take it easy, walk slowly, get rid of any lingering Achilles twinges. I allow myself a lie-in and order a late breakfast for 8:30. It's a beautiful, sunny morning and the owner of the B&B has selected a bouncy, cheerful Motown playlist as background music.<br />
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Over breakfast, I chat to the young couple who came into the pub yesterday evening. They are Dutch, and are walking the complete coast path in the same direction as me – the only people I will meet who are doing this. They started a day before me in Amroth but have broken the walk up into slightly shorter stages, as a result of which after a week I have caught them up. Yesterday, they tell me, they started very early from Dale so that they could take the boat over to Skomer Island, just off the coast from here. It sounds like a good idea, and I decide that if the timetable is convenient, I will include a boat trip in my "rest day", not landing on the island (I would not have time) but just going there and back for the ride. I mention to the landlady that I am surprised by how busy Marloes is, and that back in my childhood days it had a remote, lonely feel to it. She tells me that its popularity is largely due to all the wildlife programmes on television: Skomer is an internationally renowned bird sanctuary, and the number of amateur ornithologists and walkers with an interest in wildlife has turned this sleepy village into an important centre for a certain, specific niche tourist market. On the window-sill beside me is a lamp; beside the lamp, yet another bit of health and safety pollution: CAREFUL, THE LAMP IS HOT, says the notice. You have to wonder for whose attention it has been written… anyone not yet old enough to have understood that lamps get hot is probably too young to read the notice anyway!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>A sunny start and high tide at Marloes</i></td></tr>
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I retrace my steps up the side of the house, along the lane and back down the path to Marloes Sands, rejoining the coast path where I left it at the very lazy time of 9:45. My heel is sore while I am walking along the lane, but all trace of discomfort disappears once I am back on the gentle ups and downs of the path. There are lots of people out walking this morning, many of whom are accompanied by golden retrievers. One human + retriever threesome approaches from the other direction, the dog bounding up for a sniff and a tail-wag. "No jumping, Lucy!" warns the dog's owner. Lucy shows a total disregard for orders though, she is far more interested in finding a new friend and jumps all over me. Two very serious hiking types come the other way, drenched in sweat, huge rucksacks, going very fast, not looking like they are really enjoying it very much… maybe it's just a pure physical challenge for them, or maybe they have to be in Tenby by lunchtime. They ignore my hello, so I won't find out.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The coastline between Marloes and Martin's Haven</i></td></tr>
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I get to Martin's Haven, from where the boats to Skomer leave, at 10:45. There is a boat at 11 but it's already fully booked, and waiting for the next one an hour later will delay me too much. Instead of taking the boat, I have a 15-minute break here, watch the boat arrive at the tiny slipway, load up with an impressive number of passengers then leave again.<br />
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The next section of clifftop path, on to St. Bride's haven, is beautiful. The flowers seem especially colourful this morning; not just the omnipresent yellow gorse but also lots of smaller, pink or white flowers which unfortunately I cannot identify. Above the tide-hidden Musselwick Sands, the appropriately-named Black Rock rises up like some great, menacing wave in the middle of a predominantly reddish line of cliffs.<br />
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Now, the way that I will be following for the next few days becomes visible, stretching a terrifying distance away into the haze. I am looking northwards across St. Bride's Bay, which stretches some 15 kilometres as the crow flies (but three times as far as the walker walks) from Martin's Haven to Ramsey Island. On the map, this looks like one big bay, suggesting that it might make for monotonous walking, but in reality, there is a multitude of little beaches and coves within the wide sweep of the main bay. It is Friday morning; it will be Sunday afternoon before I can look back to here from the far end of the bay.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Clifftop flowers</i></td></tr>
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Like yesterday, there is a big dark cloud hovering inland. Unlike yesterday though, the sun does not manage to avoid going behind it and, at about 12:30, it disappears for good and the air instantly cools down. Approaching St. Bride's Haven, the path runs round the edge of a huge field surrounded by an unusually high stone wall – considerably higher than myself. This is clearly the boundary wall of something that must have been quite important in the past and, indeed, through gaps in the wall, the turrets of a castle can be seen… probably 19th century, as it looks more like a fake Scottish castle than a real Welsh one!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Castle and boundary wall near St. Bride's Haven</i></td></tr>
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St. Bride's Haven, where I arrive at one o'clock, is another bit of Brittany that has been washed up in Wales. A little stony bay, rocks running out to sea, a line of white cottages, a church just up behind the beach. There are several people on the little beach, looking for the most sheltered spots to sit for lunch as the wind has now got quite cold. I sit down on the pebbles to eat, but a shower quickly drives me undercover – there is another one of those old lime kilns on a mound above the beach, and it offers just enough shelter and space for one person to eat comfortably. I have a quick look inside the 13th-century church before continuing, waterproof jacket on for the first time since Pembroke as showers continue to spatter me. The weather cannot make up its mind which way to turn, and over the course of the next hour my jacket will come on and off several times as sun and showers compete for prominence.<br />
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At St. Bride's Haven, by my reckoning, I reach the halfway point of the coast path. I have walked 150 kilometres in six and a half days, and have the same distance and time still to go. Just beyond St. Bride's, there is a place marked "Halfway Rock" on the map, but I have no idea if this is related to the coast path (which has only existed since 1970) or if it's an older name with a completely different meaning. Neither of my guidebooks gives it any mention.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>St. Bride's Haven, the halfway point of the Pembrokeshire Coast Path</i></td></tr>
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Now the weather is developing in a more ominous way. The big grey cloud away inland that has been providing me with occasional showers since lunchtime has grown fast, and is now sending great tentacles out to sea. It has darkened as well, and the rolling of thunder is audible away eastwards, still a long way off. Westwards, out to sea, the sky is still blue. The contrast between the black sky inland, the white of the farmhouses and the yellow of the gorse is striking. The path descends steeply into a tiny, deep valley where a stream trickles down onto a shingly beach. There is a big ruined building at the bottom of the valley – yet another lime kiln by the looks of it – and I momentarily consider waiting here for the storm to pass. It still seems to be a fair way off though, and looks like it may pass further south, so I carry on, noting the place in case I have to turn back to seek shelter.<br />
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I climb up out of the valley onto much higher cliffs, where there is no shelter apart from occasional gorse bushes. Ten minutes later, the thunder has got much closer and louder, and is increasing in frequency. I decide to retrace my steps to the little valley; an exposed cliff top with nothing higher than myself is not where I want to be in a thunderstorm. I go back down to the lime kiln, put all my stuff inside so that it will keep dry when the rain starts, and sit back to relax – I have no idea if I will be here for twenty minutes or two hours. I phone ahead to my B&B in Broad Haven and leave a voicemail telling the landlady not to worry if I arrive late, I am simply sitting out the storm in a safe place about an hour from my destination. In fact, I have wrongly identified my location on the map – Mill Haven, where I have taken shelter, is more like two hours from Broad Haven. I stay at Mill Haven for almost an hour as the storm front moves very, very slowly south-westwards. There is no rain and almost no wind, giving an eerie "eye of the storm" feeling to the atmosphere. And, though the sky remains very black, the rumbling of thunder soon diminishes in frequency as the storm moves away southwards. Out to sea meanwhile, all is still calm and blue.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The weather takes a turn for the worse...</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>...while out to sea, the sky is still blue. What's the Loch Ness Monster doing in Wales though?</i></td></tr>
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At half pas three I decide to make a move. There has been no thunder for ten minutes and, although a second wave of black cloud seems to be preparing itself away to the north-east, I am confident that I can reach civilisation before it hits me. The next hour becomes a race against the weather. My "rest day" has gone out of the window, I just want to get off of these cliffs before the next wave of thunder hits. Still under the impression that I am an hour closer to Broad Haven than I really am, I am dismayed when, on reaching the crest of the next hill, there are just more cliffs, more ups and more downs beyond it. I advance at something between a walk and a jog, instinctively hunching down and bowing my head to try and make myself smaller than the bushes bordering the path. I wonder what my Achilles tendon will be like tomorrow morning after this… Some minor reassurance is given by the fact that the path almost always runs slightly below the very highest point of the cliff, so that there is almost always at least a line of bushes higher than my head. Every dip into a valley – and there are lots of them – brings relief and the opportunity to slow down, while every climb back up the other side onto more exposed ground brings renewed anxiety and a push to get back onto lower ground as fast as possible. I realise that I am pushing myself into the red, and deliberately try to slow my pace, but the fear of being caught by the next storm is too great. In reality though, there has been no thunder since I left my shelter.<br />
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Until this point it has stayed dry despite the stormy atmosphere, but now it begins to rain as the second wave of black clouds arrives overhead. Luckily, at this point, the path finally begins its long descent back down towards sea level; the open clifftop gives way to a sunken path that runs downhill between tall hedges of gorse, much taller than me, forming a tunnel in places. The hedges of gorse give way in turn to woodland, offering fairly good protection from what has become heavy rain. Then, suddenly, there is a noise behind me and, out of nowhere, a small black sheepdog with a white nose runs up. It overtakes me and stays with me for the next half an hour, all the way to Little Haven. The dog is wet and sad-looking, and has no collar. Every time I talk to it, it lowers its head as though expecting to be hit. I wonder if it has been abandoned by its owners. The woods give way to fields; the dog is still with me and I hope that none of the fields will contain cows with young calves, knowing how they can react to dogs. But the fields are empty, and before long I am dropping steeply down to the village of Little Haven.<br />
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Little Haven is a pretty little place: a narrow beach between high headlands, a cluster of old houses at the valley entrance behind the beach, several pubs and cafés. I go into one of the cafés to ask if anyone has reported a missing dog. The owner has a look to see if it's a local farm dog, doesn't recognise it, points to a house up the road: "Go and ask Viv, she's a collie woman, if it's a local dog she'll know it". But when I come out of the café the dog has disappeared and the meeting with Viv the collie woman never takes place.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The beach at Broad Haven, after the thunderstorm</i></td></tr>
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At low tide, you can walk across the beach from Little Haven to Broad Haven, where I am staying. But this afternoon I am either a bit too early or a bit too late – I am not sure which – and the beach at the end of the headland between the two Havens is still submerged. So my day's walk ends with half an hour of tarmac, up through Little Haven village where every second house seems to be a pub, over the hill and down to the much larger bay of Broad Haven, one of two places with this name along the coast path.<br />
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Broad Haven is different from any of the other seaside villages along this coast. Here there are neither dunes nor cliffs backing the beach, but simply a sea wall with a road running along its top. The road is lined with houses, a couple of hotels, a shop and a pub, but there is not much more to the place. Though the beach is superb, the whole places is slightly lacking in charm. At one end of the beach is Broad Haven's landmark, a huge rock shaped just like a crouching lion which, confusingly, is marked as Stag Rock on the map.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Broad Haven</i></td></tr>
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The B&B where I am staying is right on the sea front, and also operates as a café (or rather, as a "bistro", which is what most Welsh cafés now seem to be called). The large dining room is deserted, the only staff member visible is a young girl who looks like she is dressed to go clubbing rather than to serve customers in a seaside bistro. She doesn't seem to know what to do when I tell her that I have booked a room, goes and asks someone in the kitchen for help, comes back with a key, clumps up the stairs in her big heavy shoes and shows me into my bedroom. To say that the room is small would be an understatement: there is a single bed, a tiny table with a kettle and that's it. If I put my rucksack on the floor at the foot of the bed, I cannot open the door to the corridor. If I put it on the floor beside the bed, I cannot open the bathroom door. There is no shower gel or shampoo – it is the only one of the 12 places in which I stayed during the walk that did not provide these basics. The "power shower" provides only a trickle of water, but at least it is hot water, and soon I am washed and dried and have just about managed to hang all of my wet bits and pieces out to dry.<br />
