It had been a last-minute decision to walk a little more of the coastal path today, the last of a fortnight away from work that had seen a golfing weekend cancelled due to the course flooding, a day at Worcester watching cricket curtailed by heavy rain and various other expeditions abandoned or marred by torrential storms. In short, the weather for the entire fortnight had been horrendous. But looking at the forecast on the red button the night before it had appeared that there was a chance of good weather in North Wales and I decided there and then to wake early and go. With rain predicted for late afternoon I decided on a shortish day and Rhosneigr to Aberffraw seemed a pretty good route.
With blue sky visible for the first time in what seemed like weeks, a rucksack on my back and boots on my feet I was feeling pretty cheerful already but my mood was raised still further when I got my first glimpse of the sea. It was a view north and to my right which surprised me a little - but I hadn’t looked at the map or guidebook in any great detail and hadn’t realised that Rhosneigr is on a headland between the two beaches of Traeth Crigyll and Traeth Lydan. It was the former that I could see to the north, the rocky islet of Ynys Feirig creating a haven for small boats safe from the storms of the Irish Sea. It made for a lovely view but my way led to the south and I dragged myself away and passed between some very nice properties before leaving the road and dropping onto the sandy acres of Traeth Lydan.
Despite the dark and threatening clouds children were playing on the beach, making sandcastles, throwing a ball around and generally just having a good time. It was lovely to see their enjoyment in being out in the open air; mums sitting on tartan travel rugs in the shelter of a striped windbreak. For a moment or two it was as though the last thirty five years hadn’t happened and I was back in the mid seventies and then a mobile phone rang and the spell was broken but it was clear that beaches are timeless things that reach out to each generation as places to have fun in relative safety.
And yet a solitary kayaker visible a hundred yards out to sea was a reminder of the danger that lurks so close to shore. Less than two years earlier - on August Bank Holiday Sunday 2010, just days after Jan and I had walked from Beaumaris to Pentraeth - an experienced kayaker named Elizabeth Ashbee had been kayaking with four friends from Shrewsbury Canoe Club. They had started from nearby Rhoscolyn but the weather had been poor and her four colleagues had “rafted up” after one of the party had capsized and lost a paddle. A north wind had driven them southwards towards Rhosneigr and the islet of Ynys Feirig that I admired earlier. Elizabeth had become separated from the others in the poor weather and was last seen at about 2:30 on the Sunday afternoon. Sadly her companions were washed onto shore away from any habitation and had to scramble up a cliff before hitching a lift back to Rhoscolyn where they raised the alarm - some four hours after she was last seen. Despite a wide-ranging search involving the RNLI, RAF and coastguard services it would be the Tuesday before any sign of her was found, some twenty miles further south off the Lleyn peninsula and then it was initially only her kayak, followed three hours later by her dead body. Whilst the coroner criticised the group’s lack of any means of communication it isn’t clear that an earlier raising of the alarm would have saved her life.
A second inquest on the same day also recorded a verdict of “accidental death” in the drowning of a Simon Sait in April 2010. He had been kayaking off Traeth Mawr - my destination today - taking photos of seals in the company of his girlfriend. Both boats capsized but whilst his girlfriend was able to reach shore and raise the alarm, Simon wasn’t so fortunate and despite being airlifted to hospital in Bangor was pronounced dead upon arrival. In this instance the coroner criticised the lack of a buoyancy aid which could have saved his life. Both of these sad tales had a certain resonance for bookending today’s route and they undeniably seem sadder for being so recent - there have been many stories of death all the way around the coast but those from the nineteenth century seem ancient history whereas the deaths of Ashbee and Sait just seem tragic.
The beach was a glorious and sandy one but also speckled with seashells and flattish stones that looked idealfor skimming. Grandad Pope would always take me and Steve to one side before our holidays, press a fifty pence piece into our hands and tell us to buy ourselves an ice-cream and then ask us to “throw a stone in the sea for me”. It’s a tradition that we have both taken on board and no-one at work is allowed to go away without me telling them the same thing (although I draw the line at buying them an ice-cream). And now that I have a little nephew nothing will stop me from pressing a coin into his palm and telling him to throw a stone in the sea - but these days it’s me he will be throwing it in for. So when I picked up a stone and tried to skim it across the waves, it was Grandad Pope who was in my thoughts. It may have been the fault of the stone - not flat enough, maybe; it may have been the waves - too close together, perhaps; it may just be that I have lost the knack of skimming stones but I could get them to bounce no more than three or four times, depending on how generous you are with counting. I really don’t think that Grandad would mind, though. I think he’d just be pleased that I still remembered him when I did it.
