One hundred years after the Royal Charter storm, almost to the day - on 27 October 1959 - Moelfre saw another dreadful storm and another dreadful wreck, this time of the Cardiff registered “Hindlea.” Communications had obviously improved in the century that had passed since the earlier disaster and on this occasion the ship’s captain was able to radio to shore and inform the lifeboat station of its plight, unable to make any progress against the mountainous waves and in danger of being swept onshore by the terrible tide flow. It had intended to shelter overnight in the bay from the south westerly storm but the capricious wind had veered to the north and was driving her onto the same rocks that had sunk the Royal Charter a century earlier. An RNLI station had now been situated in the village and a boat was launched under the captaincy of Coxswain Dic Evans. Evans came from a long line of lifeboat crewmen - his father, uncle and both grandfathers had served in the Moelfre crew before him and an ancestor had helped to rescue those few survivors of the Royal Charter- and he had been coxswain of the “Edna and Mary Robinson” for some years already. Seven times he tried to bring the lifeboat alongside the “Hindlea,” seven times the towering waves driven by winds gusting to over 100mph prevented him from doing so. Incredibly, on the eighth attempt the “Edna and Mary Robinson” was swept onto the deck of the bigger boat. Seizing the opportunity the ten crew men scrambled aboard the lifeboat, the last one doing so just before another wave swept Evans’s boat clear. All ten men on the “Hindlea” were saved, at the cost of just one broken ankle. The “Edna and Mary Robinson” returned to Moelfre, from where it relaunched for another rescue within the hour. Evans and four other crewmen - Evan Owens, Murley Francis, Hugh Jones and Hugh Owen - were decorated for their bravery, Evans receiving the RNLI Gold Medal, the most prestigious and hard-earned of maritime recognition.
Seven years later, on 2 December 1966, Evans was still the coxswain of the Moelfre lifeboat when they were called out to assist the Holyhead RNLI with a boat in distress named the “Nafsiporos”. Having lost power in a cyclone, it was being driven towards The Skerries, small islands to the north of the island. They had already been out on an earlier rescue that day and the boat had been pounded by the heavy seas. As they fought their way along the north coast the hull was holed and Evans had to send two men forward to carry out running repairs. One was the aforementioned Murley Francis, the second his own son, David. When discussing the incident in later years he was candid about his reasons for sending David - “I could not have stopped Murley but I had to send my son with him. If I had sent someone else and they had been washed overboard I’d have had to live with the reputation of a man who saved his son at the expense of his crew.” The repairs did the job well enough to allow them to reach the Nafsiporos, which was fortunate as the Holyhead boat was also damaged in the rescue and was unable to complete it unaided. Between them the two boats saved some fifteen souls that night, on this occasion sustaining a broken compass, loss of all electric power and holes in the bow. By the time they reached the shelter of the Moelfre boathouse the crew had been without food for twenty three hours and Evans had been at the wheel for an unbroken 12 ½ hours. He was later awarded his second Gold Medal for the rescue - one of only five men in the history of the RNLI to have received two.
David Evans obviously bore no grudge against his father for his orders that December night, recommending that a statue be erected in his honour when Dic died in 2001 and supported by Davey Owens, the son of Evan who had received a silver medal for his role in the Hindlea rescue. Dic had finally retired from service in 1970, having first joined the Moelfre boat in 1921 at the age of sixteen, launching 176 times and assisted in the saving of 281 lives - remarkable statistics that hide incredible stories such as those detailed above and demonstrate just how worthy of recognition the man was. His likeness was captured in bronze by Sam Holland and erected outside the Seawatch Centre where it was officially unveiled by Prince Charles in 2005. And a wonderful statue it is, staring out to sea from the wheel of his beloved boat in oilskin and souwester - appropriate garb for the wet and windy day that was in prospect on the Tuesday that we next visited the island.
Although the weather was in no way close to being as bad as the conditions described above, rain was still falling hard as Jan and I pulled on our boots in the car park at Amlwch Port, huddled into a bus shelter, pulled waterproofs on, hunched shoulders against the downpour and wished fervently for it to stop. We walked up to the main bus stop in Amlwch, some quarter of a mile distant, trying to convince ourselves that it was easing and spent the twenty minutes of the bus journey to Moelfre offering up a silent prayer to the rain gods that we be spared. Whatever it was that we said, our prayers were soon answered and although there was a little light drizzle in the air as we strolled the quarter of a mile from bus stop to Seawatch Centre we would see no more precipitation during another long day’s walking similar to the Beaumaris to Pentraeth section of the route.