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I go to the pub for dinner, as usual. The Buccaneer Inn is noisy and crowded, and seems to be very much a locals' pub rather than a tourists' pub. I find a table in a relatively quiet corner, look at my maps and guidebooks, order food, reacquaint myself with the Reverend James. The Dutch couple from this morning come in and we share a table, comparing the relative merits of our maps and guidebooks. The pub has a digital jukebox – something I have not seen before but which seems to be an excellent idea… or at least would be if the local residents were not into country and western in quite such a big way! They also seem to be very fond of Thin Lizzy and Smokie ("Don't worry," says the landlord as he comes to clear the table while <i>Living Next Door to Alice</i> is playing, "It's the clean version.") I return to the B&B trying very hard but failing dismally to get <i>Whiskey In The Jar</i> out of my head.<br />
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The thundery weather has moved far away to the south, leaving a lovely evening light in its wake. The tide is right out and the sun goes down over the sea and the distant headlands away to the north-west, towards which I will be walking tomorrow and the day after. Shortly after I get back to my room, there is a knock at the door. A woman – not the same one as I saw earlier, brings in a tray with a strange combination of things to be offering a hotel guest at nine in the evening: a glass of milk, two little muffins and a small bunch of grapes. Broad Haven is an altogether curious place.<br />
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-8-from.html">Next stage</a><br />
<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-6-from.html">Previous stage</a><br />
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All my Pembrokeshire Coast Path photos <a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/113933589097565093472/albums/5884876187227957393?banner=pwa" target="_blank">here</a><br />
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-5575459427770584182013-05-16T12:31:00.000-07:002015-05-16T08:10:23.023-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 6, from Sandy Haven to Marloes Sands<br />
Time: 6.5 hours<br />
Distance: 23 km<br />
Grading: Easy clifftop paths, very little road walking<br />
Height gain/loss: 370 metres<br />
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<i>Sandy Haven – Dale – St. Ann's Head – Marloes Sands</i><br />
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On the sixth morning of my coastal walk, I finally wake to a clear blue sky after an excellent night's sleep. It is an absolutely superb morning, the air is crisp but will warm quickly. I have breakfast with the young German woman whom I briefly met yesterday afternoon. She is struggling with blisters and tendinitis, tells me that she probably underestimated the difficulty of her first few days and is having trouble getting back on top of things now. She says she will probably use the bus to shorten the next two or three stages, especially the parts that run through towns. She also suspects (and I think she may be right) that by starting at the northern end of the path, she has already done the most interesting and scenic stages and that her last few days may be something of an anticlimax. She jokingly says that maybe she should turn round and do the northern half of the path again; I reply that she is welcome to come with me but she declines politely.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>High tide at Sandy Haven</i></td></tr>
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Today is the first of a series of shorter and easier days. I am in no hurry this morning: there is another one of those tide-dependent crossings at The Gann, about two hours into the day's walk, but I estimate that I will probably not be able to get across before about 12:30. I decide to start late and have an early lunch while I wait for the tide to go out. I stroll back down from the B&B to the shore at Sandy Haven. The stepping-stones that I crossed yesterday evening are nowhere to be seen, yesterday's tiny stream is now a wide bay full of deep blue water. The path takes me up above the haven through woods alive with birdsong and with the high-speed hammering of a woodpecker. It feels good to be back on a proper path after all the road walking of the last couple of days. My Achilles tendon is still a bit tender, and I noticed this morning that there is a swollen lump about halfway up it, but the ibuprofen gel seems to have done good and I very quickly walk off the pain. I will continue to use the gel twice a day for the next three or four days, but will not be seriously bothered by the heel any more.<br />
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For the first time since the start of the walk in Amroth it is warm enough for me to take off my fleece and walk in just a T-shirt, although when I emerge from the woods onto the windy, open ground of the clifftop, it soon goes back on. The sky is almost entirely blue, there is just one big, black cloud away inland. It stays there all day, hardly moving at all while the sun manoeuvres round it and carries on shining. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Colourful fields behind the cliffs at Sandy Haven</i></td></tr>
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Also for the first time since Amroth, I start to see other people out walking – not just the occasional dog-walker, but groups of people out for day hikes. Just before Watch House Bay, three women emerge from a side path in front of me, and we spend the next half an hour repeatedly overtaking each other. The tide is right in, there is no sand to be seen at any of the bays that the path runs round. Just before Monk Haven, there is what looks like an ancient ruin, perfectly posed on the cliffs, just waiting to be photographed. A bit too perfectly alas… my guidebook informs me that this ruined castle is in fact a Victorian folly. Monk Haven is a deep, steep-sided valley, and here the path drops right back down to sea level. There is a strange, high stone wall across the head of the pebbly beach, with just a gap in it where the stream runs down from the valley to the sea. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Victorian folly at Monk Haven</i></td></tr>
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Now the path crosses grassy fields, passes a lovely, isolated white cottage, then drops back down to the beach and continues along the shingle to the stepping-stones at The Gann, where I arrive at about 11:45. I have the option of waiting here for the tide to go down or taking the alternative high tide route. I decide to stay and wait: the high tide alternative will be mostly on the road and will take the best part of an hour, I may as well spend that hour just lying here in the sun, the scenery is nice and the morning is warm. Although the tide has only been on the ebb for 45 minutes, the crossing looks almost passable already; the stepping stones are clearly visible below the surface, and I guess that I will be able to get across much sooner than the two and a half hours after high water that the guidebook indicates. Even now, if I rolled my trousers up to the knees, I could probably cross. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The Gann</i></td></tr>
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I settle down in the long grass, eat my lunch although it's really a bit too early, watch the clouds, take pictures of the landscape. A group of five or six people with a couple of dogs arrives on the other bank; one of them advances out onto the first two stepping-stones which are now uncovered, but the next one is still under six inches of water and they are all only wearing trainers. Gradually the water level drops though, one by one the stones appear, and at 12:15 I decide to try my luck. The people on the other side seem to have decided to wait and see, I hear one of them saying "Let him go first". With my hiking boots I am, it has to be said, much better equipped than them. Some of the stones are still very wet and slippery, one or two are still under water, but I make it across without any water getting inside my boots. My way continues along the top of a shingle bank, with the sea as ever on my left and a lagoon to the right – fresh water or sea water, I have no idea. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>A few more minutes and the crossing will be clear</i></td></tr>
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I arrive in the pretty little village of Dale, with its colourful houses, its harbour and its seafront pub. This is a popular sailing centre in summer, but today it's quiet. There is a craft exhibition in the village hall, with some nice pottery on display. I spot some really nice coffee mugs made by a local potter, but they only have two available when I would have needed four, so I leave empty-handed. The next stage is a rather uninteresting mile along a little lane that leads through woodland up towards the headland of Dale Point, but soon the path branches off to the right and brings me back out into the open. There is a lot of steep up and down along the next section, as the path constantly dips down into little bays then back up onto the cliffs. One of these, Watwick Bay, has an almost tropical feel to it, with white sand and very clear, blue water. As I climb up onto Watwick Point, the Irish ferry passes by offshore on its way out from Pembroke Dock to Rosslare, the announcements being made by the captain to passengers clearly audible as the wind carries them inland. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Dale</i></td></tr>
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At St. Ann's Head, I finally reach the end of the Milford Haven estuary and turn to the open sea. It has taken me three and a half days to walk round the estuary: as the crow flies, I am no more than three kilometres from West Angle Bay where I finished my walk three evenings ago. St. Ann's Head is remarkably free of wind; it looks like one of those places where gales blow 365 days a year. The last section to the lighthouse crosses a large field where there is a big herd of brown cows, all lying down. One of them stands up as I pass, then another, and suddenly all the others jump up in one go and start running, thankfully away from me rather than towards me. Considering the exposed location, there are a surprising number of buildings on the headland: not just the lighthouse and its outbuildings, now converted into holiday homes, but also a street of identical coastguard cottages, all lined up in a very shipshape, orderly row. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Cows on St. Ann's Head</i></td></tr>
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The way ahead is easy, with gentler ups and downs than before, across flattish clifftops where sheep and horses graze. I have a break on the cliffs above Westdale Bay where, down below on the beach, two boys are practising their surfing technique in miniature waves. A view eastwards along the valley that links Westdale to Dale gives me a final glimpse back along the previous days' route, and I say a definitive and none too reluctant goodbye to the towers and flares of the refinery.<br />
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Now for "The Best Beach In Wales", part 99. I would possibly be prepared to stick my neck out and say that Marloes Sands really is. Marloes is very different from the dune-backed Best Beaches In Wales at Barafundle, Broad Haven or Freshwater West. Marloes has cliffs and jagged rocks instead of dunes, and is totally covered at high tide. At low tide though, the sea retreats to expose a long beach of immaculate flat sand, divided by rocks and little headlands into a multitude of subsidiary bays. The offshore islands of Skokholm and Gateholm (the latter only an island at high tide) add to the general atmosphere of what I think is My Favourite Beach Ever. Childhood memories play their par too: during our family summer holidays, we would always spend one day at Marloes, of course being careful to select a day when the tide would be out. It was a long drive to get there from Tenby, the last half an hour along lanes that got narrower and narrower, and where we would inevitably meet a herd of cows in the middle of the road at the narrowest place. We all loved the beach so much that it was worth it though, although you could feel my father wincing as the cows rubbed up against the paintwork of his car to get past us. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Approaching Marloes Sands</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The Best Beach In Wales</i></td></tr>
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Although my route runs along the cliffs, I cannot resist the temptation to go down onto the beach and walk along the firm sand instead. The big black cloud from this morning is still there, and adds interest to the numerous photos I take. Then it is time to leave the coast path for the day and cut inland to Marloes village, half an hour's walk from the beach. A path runs up from the sands along the side of a valley, passing one isolated cottage, till it comes to a car park a kilometre above the beach – the closest you can get by car, it always seemed an immensely long walk from there down to the sea as a child. I continue along a narrow lane, then cut along a footpath between fields that brings me out right beside the Clock House bed and breakfast where I am spending the night.<br />
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Everything changes at Marloes, it's as though I have stepped into a different season. So far, I have spent my evenings in places where there was little or no sign of human life. Despite being a tiny village, Marloes is positively buzzing by comparison; the B&B is fully booked and there are signs of life coming from the other rooms: people talking, children playing, the sound of a bath running. It all feels rather nice after the previous nights. My pale blue-decorated room is small but comfortable, the shower is hot and there is plenty of room to hang my clothes to dry. The bustling atmosphere extends to the local pub, The Lobster Pot, which is just next door to the B&B. The pub is busy with early-season holidaymakers who seem to have appeared from nowhere with the good weather. I have an excellent beef curry and stretch my indulgence to a third pint of Reverend James, the best of the commonly-available bitters in the area. The pub has a restaurant attached, and a constant stream of people comes in, going through the bar to the restaurant next door. The décor of the pub is warm and tasteful, but somewhat spoilt by the British obsession with plastering unsightly and redundant notices all over the place: PLEASE ASK FOR MENU AT BAR, PLEASE CHECK TABLE AVAILABILITY BEFORE ORDERING, PLEASE CHECK TABLE AVAILABILITY BEFORE ENTERING DINING ROOM. A couple come and sit at the same table as me, and we chat for half an hour as we eat. They are just down here for a few days doing one-day walks and general sightseeing. When they hear that I live in Switzerland, they tell me that earlier in the day they met a Swiss-based American couple walking the coast path in the same direction as me. I wonder if we will meet somewhere along the way. A younger couple wearing hiking clothes also come in and sit down at one of the next tables. I finish my dinner and retire to my room in a pleasantly tipsy state at the end of what has been the best day so far. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Happy feet :-)</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-7-from.html">Next stage</a><br />