Slowly I made my way along the beach, stopping to pick up a couple of shells along the way - a silly little present for Sarah - and to “admire” the dead sponges, crabs and seaweed cast up on the strandline. I don’t find this part of the beach attractive - it smells and is full of flies - but I suppose it’s an intrinsic part of the coast. Also unattractive are the hay bales wrapped in black plastic as the path climbs off the beach and starts to make its way around the headland of Mynydd Mawr. Take off the black plastic and there is nothing more redolent of summertime than a row of circular bales of hay beneath a blue sky; the plastic just makes the field a little more urban and strips away all of its charm. Happily, it wasn’t more than a couple of minutes before I left the field behind and turned my eyes seawards once more.
Almost immediately a flash of white drew my attention to a little egret flying overhead, a lovely sight that took my eyes away from the path for a moment or two. When I did drag myself back to the way ahead I was surprised to see an obviously artificial mound with a wide stone-clad entrance facing me from a hundred yards away. I clambered up to that entrance - very modern looking and artificial - and was pleasantly surprised to find that inside was a perfectly authentic prehistoric tomb, albeit one that has been badly maltreated over the last few thousand years and is now protected by an artificial concrete roof as well as that B&Q style entrance. Safe behind metal bars is a cruciform passage containing a number of standing stones and a capstone, many of them decorated with carvings of zigzag designs, spirals and lozenges that apparently set Barclodiad y Gawres apart from other tombs in mainland Britain as they bear a strong resemblance to Irish rock art. The artificiality is partly explained by site’s rediscovery in 1952 having been used as a stone quarry during the 1700s which will clearly have impacted massively upon its structure. I’m unsure if I altogether approve of the building work, although I appreciate the need for protection but it’s a strange mish-mash of the Neolithic and Disneyland and on the whole I’d rather have something authentic if damaged than this historical hybrid .
Cable Bay, a few minutes beyond the tomb, is an idyllic cove straight out of a Famous Five book. It’s not big and with three family groups in occupation would not have taken many more people before it began to appear crowded but there was ample room for the three groups without impinging on each other’s private space. Kids paddled in the sea, squealing at the cold and running back to mum and dad before running straight back in and doing it all
over again. It was obvious that the sea was extremely cold - a dad and his two sons swimming across the bay from south to north were dressed fully in wetsuits and looked as though they needed them - but everyone here was having a good time. Three young girls had spotted a tiny cave and were poised at the entrance, plucking up the courage to go in and explore more fully. The sea lapped around their ankles as they did so, the eldest deliberately splashing the other two with little kicks of her flip-flopped feet to the obvious delight of her sisters who probably saw this as preferable to the thought of what lurked within the cave. And yet for all the family-friendly appearance this bay was the scene of yet another August tragedy, this time in 2011, when two young students drowned after a night-fishing expedition went badly wrong - some witnesses suggesting that one of them went swimming and the other went to help when he got into difficulties, although there were also suggestions that they had jumped into the water from the cliffs. Details are patchy but it again serves to highlight Tom Russell’s lyric that “Man has tamed and shamed the land, he’ll never tame the sea.”
Oxeye daisies proliferated the cliff edges beyond Cable Bay and were a delightful addition to the views but it was not too long before the path turned left and abandoned the coast for a short stretch. Cattle occupied the first field and were inquisitive enough to wander across and have a closer look at this man with a big rucksack tramping along the edge of their grassy home. Indeed, they were inquisitive enough to wander up and almost surround this man with a big rucksack, to the extent that he had to shout and wave his arms around to clear a path through to the stile that exited the field.
A short detour on a stony farm track led to a track below the Anglesey Motor Racing Circuit - a purpose-built track for both amateur and professional events, including corporate entertainment days and the like. It’s not something that holds any real appeal for me but I do know how popular this sort of facility can be. My only concern was how noisy the vehicles would be and would they impinge upon my enjoyment of the next couple of miles. Sadly, the first sign that I had arrived at the track was the roar of what I took to be a motorcycle engine hurtling past. A photographer was situated at the top of the bank, as captivated by the noisy beasts as I was by the plants and flowers that lined the path for the whole day.
The track led back to the shore but the noise from the engines was making me a little grumpy, the problem being that the vehicles went past with enough regularity to be annoying but enough irregularity that you never quite got to the stage of being used to it. I found myself starting to speed up - something that I am loath to do on a day out, as I like a walk to find its own natural pace rather than have one forced upon it. And just when I was starting to think that my day would be spoiled I spied the church of St Cwfans - the “Church in the Sea”, so-called because it is reached by a causeway that is under water at all but low tide, and the tide was low and ebbing lower even as I approached. It’s a rocky path out across the bay to the island of Cribinau, an island that is only just large enough for the tiny whitewashed church and a few yards of grass surrounding it. Old maps apparently show it as being a part of mainland Anglesey but erosion has done its work and the building is all the more romantic for its isolated situation. The building itself is a bit of a hotch-potch, dating from 12th, 13th. 14th, 16th and 19th centuries, depending upon which part of the building you’re looking at but if you were unaware of this - as I was - it just seems the epitome of a simple parish church and its beauty lies in its simplicity. The island itself is protected by a nineteenth century stone wall to prevent further erosion and this in itself is a work of art, not because of any particular aesthetic qualities but because it does the job it is designed for without being showy or spectacular - I just found the whole thing utterly lovely. As I crossed the causeway I noticed that the engine noise had suddenly disappeared. It was a temporary respite but the peace was perfectly timed and absolutely appropriate.