<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/09/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-5-from.html">Previous stage</a><br />
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All my Pembrokeshire Coast Path photos <a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/113933589097565093472/albums/5884876187227957393?banner=pwa" target="_blank">here</a></div>
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-26834016637715080342013-05-15T10:07:00.000-07:002019-05-08T09:25:51.168-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 5, from Pembroke to Sandy HavenTime: 6.5 hours<br />
Distance: 27 km<br />
Grading: Easy, flat, some road walking at the start<br />
Height gain/loss: 275 metres<br />
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<i>Pembroke – Pembroke Dock – Neyland – Milford Haven – Sandy Haven</i><br />
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During the night, the wind howls around the B&B where I am staying in Pembroke's Main Street. The morning looks as grey as ever, but it is definitely not raining and the street outside has dried, suggesting that yesterday's deluge has definitively moved away. This proves to be the case: apart from one thunderstorm and the occasional five-minute shower, I will see no more rain before the end of the coast path. Although the central heating went off during the night, my multiple assemblies of items of clothing on every available warm surface have been effective, and all my clothes have dried.<br />
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Today's stage should be an easy but long walk of some 27 kilometres, and will be a sort of mirror-image of yesterday, starting in heavily urbanised country before heading out along the northern edge of the estuary back towards the sea. In contrast to last night, this evening I will be sleeping on a farm in the middle of nowhere. My only constraint today is that I must be at Sandy Haven no later than half past five: just before the end of the day's walk, I have to cross a tidal river on stepping-stones which are only passable for a couple of hours each side of low tide. If I miss the window, the alternative will be a seven-kilometre "supplement" of road walking, which I very much want to avoid! With this in mind, I order an earlier breakfast than yesterday, hoping to be on my way by 9:00. It seems to be impossible to get a really early breakfast in Wales; not a single one of the pubs or B&Bs in which I stay offer breakfast before 8.<br />
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I go down the huge staircase to the ground floor, then down the servants' stairs (yes, the house has a whole extra staircase) to the kitchen where breakfast is served. The kitchen is a long room with flagstones on the floor, a huge wooden table down the middle and big cooking-range along one wall. I meet Judith, the owner of the B&B – it turns out that the person who let me in yesterday afternoon, who I had assumed was the landlady, was in fact her daughter. She asks me what I want for breakfast, cooks it on the Aga in front of me, chats as though I was an old friend. When there are several guests eating and talking together at the big table it must make for a really nice atmosphere, and I tell her so. She tells me that the local tourist authority is going to downgrade her from four stars to three because of this and the fact that there is no dining-room separate from the kitchen. If she wants to keep her fourth star, she will have to replace her big oak table with anonymous, individual ones from IKEA… madness. The cooked breakfast is delicious, but the real highlight is the home-made marmalade! We end up talking for far longer than I had intended, and in the end it is 9:30 before I am ready to go, but quite honestly I could have happily stayed drinking coffee and chatting all morning in the kitchen!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Pembroke Castle</i></td></tr>
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It is a cold, windy morning, much colder than the previous days. My right Achilles is still sore; I look for a pharmacy in the hope of finding some kind of cream to put on it, but the only one is closed. I go into the Co-op to buy food for lunchtime, settling on what is labelled "The Co-operative Chicken Sandwich". I am glad the chicken co-operated, it would have been tough had it not been fully on board. The cashier smiles when she sees me extracting my wallet from a freezer bag in my rucksack… I have learned my lesson from yesterday, everything is now wrapped up in at least one layer of plastic.<br />
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I walk back up Main Street to the castle, then down to the riverside where I rejoin the coast path. I cross the bridge below the castle and quickly leave town along a path that runs along the edge of the woodland bordering the north bank of the river. A couple of minor showers blow in from the north-west, but I do not need to put on any of my newly-dried waterproofs. The path rises up gently to cross fields where cows are grazing. The cows have clearly been moved from field to field over the course of the last few days, the areas round the field gates and the little paths that lead from one field to the next have been churned to thick, deep, slippery mud. After ten minutes I can already confirm that tonight will have to be a trouser-washing night, I just hope that I do not end up on my back in six inches of gooey cow-dung and mud!<br />
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Quite soon, the path brings me to Pembroke Dock, a completely separate town from Pembroke. It does not leave a good impression. The first street that I walk up is lined with tatty houses, one of which has a huge Union Jack painted on the front garden wall. The house next door has a collection of teddy-bears dressed in Santa outfits (remember, this is mid-May) in the front room window… on closer inspection, they turn out to be teddy-meerkats, not bears. I pass a small area of woodland where beer cans, plastic bottles and assorted other rubbish has been lobbed over the fence into the woods, making me think that the locals would do better to look after their little bit of the country rather than proclaiming their patriotism on their garden walls. I pass houses whose state of dilapidation defies belief, then a house with a two metre by one metre front garden that nonetheless has a big "Please close the gate" notice. The waymarking leads me up a street which at first sight seems to be called Presley View; I wonder if it overlooks a giant statue of Elvis, but a second glance reassures me, the order of the letters is different and the name of the road refers to the Presely Hills… not that you can actually see them. The street leading down to the waterside has a row of shops that all seem to have been renovated and are waiting to be occupied… I wonder long they will have to wait. A dry-cleaner's offers to wash an interesting combination of "Duvets and Boiler Suits", an indication that this is very much an industrial town. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Pembroke Dock</i></td></tr>
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Along the waterfront with its bright, sky blue-painted railings, a man comes up to me and asks me to take his photo, "but try not to get my beer-gut in the picture, I'm sending it to a woman in Greece". We exchange jokes about the relative merits of the weather in Greece and Pembroke Dock, although he tells me it's raining there as well. I pass a big Tesco supermarket and go in in the hope of finding something for my tendon, but there is nothing – I am going to have to wait until I get to Milford Haven this afternoon. Although still sore and a bit hampered, I do seem to have walked off the worst of the pain.<br />
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In the past, it would have been necessary to take a ferry to cross the estuary from here to Neyland, where the path takes up again on the far bank. Nowadays there is a bridge though, a long road bridge that crosses high, high above the estuary's grey waters. I trudge up onto the bridge, cars and lorries rushing past, then down the other side and finally back onto footpaths after this long urban section. From here, things will improve markedly. I stop in the woods above Neyland marina to eat a chocolate bar, drink some water and rest my heel a bit, then carry on into Neyland itself. My guidebook is scathing about Neyland, describing it as ugly and uninteresting… I actually quite like it. The street that runs from the edge of town down to the sea is lined with well looked-after pastel-painted cottages, and the seafront is pretty enough despite the view over to the docks on the south bank. In the garden of one pale mauve-painted house, an old railway goods wagon has been recycled as a garden shed… and painted in the same shade of pale mauve as the house. I follow the shore round a bay that is bafflingly called Church Lake – there is no church and it's the sea, not a lake – then onwards to Llanstadwell, where there is a church, and a very pretty one at that. The next village, Hazelbeach, has no beach to speak of (and Hazel isn't there either), but the narrow lane is lined with pretty fishermen's cottages, each with a little bench in its little front garden looking out over the estuary, some of the little benches occupied by little old men and ladies. It's 12:30, the sky is clearing rapidly from the west and the sun has sort of come out (though so far only timidly), so I stop at Hazelbeach and sit on a bench on the sea wall to eat my co-operative chicken. I use the public toilet, where a sign explains that if the door is locked, I simply need to turn the "snib"... anyone ever come across that word before?</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Hazelbeach, as the sky begins to clear</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Now you know how to say "snib" in Welsh...</i></td></tr>
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There is another big oil refinery just inland from Hazelbeach, but the coast path manages to avoid inflicting too much of it on walkers. Pleasant paths lead up through woodland full of birdsong, occasionally between barbed wire fences, and on two occasions over well-protected tunnels that cross above pipelines… Mr. Shell does not want any hikers nicking his oil. Emerging from the last of these, finally the light at the end of the tunnel as ahead, the view suddenly opens up to show the mouth of the estuary and the open sea, still far ahead but definitely closer. Over on the south side of the estuary, the five big chimneys of yesterday's power station sticking out from fields of cereals make an interesting photo subject. </div>
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Gradually, the landscape regains the upper hand. The path rolls gently up and down between fields. Way, way ahead but getting ever closer, dogs bark aggressively and incessantly. I hope I will be able to give them a wide berth, but I can see the farm from where the barking is coming, over the far side of a shallow valley, and I can see the path running right past the garden gate. Luckily the gate is two metres high and firmly shut, all the dogs can do is stick their noses under the bottom of the fence and growl. I cross a main road, then drop down to a riverbank just upstream from Blackbridge. There is no path as such here, the route follows the riverbed itself, empty of water but slippery at low tide. At high tide, it would be a choice between the road or clambering over roots and rocks above the high water mark.<br />
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A steep lane leads me up from Blackbridge into the town of Milford Haven set high up above the estuary. The route of the coast path follows the road that runs along the top of the slopes that run down to the water, but my Achilles tendon is really quite sore now and I definitely need to find a pharmacy, so I turn right to walk along the high street instead. Milford is a sizeable town, but its high street seems to have all the wrong shops. There are estate agents, betting shops, discount shoe shops, pet shops, empty shops… but none of the kind of shops that one really needs in a high street. This seems to be a common trait among Pembrokeshire high streets: none of them has any real shops. The only place I can think of whose high street has bakers, butchers, greengrocers, department stores and so on is Tenby. I ask a passer-by if there is a pharmacy anywhere and she tells me yes, there's a Boots in the shopping mall down by the railway station. Now I understand… the only shops left in the high street are the ones who are too small to compete in the "retail complex" on the edge of town. Luckily the coast path passes right beside the shopping centre, and ten minutes later I am sitting in the car park in front of Boots, rubbing ibuprofen gel into what has become a fairly swollen right heel. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Milford Haven</i></td></tr>
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What with my slow walking pace and my detours into town I have lost time, and I now have to be careful not to miss the tide at Sandy Haven. I looked at the tide tables before setting out on the first day of the walk, and know that low tide is at 15 something or other. What I cannot remember if it was 15:01 or 15:59… The rest of the afternoon walk becomes a bit of a race against the sea, just in case. I leave Milford, walk through the suburb of Hakin and finally rejoin the countryside beyond Gelliswick Bay, where the noise of golf club on golf ball drifts across from inland. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>At last, the sea again</i></td></tr>
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Sandy Haven appears up ahead, so near yet so far… it appears to be a short stroll, but the coastline (which now once more resembles a proper coast rather than a riverbank) is full of hidden inlets and coves which double the distance I think I have to cover. After two days of flat walking, the ups and downs as the path winds round these little bays is most welcome, it feels like being back home, on familiar ground again. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Approaching Sandy Haven</i></td></tr>
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Sandy Haven is beautiful and idyllic, its name is a perfect summary. A broad beach of golden sand backed by low cliffs turns inland to a narrow side estuary, its river no more than a trickle in the sand at low tide. I had no need to worry, the tide is still well clear of the place where I must cross the river, I have an hour to spare at least. The estuary itself is very much a sandy haven; crinkly, water-sculptured sand where a few boats lay idly waiting for someone to come and sail them away. A long line of stepping stones crosses the river itself, over to the two or three old stone houses on the western bank. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Sandy Haven. The stepping stones can only be crossed for a couple of hours before and after low tide</i></td></tr>
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It is only a short walk up a country lane to Skerryback Farm, where I am spending the night. It's a typical old Welsh farmhouse with a sheepdog in the yard and horses in the field in front of the house – a really lovely spot. I arrive at the B&B the same time as an attractive young German woman who, it turns out, is walking the coast path in the opposite direction from me. She is the first other walker I have had a chance to talk to since I started five days ago, and we exchange tales of sore tendons and getting warm in public toilets (I recommend the ones in Freshwater East, she was saved from a cold, damp death by the ones in Newport) over tea and cakes. I wash my filthy trousers, put them on the electric radiator to dry, have a shower… except that every time I try to turn on the "power shower" (a ridiculous name for a device that never seems to produce any power at all, just a trickle of water), it blows a fuse and all the electricity in the house goes off. After three failed attempts, the landlady takes pity and allows me to use her own shower, a proper one with proper hot water that streams in abundance out of the shower-head.<br />
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There is nowhere to eat in Sandy Haven itself, but Anthony the owner drives me to the Brook Inn at St. Ishmael's, about two kilometres away. He tells me that the horses in his field are top-class racehorses; one of them ran in the Grand National a couple of weeks ago. Now they are in Pembrokeshire for a much-needed rest… it seems it's not only a prime holiday destination for human beings! The pub is pretty but more or less deserted, like all the others so far, and I do not stay there for much longer than the time it takes me to eat. Anthony comes to collect me; as we drive back along the lane, a large buzzard perches on a branch right in front of us and allows us to drive right up close. The evening is chilly but the sky is clear blue, it promises great things for tomorrow.<br />
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-6-from.html">Next stage</a><br />
<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/09/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-4-from.html">Previous stage</a><br />
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All my Pembrokeshire Coast Path photos <a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/113933589097565093472/albums/5884876187227957393?banner=pwa" target="_blank">here</a></div>
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-29862663533793085552013-05-14T09:58:00.000-07:002015-05-15T04:35:49.161-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 4, from West Angle Bay to PembrokeTime: 6.25 hours<br />
Distance: 22 km<br />
Grading: Easy, mostly flat, some road walking<br />
Height gain/loss: 260 metres<br />
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<i>West Angle Bay – Angle Bay – Popton Fort – Pwllcrochan – Hundleton – Monkton - Pembroke</i><br />
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<i><b>"Keep calm and carry on"</b></i></div>
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I am woken twice during the night by heavy showers battering the roof just above my head, then again at 6:30 by a phone call from a work colleague in Switzerland who must have forgotten about the time difference. The fourth time I wake up, at 7:30, it is raining hard… all in all, it is not an auspicious start to my fourth day on the coast path. I seem to remember that the weather forecast is not too bad though – cloudy with a few showers – so I am confident that it will clear up by the time I start walking. My feet are still sore from yesterday, so I make sure that all the sensitive bits are well protected. As I thought, my clothes have not dried in the unheated bathroom; worse, my boots are still damp from their soaking two days earlier.<br />
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I have a late breakfast, as today's stage is a relatively short one. From Angle, the coast path makes a great detour inland around the Milford Haven estuary, and today's and tomorrow's walking will be very different to what has come so far and what will come later, Between here and Sandy Haven just across the estuary, the areas that I will be passing through are much more urbanised and industrial than the rest of the path. A substantial percentage of the oil and gas used in the UK come ashore via the Milford estuary, and the landscape has suffered in places, although the route of the path does a pretty good job of avoiding the industrial sites where possible.<br />
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The bar is cold and deserted, but the friendly landlady comes and chats to me when she brings the packed lunch that I have ordered. She tells me that in addition to running the pub, she works for the coastguard service and is often called out to do cliff rescues along the route that I walked yesterday from Freshwater West. A mixed bag of reasons, she says: suicides, people who have walked out over the rocks and got cut off by the tide, dogs that have fallen over the edge and dog-owners who have got stuck when climbing down the cliffs to rescue them. Thinking about all the ups and downs of that path, I can imagine how tough it must be to have to cover the route at a run in an emergency when carrying 25 kilos of rescue gear!<br />
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I take my time over breakfast, and it is ten o'clock by the time I leave. Today I am determined to take it easy, and to impose a slow pace on myself – I cannot afford another day of putting tendons and muscles under too much pressure. From inside, I had the impression that it had stopped raining but once outside, this proves to be wrong, and the light spit soon intensifies into a good old Welsh drizzle. I retreat back into the pub, cover my rucksack and put on my rain gear. I know that it is only going to be a shower, but I might as well keep as dry as possible… little do I know that this shower is going to last for 12 hours and will even bring snow on the hills not far inland from where I am!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>One of the old forts guarding the estuary</i></td></tr>
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Before advancing towards Pembroke, I first have to walk round the Angle peninsula, having decided not to do it yesterday evening. I stroll back up Angle's solitary street to rejoin the coast path at West Angle Bay, very different from yesterday evening under a leaden sky with the tide in. Out in the middle of the estuary, a big, square, rather menacing fortress guards the entrance to the Haven; there are apparently plans to turn it into a hotel. At 10:30 I am back on the official route, climbing slowly up a farm track onto the low cliffs above the entrance to the estuary. I spend a pleasant hour on the easy paths that run round the peninsula to the north of the village. The cliffs are quite low and frequently wooded here, offering good shelter from the rain. Away to the south, the houses of Angle straggle out along the village street, parallel to the course I am taking. The path runs through tunnels of trees, along the edge of fields, through numerous gates and over stiles. Out in the estuary, a tanker is unloading liquid gas at one of the long jetties that stretches out into the middle of the water from the far bank. Little pilot boats chug up and down, completely dwarfed by the bulk of the tanker. Up ahead, framed between trees behind a gate, are the chimneys of the refinery that will dominate the horizon this morning, and of the power station that will be a prominent feature in the afternoon. </div>
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The path takes me downhill past a lifeboat station, then on down through woodland to the water's edge at the northern end of Angle Bay (why this is not called East Angle Bay when the one at the other end of the village is West Angle Bay I am not sure…) The tide is going out and the boats are beached, waiting for it to return… not that too many amateur yachtsmen will be interested in going out for a sail in this weather! The boats lying on the mud with the grey of the church in the background makes quite a gloomy scene, there is no getting round that. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXAPzFWvwHOHy4XpeOq8XnSFffLjRwbz-53L_QJDvOXNtpqlTnlywJV2TsAffKR9Ha5a8LzP7WorSsnwX95JP_u8Z4_nYGvduhYTtg6j6axwJjqJwgPIn-FYenyg-aQKUmg__NUEk3lo/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXAPzFWvwHOHy4XpeOq8XnSFffLjRwbz-53L_QJDvOXNtpqlTnlywJV2TsAffKR9Ha5a8LzP7WorSsnwX95JP_u8Z4_nYGvduhYTtg6j6axwJjqJwgPIn-FYenyg-aQKUmg__NUEk3lo/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Angle in the rain</i></td></tr>
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I walk round the bay on the shingle and rocks above the high tide mark until I get back to the end of the village street, then climb up onto a little private road that continues along the south side of the bay. It is raining harder now, but the road is quite well sheltered by overhanging trees and the view out across the bay to the hills behind the village is not unpleasant. On a nice day, this would be a lovely spot to stop and sketch the view, but all in all I am quite happy despite the weather. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRuqIkV_Ua5hBvMj41Cnh2hFiT-yaP0tk4Ibgy1HxTy9Sa7bYSu3EGOXkdIjgEPmyv5Xp3q9LjWTgM-yPyH-KHmf6Yu6HyGL_c9ifWvM9LFSoL0_ljZ40fS31N-xRX3hN2DOWbEyx-FLU/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRuqIkV_Ua5hBvMj41Cnh2hFiT-yaP0tk4Ibgy1HxTy9Sa7bYSu3EGOXkdIjgEPmyv5Xp3q9LjWTgM-yPyH-KHmf6Yu6HyGL_c9ifWvM9LFSoL0_ljZ40fS31N-xRX3hN2DOWbEyx-FLU/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(2).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Angle Bay</i></td></tr>
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After a kilometre or so, the lane heads away inland and my route branches off to the left, hugging close to the shoreline. It soon leaves the shelter of the trees to run across open fields that have not yet been grazed, where there is no clear path and the grass is knee-high. It is really raining hard now, and the combination of pouring rain and long grass is enough to set in motion the irrevocable process that will eventually lead to small lakes forming inside my boots. The next field has been ploughed, giving me an interesting choice between soaking wet long grass or thick red mud. I opt for an alternating technique of first walking in the mud until the soles of my boots are so thickly caked as to lose all grip, then switching to the long grass to wash them clean again. Very close ahead now, the refinery can no longer be shut out of mind: its tanks and chimneys dominate the view, and it produces a constant background accompaniment of hissing and blowing. To my right, the remains of another refinery that is no longer used are clearly visible; although the vegetation has reclaimed its right to the territory, the geometrical shape of the grassy humps and mounds can only be man-made. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_8wnOoYbpQZ8YmKCxe0Kchh_Lb52trL3UBUZXSEkWfQDoRf-f53eoyWQ1o1z35jkB2GQz3lCjkWfBU2qx_zMivuI4khGB2zy5HJvxMe4UktMiR88_OTnPBS-fjcD1rE4-RBVnTlRAvkw/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_8wnOoYbpQZ8YmKCxe0Kchh_Lb52trL3UBUZXSEkWfQDoRf-f53eoyWQ1o1z35jkB2GQz3lCjkWfBU2qx_zMivuI4khGB2zy5HJvxMe4UktMiR88_OTnPBS-fjcD1rE4-RBVnTlRAvkw/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(3).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>There's no ignoring the refinery on this part of the path</i></td></tr>
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I come to the end of the fields, and continue northwards along a lane that climbs slowly for a couple of kilometres up towards Popton Point. There is another big old fort standing guard here; this one is clearly looked after and appears to be still used for something or other, maybe as offices for the refinery. Rainwater is streaming down the hill towards me along the surface of the road in little waves that are doing a very good job of mimicking the incoming tide. I am amused to see a signpost for "Popton Fort Overflow Car Park"… an overflow is exactly what is needed in these conditions! </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_elKDnNKamfN2V_qjcZaJq7-BA9p_pDK6OEegreUnRxS4hFJC9l7elY8oF6vdf2Ff1Znx9Hd_xyEPV5hJyBHx5RMR3mKWfDeBEO2Bspo58zN98rLJbxOWTrue442L0AP6tR_fgs1BEE/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_elKDnNKamfN2V_qjcZaJq7-BA9p_pDK6OEegreUnRxS4hFJC9l7elY8oF6vdf2Ff1Znx9Hd_xyEPV5hJyBHx5RMR3mKWfDeBEO2Bspo58zN98rLJbxOWTrue442L0AP6tR_fgs1BEE/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(4).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>How very appropriate...</i></td></tr>
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It is well past lunchtime by now, but I have not seen anywhere that offers any shelter from the rain which is falling as hard as ever. Beyond Fort Popton, the path drops back down to sea level between high hedges and beneath trees, but the vegetation has given up the fight and is not keeping the rain out any more. There is as much water dripping from the trees as there is falling directly out of the sky. Bullwell Bay, a stony little cove backed by steep bluebell woods, must have been a lovely spot in years gone by, but now the view out across the estuary has been completely blocked by a long jetty that runs parallel to the coast, just a hundred metres or so offshore. Had I bothered to get my map out, I would have seen that there is a cave here which might have offered some shelter, but I am very reluctant to open my rucksack for fear of soaking the still-dry extra clothing inside. A bit further on, the path passes below another huge refinery jetty, under which I hope it might be dry enough to eat – although it would definitely have been one of my strangest ever picnic locations – but the jetty only carries pipelines, and the rain passes effortlessly between the pipes to soak the ground beneath. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3f4BzCNOBg_Vrw3g_DAup_aezozQM14U0rEz3bld9FWmwvv1qlc6uyRVFBtj084HRpKMNFp19srgtgQJUI2naK42bsLglTz-xWJIF5cjC9CaWaHT5zcRndM2z6UwKaVqvW-1VZvYo0OI/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(5).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3f4BzCNOBg_Vrw3g_DAup_aezozQM14U0rEz3bld9FWmwvv1qlc6uyRVFBtj084HRpKMNFp19srgtgQJUI2naK42bsLglTz-xWJIF5cjC9CaWaHT5zcRndM2z6UwKaVqvW-1VZvYo0OI/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(5).jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>"Self-Portrait with Rain"... from my grey period of course ;-)</i></td></tr>
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After this industrial interlude, the environment once again becomes rural and, in better weather, would undoubtedly make for a pretty walk. The path climbs steeply up across fields in which it loses its way somewhat; this is the only place along the whole length of the coast path where I go off in the wrong direction for a couple of minutes because the waymarking is unclear. The fields give way to a puddly track that runs down into a marshy valley, before coming out onto a lane at Pwllcrochan. I remember from my guidebook that there is an old church here, and I hope that I will at least be able to shelter in the porch. The church is not visible from the road though, to the extent that I walk right past it without even realising that I have reached that point. By the time I do realise, I have gone too far to be bothered to turn back. Probably a good thing: another walker who I meet a few days later tells me that the church now belongs to the oil company and that you cannot get into the grounds. So far today, I have been pleased to see that my left leg is showing no signs of yesterday's pain: I have deliberately been going very slowly despite the rain. Now though, I have a new worry, in the form of a niggling ache in my right Achilles tendon, a part of my body that has never caused me the slightest problem before.<br />