I clambered up the staircase built into the wall, gripping the rather rickety handrail as I did so. There is a notice that warns of the need for care when the steps are wet - and as the waves will lap up against it for 50% of every day, that is surely the majority of the time. I certainly watched my footing rather gingerly as I reached the top and trod onto the grass that surrounds the church itself. Behind me three workmen crossed the causeway, picked up a couple of plastic containers and disappeared back to their van parked above the beach. They had, it appeared, just finished whitewashing the exterior walls, something that had apparently caused some controversy when it was first undertaken back in 2005. I liked the way it looked now but could understand the feelings of locals who had grown up with its well-weathered appearance. The “whitewash” - actually a lime render - is both historically accurate and one of the better forms of weather-proofing. My initial feeling was that they had done a pretty good job of it but as I wandered around I noticed that the bench on the rear wall had obviously not been moved at all and the gleaming new white finish had a couple of gaps as a result.
I tried the door but wasn’t surprised to find it locked. Even out here, miles from any civilisation and cut off twice a day, it seemed that the threat of theft and/or vandalism was still a live issue - just as it had been at Llanbadrig, the last time I had wanted to view the inside of a church in the approach to Cemaes Bay. It seems an enormous pity that the actions of a few deprives so many of the pleasure of seeing the interior, whether they are religious or merely looking to enjoy the architecture or the peace and quiet. I looked into the windows and although the glass appears thick (as it probably must be to withstand the elements) and distorts the view, I was pleased to see decorations of rocks, pebbles and shells lying upon the windowsills. This was a church in touch its surroundings, I thought.
Having noticed the bench at the gable end, I thought that the time had come for a cup of coffee and a spot of lunch so removed my rucksack and settled down to enjoy a few minutes break. Every so often the engine noise would subside and the sudden quiet would allow the lapping of the waves and the piping of the oystercatchers to make themselves heard - a much pleasanter sound to my ears than the racket emanating from the race circuit but it would seem wrong to be sitting outside a church without having a “live and let live” attitude to the pastimes of others.
It was getting bit chilly just sitting there so I decided it best to pack up and move on, lovely thought the island was. It was very noticeable just how much the tide had ebbed away even in the short time I’d been resting - when I’d crossed the causeway earlier there had still been pools of standing water, by now they had drained away almost completely. Back on the beach I turned to my right and pottered along the sand, both surprising and being surprised by a flock of waders that was so perfectly camouflaged against the rockpools situated between the salt water and the sea strand on which I walked. Despite the fact that it had been less than ten minutes since I had last sat down, I picked out a convenient rock and parked myself once again, keen to see the lovely birds at (fairly) close quarters. I was unsure at first what exactly they were - one of knot, sanderling or dunlin I was almost certain but which? After a few minutes I was fairly confident they were dunlin but I am no expert and wouldn’t be 100% - which was a pity as an elderly couple tiptoed up to me, afraid of scaring the birds, and asked what they were. I pointed out my lack of expertise but the husband then reached into his wife’s rucksack and pulled out a field guide, looked up dunlin and was happy to agree with my identification. I felt pretty pleased about this but even if I’d been wrong, they were lovely to look at as they probed the wet sand for worms, molluscs and crustaceans. In this way I managed to while away another half hour without even being aware of it passing - which is one of the reasons that I so love walking.
Eventually I dragged myself away and made the short climb up onto the next headland. The last hour, since the first sight of St Cwfan’s, had been absolutely magical so maybe I was in the right frame of mind to be delighted but I was just walking from one special moment to another and everything that I saw, I saw with excited eyes. And this headland was special, full of wild flowers and birdlife, enough to keep me going for yet another half hour. Stone “hedges” were alive with thrift, ferns, daisies, foxgloves and meadowsweet; a flock of oystercatchers flew up as one; cormorants preened and displayed in the bay below; swallows swooped low above the long grass, taking insects out of the air in a display of aerobatics that was magnificent but not the best of the day, as we shall see. In the distance, across the wide expanse of Malltraeth Sands, Llanddwyn Island was silhouetted - something for another day but still magical. And then came the seals… Three of them on this occasion, what
appeared to be a family group given that one appeared to be substantially smaller than the other two. If I understand these things correctly, the likelihood is therefore that these were common seals, rather than grey - which don’t tend to remain in such family groups. But again, as with the dunlins, it really doesn’t matter what the species is - they are just such special creatures to see in the wild.