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The lane leads me towards the five tall chimneys of an old power station, which adds a nice bit of variety in the middle of all the oil-related stuff. Then I branch off again into a succession of woods and fields, each one wetter than the one before. Lambs in a field behind a wire fence look at me curiously but make no attempt to run away like the ones on the cliffs: their mother must have explained to them that they are safe in their enclosure. The landscape becomes entirely rural again, the occasional chimney in the distance the only sign of industry which, in reality, is extremely close at hand. But this section of the path really does well at avoiding it. I climb up again to Lambeeth Farm, where the path runs right through the farmyard, then it drops down twice in quick succession into beautiful, green valleys overgrown with long grass and bluebells. In the second of these valleys, a little stream runs down to the mudflats just below, and here I finally find a place to have a very late lunch. I walk a few metres downstream to see if I can get a decent photo of the estuary and there, just beside the path, is some kind of old, ruined building – I later see from my guidebook that it was a lime kiln. The building is little more than a cave and is dark and gloomy inside, but it is dry even if it's a far cry from yesterday's little hollow in the dunes. I eat my lunch quickly so as not to get even colder than I already am, and check the inside of my rucksack for flood damage. All my spare clothes are inside a bin liner and are perfectly dry; my wallet and mobile phone are wet though; these were in one of the top pockets and I have forgotten to protect them properly. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxuY-R1hBC4kf06BHI37aXgZkSE23lqsFEOMfeAEAoPZGbS3lWhUo-mX4ZxTRZv4gpGA4XUX7-68uHt_4d4NC0JaH6ydbbfrjRog_ehNOFaIl39a-k6NnOV0wSzWgBG3Ajv_5rU0n8RKU/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(6).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxuY-R1hBC4kf06BHI37aXgZkSE23lqsFEOMfeAEAoPZGbS3lWhUo-mX4ZxTRZv4gpGA4XUX7-68uHt_4d4NC0JaH6ydbbfrjRog_ehNOFaIl39a-k6NnOV0wSzWgBG3Ajv_5rU0n8RKU/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(6).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Not quite a five-star hotel, but at least a dry place for lunch!</i></td></tr>
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The rest of the day is, quite honestly, miserable. Leaving the little valley, the path soon brings me onto a lane; the remaining 5 kilometres of today's stage will be on roads. The lane winds up and down between high hedges which do not allow any view of the surrounding landscape. My Achilles tendon is bothering me more and more, and I suspect that there may be a real potential problem there. A Coast Path waymark points off to the left just before Hundleton, but it seems to be pointing right into the middle of a big field of oilseed rape. I cannot be bothered to walk all the way round the edge, so end up following the lane into the village, where it joins a main road. I follow this for a wet, unpleasant kilometre until I rejoin the proper route in the next village of Monkton. In fact, Monkton is no more than a suburb of Pembroke, a long string of residential streets that at long last brings me to the bridge over the river in front of Pembroke Castle.<br />
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The B&B where I am staying tonight is right at the far end of the high street. The street is not unattractive, with some nice old houses and several pubs, but a lot of the shops are closed and there is a bit of a dreary air to the place, definitely not helped by the weather. I get to the B&B at half past four, knowing that check-in is theoretically not before five. Never mind, I'm cold and wet, so I ring the doorbell. A notice beside the doorbell asks me to be patient: this is a very big house and it takes us "at least two minutes" to get to the door! I wait two minutes: no reply. I phone them instead, and have a slightly surreal conversation along the lines of "Hello, I'm standing in front of your house, please can I come in?" It turns out they had simply not heard the doorbell, and a minute later I am inside in the warm.<br />
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This B&B is an extraordinary place. From the outside, it just looks like normal Pembrokeshire town house. But inside, it's something special. A big, long entrance hall quite cluttered with antique furniture and, at the far end, a monumental staircase worthy of a country mansion. I apologise for my sodden state and suggest to the landlady that I should probably keep my boots on, as my socks inside them are far, far wetter. My bedroom is huge, the ceiling must be close to four metres high. The central heating is on, and my trained eye immediately notes two radiators in the bedroom, plus another one in the bathroom. The décor is quirky but really nice, with lots of period furniture and an antique toilet with an old-fashioned chain to flush it. The landlady asks me if I know how to use one of these; I reassure her that I'm old enough to remember them. And, ultimate luxury, there is a bath; a great big, old bath raised up on a little platform, so that getting into it adds a few extra centimetres to the day's height gain total. I soak in the bath, gradually getting warm again, then create total chaos in the bedroom by hanging bits of wet stuff on every available hook and radiator. On the mantelpiece is a book called KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON, which seems altogether right for today. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINsAQ38GKZ3NZ_BD2In6rZrzvrgJ_XSRWLRlFXXzZXkoe3aNYiqKWKjxsnjiqbzI7-BkYdPxyf2MVde13wBQSAlS3BecsEAkWqhgaGljPuTXaN9Lwv-Ox8RnDe68-HWZZ7pwUk6XWa7U/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(7).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINsAQ38GKZ3NZ_BD2In6rZrzvrgJ_XSRWLRlFXXzZXkoe3aNYiqKWKjxsnjiqbzI7-BkYdPxyf2MVde13wBQSAlS3BecsEAkWqhgaGljPuTXaN9Lwv-Ox8RnDe68-HWZZ7pwUk6XWa7U/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(7).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>So who knows how to use one of these ;-)</i></td></tr>
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I am meeting Sarah and Peter at seven for dinner in the King's Arms, a posh pub up at the other end of the high street. I go up there at half past six for what has already become my traditional post-walk, pre-dinner pint. They have three different bitters in the bar; I might just have to try them all. Dinner comes and is excellent, with a starter of local asparagus and a lamb main course. As we finish eating, at about half past eight, a strange reddish-yellow light suddenly shines in through the pub window… yes, the sun has finally come out… </div>
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/09/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-5-from.html">Next stage</a><br />
<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-2-from_13.html">Previous stage</a></div>
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All my Pembrokeshire Coast Path photos <a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/113933589097565093472/albums/5884876187227957393?banner=pwa" target="_blank">here</a><br />
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-63548917285623036412013-05-13T09:52:00.001-07:002020-06-14T09:36:34.941-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 3, from Bosherston to West Angle Bay<br />
Time: 7.25 hours<br />
Distance: 32 km<br />
Grading: Easy but very long, lots of road walking at the start<br />
Height gain/loss: 300 metres<br />
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<i>Bosherston – St. Govan's Head - Merrion – Castlemartin – Freshwater West – West Angle Bay</i><br />
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I am awakened at 5:20 on Monday morning by a combination of dawn and birdsong. I have a quick look out of the window: the sky is a superb display of blue and white horizontal bands which would merit me getting up and going outside to take a few photos. Instead, I go back to sleep… When I wake up again at 7:45, it has become grey outside again, though it is not raining.<br />
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All of my clothes have dried, even the trousers that I risked washing to get rid of yesterday's mud. My boots have not dried though, despite me leaving them in the bathroom all night with the heating turned up to maximum. The result is a very smelly bathroom and distinctly damp boots! All of my clean clothes are impregnated with the smell of smoke from the wood fire in the bar yesterday evening. The big bar room is rather cold, empty and sad at breakfast. There only seems to have been one other overnight guest, a big, hefty woman with closely-cropped hair who sits on her own at another table and sings to herself as she works her way slowly through her bacon and eggs. The owner of the pub is quite disappointed when I decline the offer of black pudding for breakfast.<br />
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At nine, I am ready to set off. Today's stage is one of the longest of the whole coast path; however, I expect it to be one of the easier days as there is very little in the way of up and down. I also know that there will be a fair bit of road walking to do in the morning, to detour round another (and thankfully the last) of the military firing ranges that occupy this part of the coastline. It's a blustery, cloudy morning with big clouds scudding across the sky behind the village church. Once again, there is something very Breton in the scenery and the general atmosphere.<br />
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Outside the Olde Worlde café (yes, really), there is a notice announcing the times at which it is possible to walk across the two military ranges between here and the village of Castlemartin. It looks like I will be able to get along the coast as far as St. Govan's Head, but that the path through the second range west of St. Govan's will be closed. This means that I will have to come back through Bosherston a bit later but never mind, I want to walk as much of the actual coast path route as possible.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ltSV2G4d3S4x4cc7RPtM5vldKJrzgcW5MCbxxDV4ArjbixmD7JaLwpz37NoUOS_U0tTpu0dSnJj7vH61ip4PANAPW_K_pvMl3U-O0rx2s42VSctmAIQRJt0jKHEOPceAq9csi5HxYzw/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ltSV2G4d3S4x4cc7RPtM5vldKJrzgcW5MCbxxDV4ArjbixmD7JaLwpz37NoUOS_U0tTpu0dSnJj7vH61ip4PANAPW_K_pvMl3U-O0rx2s42VSctmAIQRJt0jKHEOPceAq9csi5HxYzw/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Broad Heven</i></td></tr>
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I walk back down the valley to Broad Haven, along the opposite side of the lily ponds from yesterday evening. Occasional booms from far away tell me that the army has got out of bed and is shooting at things. Already the weather is clearing, it looks like it is going to develop into a nice day. The sun breaks through as I reach the sea, and will shine for pretty much the whole day. The tide is in at Broad Haven, the huge expanse of sand that I walked over yesterday evening now under water. The path picks its way up and down through the dunes behind the beach, then climbs up a flight of stairs to the flat, grassy clifftop which I follow to St. Govan's Head, the most southerly point of the coast path. To the seaward side, the cliffs are high and vertical; inland, warning signposts instruct walkers to stay on the path – straying from the marked route here could result in trading on an unexploded shell or falling into a hole where one has exploded.<br />
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St. Govan's Head brings back childhood memories. During our two weeks at the seaside, there would invariably be one day (it always felt like just one day) when the weather was not compatible with just sitting on the beach. On these days, we would get in the car and visit towns, castles or other local sights. St. Govan's Head, with its tiny chapel hidden halfway down the cliff, was one of these rainy-day destinations, and it seems quite odd to see it today under sunny blue skies. Just west of the headland itself is a deep gash in the line of cliffs. A steep stairway leads down to a little grey stone chapel, built in the 14th century. The stairs seem to have been considerably improved since my teenage years – I remember them as being particularly steep and uneven – but the chapel is still the same, a tiny building with a single window, bare inside and only a few metres square. A doorway (with no door attached) at the far end of the chapel leads down onto the rocks at the base of the cliffs, an impressive place on a wild day when big waves are crashing in from the south-west. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>St. Govan's Chapel</i></td></tr>
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As I feared, the red flag is flying and the way onward across the clifftop to the so-called Green Bridge of Wales is closed. I have no alternative but to follow the lane that runs inland for two kilometres, fenced in by "Keep out" signs on both sides, until it eventually brings me back to Bosherston. An hour and a half after setting out I am back at my exact starting point, but I am glad that I made the detour to see the chapel again. A signpost by the church leaves me in no doubt as to what lies ahead: "Freshwater West 10 miles", it says… added to what I have just done from the headland, it means that my day will include no less that 20 kilometres of road walking.<br />
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It takes me three hours to cover the those ten miles and, I have to say, it is not the best part of the walk. At first, I try to enjoy it: I know that I am going to be spending most of these 13 days walking on clifftops and beaches, and I need to appreciate the variety offered by these incursions inland. The route follows a pretty country lane up and down through a gently rolling landscape of mostly brown fields, enlivened by occasional bright yellow where a farmer has decided to have a go at oilseed rape. A lot of the time though, the lane runs between high hedges and there is not much to see. Still, it's not unpleasant and, as I agree with a couple of people who I pass walking the other way, it's nice to be walking in sunshine for a change. Eventually though, the lane brings me to the main road at Lyserry. The road is busy, it even has white lines painted in the middle, which makes it something close to a motorway by Pembrokeshire standards. There is no pavement and no grass verge, so I have no option but to walk on the road itself, wincing as cars and lorries rush past. A little church set up on a ridge to the right of the road behind one of those bright yellow fields makes a nice subject for a photo. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGyewmMkjBR5tLQfG9aRwUFM8-RQI3EI_bgIm-7F8WXWrtgcGTKfJT2ExT52MbMOEjyFhfTExicbhdqZHXYc3eCFodmUcHZOyU7mWZJcmym_vrVIP4gECa-8vcyadr4cjmX6XISKRCzmQ/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(6).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGyewmMkjBR5tLQfG9aRwUFM8-RQI3EI_bgIm-7F8WXWrtgcGTKfJT2ExT52MbMOEjyFhfTExicbhdqZHXYc3eCFodmUcHZOyU7mWZJcmym_vrVIP4gECa-8vcyadr4cjmX6XISKRCzmQ/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(6).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Inland scenery makes for a change</i></td></tr>
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At Merrion, I pass the main entrance to the army camp, resisting the temptation to go in and tell them exactly what I think of their occupation of this stretch of coastline. Here, even the main road is closed and I am diverted up a smaller side road, up to the village of Warren on the ridge I saw earlier. It makes for another detour, but is certainly an improvement over the main road in scenic terms. The booming of the guns (or cannons, or whatever it is that the army fires) is much louder and closer at hand here; there is even a viewing platform for members of the public who want to watch soldiers lobbing ammunition into the sea (does that make them sea shells?). But the hard surface underfoot is starting to take its toll. I do most of my hiking in the mountains, and am usually either walking slowly uphill or slowly downhill on soft surfaces. My leg muscles and tendons and the soles of my feet do not like this fast walking on the flat at all, especially in damp boots. I am not too bothered about my feet, I know that there is nothing there that a plaster and a night in bed won't cure. More worrying is the ache at the front of my left leg, just above the ankle: this is exactly the pain that caused me to abandon the Alpine Pass Route in 2010. Clearly I have been overdoing it this morning, walking too fast and putting too much pressure on my body in an effort to get the road section out of the way as quickly as possible. I slow right down; the ache becomes a pain but, once I am through the village of Castlemartin, does not seem to be getting any worse.<br />
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The booming of the guns is now receding behind me at long last, although the left-hand side of the road is still barred by a fence and Keep Out signs. But then, three kilometres beyond Castlemartin, comes the reward: suddenly, up ahead as the road dips down, there is the wide bay of Freshwater West, yet another serious contender in the "Best Beach in Wales" competition. Freshwater West is another beach along the same general lines as Barafundle and Broad Haven; but if Barafundle was the small version and Broad Haven the large, Freshwater West is the XXL model. From where I stand to the far northern end of the bay is two kilometres, and behind me are another two kilometres of beach, sadly within the military range and not accessible to the public. The beach is flat, golden sand, the dunes behind it are much higher than elsewhere, shaped like miniature mountains so that from their foot, you could almost be walking through a reduced-scale model of the Alps. Here and there, banks of flat rocks break up the sand, stretching well out to sea at low tide. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Freshwater West</i></td></tr>
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It is windy back on the coast, my three hours inland were sufficient for me to forget what a blowy day it is. It is a quarter past one, I need to rest my leg and I want to picnic on the beach, but it is definitely too cold and windy to just sit on the sand. But up in the dunes, there are all sorts of hidden hollows and valleys, and I manage to find a place that is perfectly sheltered. A huge black cloud out to sea offers no threat of rain, serving simply to enhance the blue of the sky, the yellow of the sand and the green of the marram grass. My picnic is leftovers from yesterday's mammoth B&B packed lunch: a mini pork pie, a packet of crisps, a very tasty little blackcurrant tart and an apple. The prosciutto crudo which I bought a couple of days ago in Tenby thinking that I might not be able to get food along the way has gone a funny colour, and will be offloaded into the next available rubbish bin. The sun is beautifully warm in this sheltered spot and, after finishing eating, I allow myself a 45-minute siesta lying in the warm sand; the only time during the whole 13 days that I will have this opportunity, although of course I do not yet know it. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>A sheltered spot for a siesta in the dunes</i></td></tr>
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With the road walking behind me, things improve after lunch. I walk along the sand to the far end of the beach, then climb up out of the bay on reassuringly familiar red earthy paths. Back on paths and back to the slower rhythm of walking on uneven terrain, all traces of pain in my left leg have disappeared, reassuringly and somewhat surprisingly – I was really worried that I might have to complete the day's walk by bus. The vertical limestone cliffs and flat grassland of Stackpole and St. Govan's Heads have once again been replaced by gentler red sandstone topped with gorse and heather. The sandstone is crumbly, the rocks down below frequently eroded into jagged pinnacles and towers. So crumbly, in fact, that at one point a whole ten-metre section of path has simply vanished into the sea along with the surrounding part of the cliff. There are other places too where erosion has eaten into the cliff right to the edge of the path; in these places, people have already started to make unofficial alternative tracks a few metres back from the cliff edge.<br />
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If the morning's walk was flat, the afternoon provides a complete contrast, with a return to yesterday's ups and downs but in a much more concentrated form. Over a distance of two kilometres, I think I must have dropped down to sea level then climbed back up to 30 metres six or seven times as the path crosses countless little valleys, some of which carry tiny streams. Though never very long, all of these ups and downs are steeper than anything so far, sometimes with steps, more often not. The view back to Freshwater West is stunning, extending beyond the accessible part of the beach to more stunning sandy bays that stretch away southwards to the forbidden Linney Head. A long line of linked, puffy cumulus clouds starts way inland, then runs out to sea, the size of the puffs diminishing the further from land it goes. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Looking back to Freshwater West and the forbidden beaches beyond</i></td></tr>
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At West Pickard Bay, as I begin yet another steep drop down, the wind freshens, grey clouds come out of nowhere and suddenly, it is raining. Fearing a return to yesterday's conditions, I struggle into my rain gear in front of a little group of clearly uncomprehending sheep. But the squall does not last long and in the time it takes me to get my gear on, the sun has come back out and I have to get undressed again. The tide has turned and is now coming in; down below, you can visibly see the flow of the sea heading landwards. All the water in the Atlantic appears to be moving eastwards en masse towards the beach. Waves suck at the jagged rocks below the cliffs; for the first time since leaving Amroth three days ago, the sea is blue.<br />
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The path continues past the offshore Sheep Island, contours across high cliffs above the rugged Castles Bay, then turns north and begins a long, slow descent towards the entrance to the Milford Haven estuary. For the first time, I have the wind on my back. One of the reasons suggested in my guidebook for walking the coast path from south to north is that I would have the prevailing wind behind me… I think I can confidently say that the half an hour between Castles Bay and West Angle Bay is the only time in the whole 13 days when it was not full in my face! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Old fortifications once guarded the entrance to the Milford estuary</i></td></tr>
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The entrance to the estuary is guarded by numerous old fortifications, some on islands in the middle of the estuary, others on the mainland. The last little headland that I pass before dropping down to Angle has one of these ruins, marked on the map as East Block House. Then the path turns eastward, descending gently along the edge of fields to reach sea level once more at the sandy beach of West Angle Bay. The Wavecrest Café here is boarded up and looks to be on the point of falling to pieces. A sign on the wall invites me to "Taste the Summer", but it looks like it has been a while since any summer-tasting was done here! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>A very British taste of summer at West Angle Bay...</i></td></tr>
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The village of Angle is strung out along a shallow valley to the south of a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water. There is a bay at each end of the valley: the sandy West Angle Bay at the western end, looking out to sea, and the muddy Angle Bay at the opposite eastern end, facing up the estuary towards the huge oil refineries inland. I could walk round the peninsula to Angle Bay, which is closer to the village centre, but my day has already been long and I decide to add this onto tomorrow's shorter stage instead, and set off up the lane that leads directly to the village. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>West Angle Bay an another old fort</i></td></tr>
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Angle is an odd little place. It is actually bigger than any of the other villages I have stayed in so far, but it has an end of the world, back of beyond feel to it. The village street is lined with brightly painted cottages, as if to defy the industrial mess that is clearly visible away to the east, but there is no sign of life. The village is geographically isolated – the road that leads to it doesn't go anywhere else – and is a real backwater. I walk all the way down the village street to the far end, past the pub where I will be spending the night. A bus passes and stops, but nobody gets on or off. Outside the school, two boys are kicking a football about unenthusiastically, so there is at least some sign of human life in Angle. The very fact that it has a school is surprising; even more so the fact that there is a village shop. Down at the far end of the village, the tide is out over the mudflats of Angle Bay, and I take a few photos of the bay with its boats waiting for the sea to come back. Beyond the bay, the numerous chimneys of the oil refinery add an interesting (though hardly pretty) contrast to the rural tranquility of the place. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>(East) Angle Bay</i></td></tr>
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It is four o'clock, but the pub where I have booked in for the night is closed until seven. I knock on the front door but nobody answers. I am not quite sure how I will occupy myself in Angle for three hours, but luckily, when I go round the back and ring the doorbell on the back door, I am answered by the very friendly young landlady. I apologise for arriving outside of opening hours, but she reassures me that it happens every day and apologises for the clutter inside – they are having a new shed built, and the contents of the old shed have been temporarily re-housed in piles along the corridor and up the stairs that lead to the bedroom. Although the pub is closed, the landlady responds to my impassioned plea for beer and brings me a pint of bitter in my room.<br />
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The bedroom is large and looks like it has been very recently redecorated. The central heating has apparently been turned off for the summer though, and it is cold. I have a shower, wash my clothes and rig up a washing line in the bathroom to hang them out, but I have little expectation of them drying before the morning – hopefully tomorrow evening I will have heating, as I will have two days' worth of stuff to dry. My feet are sore; normally I never get blisters, but the combination of hard roads and wet socks is not a good one, and I have to put plasters on two or three sensitive spots.<br />
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At seven, when the pub opens, I go back downstairs for dinner. I am the only customer – they only have one bedroom for overnight guests, and there are no locals in the bar either. I have a couple of pints and a tasty steak and ale pie with peas and new potatoes, but the bar is cold both in terms of atmosphere and temperature and I return upstairs early. It has been a long day – and a tougher one than I expected – an early night will do me good.<br />
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/09/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-4-from.html">Next stage</a><br />
<a href="http://isitmuchfurther.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-2-from.html">Previous stage</a><br />
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All my Pembrokeshire Coast Path photos <a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/113933589097565093472/albums/5884876187227957393?banner=pwa" target="_blank">here</a><br />
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-71731401004354283592013-05-12T09:43:00.000-07:002015-05-15T03:54:58.730-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 2, from Manorbier to BosherstonTime: 5.5 hours<br />
Distance: 17 km<br />
Grading: Easy<br />
Height gain/loss: 380 metres<br />
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<i>Manorbier – Stackpole – Broad Haven - Bosherston</i><br />
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I go to bed late on Saturday evening. Sarah and Peter come to collect me from my B&B and we go for a pub meal at the Lydstep Tavern, then to a remarkably good concert given by local band Paper Aeroplanes in the unlikely setting of the village hall in Narberth, half an hour inland. The night is cold, a frost looks quite possible.<br />
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Sunday morning. Today's walk to Bosherston is one of the shorter ones, I hope it will be a day for walking slowly, taking long breaks on sandy beaches and sketching the landscape. The weather forecast is not particularly good though, and I open the curtains onto a grey, misty morning. As far as I can tell, it isn't raining… yet. My room is well heated, and the clothes that I washed the previous evening have all dried. I eat my first "full English breakfast" for years… it seems to be described this way in almost all the B&Bs I stay in , despite the fact that this is Wales, not England. Bacon, fried eggs, tomatoes, sausage, mushrooms, cornflakes, toast and marmalade… a nice thick lining for the stomach before walking for five hours! The elegant dining room looks out over what would surely be a lovely rural view were it not for the misty weather. The landlady has prepared me a packed lunch whose contents, on closer inspection, are largely sufficient for two days. Most of the B&Bs along the path offer this option and the lunches are always copious, though the price varies wildly from £3.50 here to £7 in some other places.<br />
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Back at Manorbier where I left the path yesterday afternoon, the first spots of rain fall at the very minute I start to walk. I want to have a look inside the 12th-century church up on its little hilltop overlooking the beach; a notice says that it opens to the public at 9:30, but by 9:40 the doors are still firmly locked and I give up waiting. Although the rain is not heavy, I put on my full waterproof gear as a precaution, as it looks like the bad weather might be set for the day. Above the beach, the battlements and towers of the castle are gloomy, forbidding and no doubt full of ghosts in the grey mist.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Manorbier Castle... here be ghosts</i></td></tr>