The final ornithological delight of the day came with the appearance of a stonechat, initially on a gorse bush but moving on to one fencepost after another, warbling as he did. Its song is allegedly meant to resemble two stones being tapped together but it’s much more than that - it starts off like that but then goes off on a little jazz-like improvisation that is much more attractive. But forget the song, this is a charming little bird about the size of a robin but with an orangey breast rather than a red one and like the robin it is impossible to see without bringing a smile to your face. This one seemed - like the robin in our back garden - to actively enjoy my company; not enough to remain on the nearest fencepost so that I could get a really good photo but enough to stay within six or seven yards before hopping to the next post down as I got too close.
All day I had been distracted by the abundant flora, regularly dropping to my knees to take what were no doubt distinctly average photos. Most were later discarded - the beauty of digital cameras - but some I were pretty pleased with, although I still struggled to identify all of them. Selfheal was one, a tiny member of the dead-nettle family with both purple and blue flowers that seemed to attract more than its fair share of bees; sheep’s-bit scabious was another, a delicate blue flower that was popular with butterflies, something else that had taken an inordinate amount of time trying to photograph.
Over the last couple of years I have noticed and appreciated both wildflowers and butterflies more than I have in the past. As with so many of my enthusiasms, it is through books that I have been drawn in - in this instance Patrick Barkham’s “The Butterfly Isles” and Sarah Raven’s “Wild Flowers”; the latter primarily down to the sheer beauty of the photographs (taken by Jonathan Buckley, who deserves much more than a credit on the front cover that is substantially smaller font than that of the already well-known Ms Raven). Today’s lepidoptery highlight was possibly a meadow brown - a brown butterfly that I spotted in a meadow, hence my tentative ID. So for the third time, it doesn’t matter if I got the name wrong, it was still lovely. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
Surprisingly, though, for all my love of the natural world, it was something completely unexpected that provided the next bit of magic. Thirty five years ago both the Lees and the Whelans had attended an open day at RAF Valley, a memorable day for a number of reasons. Steve would have been six or seven and had set his heart on one of the helium balloons being sold. Unfortunately he failed to keep a tight enough grip on the string and watched it fly away into the distance with tears pouring down his face and it was here that my biggest piece of fraternal love ever took over and I offered to buy him another one with some of my holiday money. It wasn’t an offer I had to come through on but was heartfelt for all that - for all of the squabbling that we engaged him, I didn’t want to see my little brother upset. Happily, he was soon smiling again, sat as he was in the cockpit of one of the Red Arrows Hawker Siddeley Gnats. For some reason, and so many years later I have no idea why, I either declined the opportunity or opted for an alternative (an ice-cream maybe). Their plane of choice is a BAE Hawk nowadays and it was these that flew overhead as I dropped into a last shingly inlet. Immediately I was ten years old again and watching them in open-mouthed delight as I had done in 1976.
It is appropriate that it was here on Anglesey that I had seen the team on both occasions, for it was from RAF Valley that Flight Lieutenant Lee Jones was posted to lead the newly formed Arrows at RAF Fairford in 1965. Since then they have flown over 4,000 displays and delighted hundreds of thousands of ten year old boys, girls and adults - including this one. Although it seemed like they were on telly every Bank Holiday Monday (as were the Harlem Globetrotters) and are hardwired into the mind of every child of the Seventies, the team remains as active today as it ever was, having survived recent spending reviews, even in these straitened economic times, and highly valued for the public relations benefit that they bring to both recruitment and the defence industry. Long may they fly.
Tearing myself away from my last rocky seat of the day I passed by sea holly and sea lavender to find the path turning inland on the gorgeous sands of Aberffraw Bay, alongside the estuary of the Afon Ffraw. This side of the river is lovely but it is the far side that is truly spectacular. The river is shallow and crystal clear, the sands opposite wide-ranging and golden and the views beyond to the mountains of the Lleyn Peninsula stunning. It’s a pity that in turning inland the views are left behind but as the next stage follows the far bank of the river, it is a treat to be stored up for another day.
Today ends in the little village of Aberffraw; a small village now but the seat of the kings of Gwynned for 800 years during the Middle Ages. Nothing of those years remains visible now, instead there is a central square around which lie terraced cottages and grim-looking chapels. With the exception of some houses overlooking the river it is not a pretty village - there is a lovely single-arched bridge but little else of aesthetic interest - but it does have the enormous benefit of having a heritage centre with excellent public toilets, something that is enormously under-rated as a civic asset. (We always had to look at the make of any bathroom suites because Dad was credit control manager at Armitage Shanks and we felt like we owed him some loyalty - although I never remember crossing my legs because only Twyfords was available!)
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