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The path leaves Manorbier beach and climbs quickly up onto low, red sandstone cliffs. The crumbly rock has been eroded by the sea, with several deep, narrow gashes dropping vertiginously down to the rocks below from right beside the path. Waves crash into unseen holes, cracks and caves at the base of the cliffs with a hollow, whumping sound that almost seems to shake the land itself. Gradually I gain height as the path winds round little rocky bays and climbs up onto East Moor Cliff along the side of a steeply sloping pasture where sheep are grazing. There is very little protection from the elements here; the only shelter of any kind is a solitary gorse bush, and a ewe and her lamb are huddled underneath it, desperately trying to keep at least a bit warmer and drier than they would otherwise be. The path climbs up along the crest of a ridge to 74 metres, and as it does, the rain intensifies, whipping in from the sea against my left cheek, the strong wind doing its best to relieve me of my waterproof hat. Every ten seconds or so, I have to wipe my glasses just to be able to see where I am going. Before long, I reach that moment where you realise that your waterproof clothing is on the verge of capitulation; there is a growing dampness at the top of my legs where the rain running off my jacket and the rain filtering directly in through my plastic overtrousers are working in tandem. These conditions are every bit as bad as the worst that I experienced three summers ago on the Alpine Pass Route, and I make a mental note to buy new waterproof trousers in Pembroke the day after tomorrow, the next time I will be in anywhere big enough to have an outdoor shop.<br />
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Occasionally, the path dips down into little valleys behind the ridge and here, I almost convince myself that the rain is stopping. It's just an illusion though, each time I climb back up the other side the wind and rain hit me as strongly as ever. I drop down to the sea at Swanlake Bay, a pretty name for what is supposed to be a beautiful expanse of golden sand, but the tide is in and there is only grey shingle to see against the backdrop of grey cliffs and grey sky. Only the yellow of the gorse bushes brings any colour to the landscape. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Swanlake Bay</i></td></tr>
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Now the path drops down again to the beach at Freshwater East. This is another big, sandy beach backed by attractive dunes and rather less appealing holiday homes. I am amazed to see that even in these horrendous conditions, there are people out walking on the beach. Some of them are walking dogs, so have a valid reason for being there. Others are alone, and I can only assume that they are every bit as nuts as I am. I cross the beach just above the line of the outgoing tide, leaving deep tracks in the wet sand. The only shelter at Freshwater East is the public toilet at the top of the beach; I go in to answer a call of nature and am surprised to find that the toilets are spotlessly clean and, more significantly, heated. I end up spending a quarter of an hour in there, wringing out wet stuff and generally trying to get warm again. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Looking back to the beach at Freshwater East</i></td></tr>
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By the time I set off again, the torrential rain has abated to a heavy drizzle. The path climbs steeply up onto Trewent Point, and indeed the next few kilometres will be an endless series of steep ups and downs. To the seaward side of the path, the landscape has been eroded into a bizarre collection of stacks, holes and miniature hanging valleys; it is all rather reminiscent of the coastal scenery of Trotternish on the Isle of Skye. A walker coming the other way looks every bit as bedraggled as me; he asks how far it is to Freshwater East and looks happy when I tell him only about half an hour. He asks if there is a pub on the beach and seems much less happy when I inform him that the only chance he has of getting warm is in the Gents… </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The tortured coastline between Freshwater East and Stackpole</i></td></tr>
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My original plan had been to walk as far as Barafundle Bay and have lunch there on the beach. The weather leads me to re-think this though, and I substitute Barafundle for "wherever I next see some shelter". This comes at 12:15 as I approach Greenala Point. In one of the many little valleys, there is a spot just off the path where a thicket of bushes has formed an almost complete arch over a little hollow. It is sheltered from the wind and rain, although lunch does involve a fair bit of trying to avoid drips falling from the branches overhead. Still, at least I am able to eat my cheese and pickle sandwiches sitting down and without getting soaked.<br />
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After lunch, once I have climbed up to Greenala Point, the cliffs gradually become lower again. I drop down to the beach again shortly before Stackpole, crossing a stony little bay with a big, isolated rock in its middle just offshore. If I felt like I was on Skye an hour ago, this could be the north of Brittany, the only difference being that the rock is red sandstone rather than pink granite.<br />
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I come to the strange little harbour at Stackpole Quay. This really is an odd place: a deep, narrow valley, a steeply sloping beach and a comparatively massive stone jetty, behind which there is just about room for two or three small boats to shelter. The tide has receded and there is no water in the harbour, just slippery stones and sand and a strong seaweedy smell. The amplitude of the tide must be impressive here; today the water has receded far away, but the height of the jetty leaves no doubt that the sea is capable of rushing in up the steep slope of the harbour. There is a café just above the quay, and I take refuge in there for half an hour, warming myself through as I drink two or three cups of hot tea. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The odd little harbour at Stackpole Quay</i></td></tr>
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By the time I leave the café, it has stopped raining; in fact, there are even two or three people with dogs sitting outside drinking tea. Information panels tell of the harbour's history and of the place's tormented geological structure. Stackpole, the panel says, sits right on top of a geological fault line very similar to the San Andreas fault in California. The text has been wittily titled "It's Our Fault". A bit further on, a signpost points me in the direction of my next objective, Barafundle Bay, "The Best Beach in Wales".<br />
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It is only a short walk to Barafundle, across a windy, grassy cliff top. This is a popular destination and, even in today's unseasonal conditions, there are quite a few people on this short section, mostly families who have left their cars at Stackpole and are going for a Sunday afternoon stroll. Barafundle is, it has to be admitted, the definitive Pembrokeshire beach. I walk across the flat clifftop, pass through an archway in an old stole wall, and there below me it is. A wide, flat expanse of tidewashed golden sand between two gorse-yellow headlands, its dunes completely uncluttered by cafés, caravans or ice-cream vans: the only way to get here is to walk over the cliffs, there is not even a path running inland from the beach. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Barafundle Bay... The Best Beach In Wales ™</i></td></tr>
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At the far end of the beach, I climb up through woodland where the trees have not yet come out of hibernation. But now the landscape changes radically as I walk up onto Stackpole Head. Until now, the cliffs have been mostly layered and crumbly sandstone, the slopes above them clad with heather and gorse. The cliffs of Stackpole Head, in contrast, are limestone; vertical, hard, threatening and dangerous-looking. On top of the cliffs is an immense, flat, desolate expanse of grassland grazed by sheep and wild horses. The ewes, still wrapped in their winter wool, look huge. One of them, from a distance, looks for all the world like a polar bear as it stands there watching me. Many of the ewes have very small lambs, and I cannot help thinking that this must be a very harsh environment in which to spend the first weeks of life. </div>
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I walk out to the extremity of the headland, where the wind is almost frightening, buffeting me from all points of the compass at once. This is not a place to linger. A group of four lambs look at me inquisitively; against the backdrop of the sea and cliffs they would make an absolutely perfect photograph, but their mother calls them at the crucial moment and they skip away. In the next field, horses are grazing. A foal standing right on the path watches me approach, then jumps quickly away to safety behind its mother on impossibly long, skinny legs.<br />
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Now my way slopes gently down to the first of the two Broad Havens that I will pass on the coast path. Barafundle may be The Best Beach in Wales, but it has some stiff competition here. Broad Haven has been designed using the same sand-headlands-dunes template as Barafundle, but on a considerably bigger scale. It has the added feature of a large offshore rock, shaped like either a church or a sphinx, depending on which angle you look at it from. The map has gone with the former option, naming it Church Rock. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Church Rock seen from its sphinxy side</i></td></tr>
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I spend a while on this lovely beach, as the weather has improved quite a bit by now, then set off for the last part of the day's walk. Tonight I will be staying in the tiny village of Bosherston, a couple of kilometres inland. At the top of the beach, there is a large pool behind a high sandbar; I wonder if this is filled by the tide or by the stream that flows down the valley towards the beach. The path leading up the valley to Bosherston is broad and flat; the valley itself was artificially flooded in the 19th century by the local landowners, creating a network of ponds which are covered in water-lilies in summer and are popular with local fishermen. The valley is much deeper and the ponds much bigger than I had expected, these are fairly sizeable lakes rather than farmyard duck-ponds! The place is a complete contrast to the wild clifftops only a kilometre away. In two places, the path crosses the ponds on long causeways; on one of these, a large bird allows me to get quite close up and photograph it, before flying away at the sound of people approaching with a dog. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Bosherston Lily Ponds</i></td></tr>
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I am staying at the St. Govan's Inn, the village pub in Bosherston. Although the rain has stopped, I am cold and distinctly damp, so the sight of a big log fire in the bar is very welcome. A hot shower is a priority, but a pint of London Pride is an even bigger one, and I sit for a happy half-hour in the large bar gradually feeling warmth returning to my body. My room, upstairs above the bar, is warm and roomy, with the unexpected luxury of a bath rather than just a shower. While the bath is filling, I wash my wet and dirty walking clothes, hanging them to dry on every available towel rail and radiator – an end of day routine that every long distance walker will be more than familiar with. I wonder if everything will dry… I suspect that I will be walking in damp boots tomorrow, if nothing else. My sketch pad, insufficiently protected against the dampness inside my rucksack, is soaking wet and will be able to play no further part in my walk.<br />
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Warmed up and wearing clean, dry clothes, I go back downstairs for the evening. This too will become part of my daily routine: I order a pint, sit at a table in the bar with my map, two guidebooks and notebook, write up my day's notes for this blog entry, read what the guidebooks have to say about today's and tomorrow's routes. A bit later, a second pint to accompany dinner. The wind seems to be causing problems for the chimney, which will not draw properly and the room fills with the smell of wood-smoke. The St. Govan's is a big pub and, though it was quite crowded when I first arrived, it gradually empties out over the course of the evening. By nine o'clock, when I decide that it's time for bed, only one other table apart from mine is still occupied. Tomorrow I have a much longer walk ahead of me, 32 kilometres to the village of Angle. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Heron near Bosherston</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-2-from_13.html">Next stage</a><br />
<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-1-from.html">Previous stage</a><br />
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All my Pembrokeshire Coast Path photos <a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/113933589097565093472/albums/5884876187227957393?banner=pwa" target="_blank">here</a><br />
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3528322625821355631.post-36747780120074895262013-05-11T13:55:00.000-07:002015-05-15T02:51:26.842-07:00On the Pembrokeshire Coast Path: Day 1, from Amroth to ManorbierTime: 6.5 hours<br />
Grading: Long but easy<br />
Height gain/loss: 350 metres<br />
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<i>Amroth – Saundersfoot – Tenby - Manorbier</i><br />
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Way down in the far west of Wales, the Pembrokeshire coastline is a wonderful mixture of dune-<br />
backed sandy beaches and rugged cliffs that are constantly battered by the Irish Sea and the Atlantic. The beaches make the area a popular holiday destination: when I was a child, this is where we spent our two-week family summer holidays every year from the late 1960s to the end of the seventies. Those holidays left a lasting mark, to the extent that my sister Sarah ended up moving to the area permanently a few years ago. The long-distance coastal footpath had only just been opened back in the days of our childhood summers and was not really known about or publicized, but as I gradually got older and lost interest in sitting on the beach or going for freezing swims in the sea, I became aware of it and always said to myself that one day, I would go back and walk its full 299 kilometres (186 miles), from Amroth in the south to St. Dogmaels in the north. Now, almost forty years since my last summer holiday in Pembrokeshire, I have finally got round to it; better late than never!<br />
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I travel down from London to the local metropolis of Swansea on a comfortable fast train. At Bridgend, a young couple get on and sit down across the aisle from me, opposite an older woman who boarded at Cardiff. The younger woman, who can be no more than 18 or 19, informs her older neighbour: “Were’s going to Swansea, it’s brilliant for shopping”, which is no doubt true when compared to Bridgend. The one-sided conversation then takes a different direction. “We’re going to have a baby,” the girl says, “Not now though, in two or three years.” The older woman tries to be interested, congratulates the couple on their plans and goes back to reading her newspaper. But the younger girl is after information: “Have you ever had a baby?” she asks. The older woman looks embarrassed, but says yes, which prompts the inevitable next question: “What exactly does it feel like? Does it hurt?” This is clearly one question too many for the older woman to be answering on a crowded train. “Well now,” she says, “I don’t think I want to be giving that sort of detail.” At which point, she moves to another seat, a safe distance away from any more probing questions.<br />
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At brilliant-for-shopping Swansea, I change to a tiny, crowded, one-coach diesel – more like a bus on rails than a proper train – for the last hour and a half to Tenby. I emerge from the noisy, rattling little train into seaside air that is surprisingly cold on this May afternoon. I spend the night before the start of my walk at Sarah's house; the evening is occupied with a very tasty rabbit stew, red wine, football on the television and sorting clothing and accessories for the next 13 days.<br />
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Saturday morning dawns cool, cloudy and windy. Sarah has decided to walk with me for the first couple of hours, maybe to Saundersfoot, maybe all the way back home to Tenby, depending on how she feels and on how the weather develops. At nine o'clock we are ready to go, posing for the mandatory photo session beside the plaque that marks the start of the coast past at the eastern end of Amroth beach. The occasional glint of white sun on dark-grey sea suggests that conditions might improve as the day goes on. For the moment though, the weather is not much different from when I previously walked this section of the path (the only part I have walked before) in late December a few years ago.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>The plaque marking the start of the coast path at Amroth</i></td></tr>
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Photos done, we set off. The tide is high, and the strong wind is hurling big waves against the shingly beach, sending spurts of while spray up into the air and wetting the pavement behind the sea wall. Black wooden breakwaters are lined up in an orderly pattern, perpendicular to the sea. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Amroth beach</i></td></tr>
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A kilometre along the seafront brings us to the little cluster of houses and pubs at the western end of Amroth village, where we leave the road for the first of the day’s several short climbs. The path winds up through woodland where bluebells add colour to the undergrowth. I have not done much in the way of walking since the start of the year, and nothing at all in the last month, but I soon drop into the slow rhythm of uphill walking, hands behind my back, one foot in front of the other, some tune or other playing in my head. The path soon emerges from the trees at an altitude of about 75 metres, passes through the first of the hundreds of gates that I will open and close over the next two weeks, then crosses a sloping, grassy meadow above the clifftop, hedgerows to my right and sea on the left, as will so often be the case on the coast path. </div>
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The path joins a small lane that drops down between old country houses to Wiseman’s Bridge. Here there is an attractive-looking seafront pub (too soon for a coffee though, and much too early for a beer) and, at the far end of the beach, a bright-red van bearing the message “ICE LOLLIES”… still closed though, a reminder that this is early May and that the season will not really start for a couple more weeks. From here, we continue along a flat, asphalted path that follows the seafront to a series of short tunnels cut into the cliffs. In the 19th century, a little railway ran through these tunnels, carrying coal from mines inland to the harbour at Saundersfoot a little further on. The railway is long gone, and the old route of its tracks have been given over to walkers and cyclists, with notices (in Welsh first, then in English) inviting cyclists to dismount in the tunnels. Given the British obsession with putting "polite notices" all over the place, these next few days will prove to be a very useful crash course in Welsh warning vocabulary!<br />
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By the time we reach the eastern end of Saundersfoot beach, the tide has gone out far enough to allow us to leave the asphalted path and continue across the hard, firm sand. The ever-widening expanse of beach is popular with dog-walkers throwing balls and sticks for an assortment of retrievers and sheepdogs. The weather has improved as well, with some large patches of blue sky breaking up the clouds. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Saundersfoot, looking back towards Amroth in the distance</i></td></tr>
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Beyond the little town of Saundersfoot, the going becomes harder as the path continually climbs up from sea level to an altitude of 40 or 50 metres before dropping back down again. The climbs are never very long but often very steep, with numerous steps that are always just too big to be comfortable. These constant ups and downs are one of the features of the coast path; it's a very different kind of walking from what I normally do in the Alps, where the whole morning is usually spent walking uphill and the afternoon downhill! The path becomes narrow and muddy; the thick woods on the clifftops are full of more bluebells and also of bright yellow, prickly gorse bushes. We pass two walkers coming the other way, tired-looking, big backpacks and rolled-up foam mattresses. They ask how far it is to Saundersfoot station and look relieved when we tell them that it's only a couple of miles. Wherever they have come from, their long walk is almost finished. These are the only two "serious" walkers (as opposed to Sunday afternoon strollers) I will see for several days. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Given that round signs mean "Do not...", this is presumably an instruction that it is forbidden to throw rocks and people over the cliff edge...</i></td></tr>
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Another climb brings us out of the woods and into fields again. From here, we can see back to Amroth; the distance that we have already covered is surprising. Ahead, the larger town of Tenby is now also visible, with its tall church spire and ruined castle dominating the cluster of houses around the harbour. Inland, the trees occasionally open up to give views across fields divides by stone walls and hedgerows. The path drops muddily down to the valley above Waterwynch Bay, then immediately climbs back up to Tenby's north cliff, bringing us into town along the promenade above the North Beach. Sarah leaves me to continue the walk on my own here, though we will see each other several more times over the next few days. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Tenby North Beach and harbour</i></td></tr>
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I walk along the seafront above the deserted beach, round the edge of the harbour with its pastel-coloured houses and its little booths advertising mackerel fishing trips and boat excursions to Caldey Island. No boats today though, the sea is too rough and the weather has kept customers away. I buy a sandwich from Dennis' Café by the harbour, and go and sit on a flat rock to eat it. The sky has darkened and the wind has risen though, making it a rather cold place for a picnic, so I do not waste too much time in setting off again. For the next three kilometres, I walk on the beach. Tenby's South Beach is a huge expanse of sand that stretches southwards from the town towards the headland of Giltar Point at its far end. The end of the beach closest to the town is backed by cliffs and is covered by the sea at high tide; further south the cliffs drop down to a long line of low, grassy dunes. As I come out of the shelter of the cliffs, the force of the south-westerly wind suddenly hits me full in the face, accompanied by a few spots of rain. I correctly guess that a good wetting may be coming, and just have time to pull my waterproofs on before a horizontal squall of cold rain is upon me. For twenty minutes I battle my way across the sand towards Giltar Point and Caldey Island offshore, wind trying to force me back and rain lashing against me. But the shower does not last long, and by the time I reach the far end of the beach the rain has moved away northwards and the sky is once again blue. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Looking back towards Tenby from the far end of the South Beach</i></td></tr>
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There is an army firing range on Giltar Point and today, despite it being a Saturday, the red flag is flying, meaning that I have to take a short detour inland to avoid being shot at. I climb up through the dunes (walking uphill on soft sand is not something I would recommend doing too regularly), then cut inland along the edge of a golf course where players are fighting a losing battle with the wind, balls flying off in random directions and landing pretty much everywhere except on the greens. I cross the railway line beside Penally station, follow the road southwards for a few hundred metres, then take a path that heads back towards the sea, climbing up across fields onto the clifftop. A little train chugs slowly past, seemingly having just as much trouble making headway against the wind as the golfers. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>High-tech Welsh train at Penally. This specimen is actually twice the size of the one that I caught from Swansea to Tenby...</i></td></tr>
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The cliffs south of Tenby are completely different from those to the north. This morning, the clifftops and valleys were densely wooded; here though, they are covered only in short grass and are exposed to the full force of the elements. Although the afternoon has become warm and sunny, the wind is still just as strong and making any kind of progress is a real effort. At Lydstep, the path drops back down to sea level to cross another dune-backed beach, this one also rather unfortunately backed by a large caravan park, one of the regular blights of the Welsh coast. I leave Lydstep beach up a narrow, green lane through woods where the undergrowth is pungent with the strong smell of wild garlic. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0DOAen6Q_g0OuLM-jfwqiFtehcHt5GvSiDXn9Sti141T5MIAd3s1j9agz1dMFpwswhZau0m-aiPzDa7ibhck2A2b8wvcn_N17zw4iEmsA97fFRoPOwaEZ52H9l2Qm8H6ukjnoAbHpMYE/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0DOAen6Q_g0OuLM-jfwqiFtehcHt5GvSiDXn9Sti141T5MIAd3s1j9agz1dMFpwswhZau0m-aiPzDa7ibhck2A2b8wvcn_N17zw4iEmsA97fFRoPOwaEZ52H9l2Qm8H6ukjnoAbHpMYE/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(7).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Caldey Island from Lydstep</i></td></tr>
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The final hour to Manorbier is the wildest part of the day's walk. The path runs above gorse slopes that run steeply down to the cliffs below. Away to the south, the headlands and beaches that I will be crossing tomorrow appear, stretching away into the haze. I make a short detour down a steep flight of steps to a beautiful, isolated little beach; immaculate golden sand untrodden since the tide went out between reddish sandstone cliffs. The clifftop path is no more than a thin ribbon of red earth, often very close to the edge. The wind is quite unsettling here; twice, gusts unbalance me to the extent where I have to put my hand out against the steep hillside so as not to be knocked over. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LG353bnjv5ZFwwkYWwOq3pNDuBxCe3SGCvOhOI0d9RkgW7bui4DrrepidVYSCrNpo0ZvDQh1WlHn0KmCrbNhDcLVWDBwVmKHSbWrn_-7fvCfCOQwEHdUk2j1R7K0xpd2gIjiAi6CytU/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+%25288%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LG353bnjv5ZFwwkYWwOq3pNDuBxCe3SGCvOhOI0d9RkgW7bui4DrrepidVYSCrNpo0ZvDQh1WlHn0KmCrbNhDcLVWDBwVmKHSbWrn_-7fvCfCOQwEHdUk2j1R7K0xpd2gIjiAi6CytU/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(8).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>A lonely little beach hidden below the cliffs south of Lydstep</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLDo9LORVOOiZqimqhOcUcGOAYHwiL-FH0E3ojIH2WtSMtfu0JJUvXvGG4RDvgKjv25Zl5vabLxKMg7_Nj87r5rCvEd08hIkKonrmaiynGU0IcruIDvNCSy7gva39A9bEgGEvW5aB4KA/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+%25289%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLDo9LORVOOiZqimqhOcUcGOAYHwiL-FH0E3ojIH2WtSMtfu0JJUvXvGG4RDvgKjv25Zl5vabLxKMg7_Nj87r5rCvEd08hIkKonrmaiynGU0IcruIDvNCSy7gva39A9bEgGEvW5aB4KA/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(9).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Between Lydstep and Manorbier, the path is a narrow ribbon of red earth above steep slopes</i></td></tr>
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At four in the afternoon I reach Manorbier beach, the end of my first day's walk. This is another lovely sandy beach, bordered on its northern side by long banks of flattish rocks. Today the beach is deserted apart from the mandatory one man and his dog; in my childhood days, it was always a popular place for coming to scramble over the rocks and peer into the hundreds of little pools left by the receding tide. Above the beach, at the head of a little valley that runs inland stand a semi-ruined (but still inhabited) castle and a 12th-century church.<br />
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The B&B where I spend the night is a little way inland, in a rather grand 18th-century house in the middle of nowhere. My room is small but cosy, overlooking a landscape of fields and hedges lit obliquely by the evening sun. Already one day down, but twelve still to go… </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5BTiax8gp0KLwBlXXjxfmHZgYO89BtKqYq88OJDxw45fTWMSEmV8hkTUytaurAy5uZuhq12np0TgPbX_xsV0SllNG-gOV8TiM06_DFbTAz4p9GdHCuIUHWljI49RJyYv7Q__TpZ8OnTQ/s1600/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+%252810%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5BTiax8gp0KLwBlXXjxfmHZgYO89BtKqYq88OJDxw45fTWMSEmV8hkTUytaurAy5uZuhq12np0TgPbX_xsV0SllNG-gOV8TiM06_DFbTAz4p9GdHCuIUHWljI49RJyYv7Q__TpZ8OnTQ/s640/130511+-+Pembrokeshire+Coast+Path+(10).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Manorbier</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://pembrokeshirecoast.blogspot.ch/2013/05/on-pembrokeshire-coast-path-day-2-from.html">Next stage</a><br />
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All my Pembrokeshire Coast Path photos <a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/113933589097565093472/albums/5884876187227957393?banner=pwa" target="_blank">here</a><br />
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Stephen Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04318402706873436941noreply@blogger.com0