I’d been looking forward to revisiting the Birds Eye lifeboat but there was a sign on the door of the Centre advising that as a result of the government cuts management of the facility was transferring to the RNLI and there was a three day handover period that meant it would be later in the week before opening for the season. It wasn’t a big issue but I’d have liked to have found out more about Dic Evans and those Gold medals he’d been awarded- the above detail is from subsequent research on the internet. We must remember that lifeboats are almost exclusively manned by dedicated volunteers and for someone to put his life on the line so often for so little reward is truly remarkable.
Moelfre has had a lifeboat station since 1848 and at its present site since 1909. To date its crew have received 9 “Framed Letters of Thanks”; 3 “Thanks of the Institution Inscribed on Vellum”; 26 Bronze Medals; 7 Silver; and 4 Gold. To tell the story of each of those decorations is a book in itself but surely a story worth telling. The modern station is situated a couple of hundred yards to the north of the Seawatch Centre and a number of posters outside seemed to suggest that its regular open days are well worth attending - the Anglesey Tourist Board having designated it “Best event 2010” or similar. There is an information board outside that gives a few details of its history and of the occasions it was launched in the previous twelve months. It is easy to think that technology renders the Institution’s services if not obsolete then certainly a lot less pertinent than in the days of yore but as we shall see in Rhosneigr, there are still too many incidents and deaths at sea. It may be a different kind of emergency that crews attend today - few people went to sea for pleasure before the twentieth century but now make up the bulk of call-outs and lifeboatmen still lay their lives on the line to save those in peril on the sea and for that we should be eternally grateful.
Beyond the lifeboat station the path drops to a shingle beach and we were surprised to see an area of bluebells just yards from the high tide mark. It’s not that they were out of season - I’d seen wonderful displays a few miles from home only a couple of days earlier - but I had grown used to seeing them in deciduous woodlands rather than so close to the salt of the seawater. Whilst something of a surprise, it was a lovely one and we were to enjoy regular contact with these beautiful harbingers of summer throughout the course of the day. Sea pink was also prevalent but clearly there is a clue in their name as to their preferred habitat whereas few guides suggest that bluebells should be here in such profusion.
At a whitewashed cottage the path turns due west and the views ahead are of a wide bay with the offshore islet of Ynys Dulas drawing the eye, its man-made tower all the more prominent for the absence of height elsewhere on the rocky outcropping. It doesn’t seem that far away but it would be a good four hours at least before we drew alongside, the nature of a coastal walk being the need to follow many little bays and inlets and one relatively wide estuary necessitating a lengthy detour inland and thereby doubling the distance on the ground versus the distance as the crow (or cormorant) flies. I mention cormorant for this was the first of the seabirds that caught our eye as we gazed out to sea, its distinctive low flight almost clipping the waves as it travelled from tiny boulder to rocky eminence. Oystercatchers also took the eye and we were to see many of each species as the day progressed.
A memorial to the Royal Charter was signposted both in the guidebook and on the pathway but necessitated a small detour and from a distance looked little more than a stone marker elevated slightly above the main path . We made a judgement call that the additional energy expended to see it at close quarters would not receive sufficient reward and would almost certainly be required later on during the afternoon, so I am unable to describe it in any detail but suffice it to say that the energy saved came in very useful a few hours later and our impression of the memorial wasn’t materially changed as we made our way beneath it some minutes after the signposted detour had turned away inland.
The beach at Traeth Lligwy is the first sand of the day, a pretty substantial bay at low tide - as it was when we arrived. Although the rain had long since ceased, the wind was battering us from offshore and it remained cold - especially so after the glorious Easter Monday we had experienced the day before. The three campers huddled inside a sizeable tent seemed to be feeling the cold, sat inside on deck chairs or sprawled on inflatable sleeping mats with open books on their laps, I found myself wondering why they had the main flap open to the elements and why they had pitched the tent with the entrance at the mercy of the prevailing winds. On a sunny day it would no doubt have been lovely to watch the sun rise to the east from the comfort of your sleeping bag but - with the greatest of respect - this is the east coast of Anglesey in late April, rather than the Amalfi Coast in August and I couldn’t help but wonder how often they had been camping before? It seemed the very definition of hope over experience and whilst I can fully understand the desire to get close to nature and love the thought of nights under canvas, am sure that I would find the reality palls very quickly under these circumstances.
Having said which, the view of the beach beyond was still rather wonderful, acres of golden sand with the tide having painted pretty patterns as it ebbed, leaving a landscape corrugated with tiny ridges indicating the sea’s retreat. Waders were dotted along the sea’s strand, examining the wet sand for succulent shellfish on which to feed. Fifty yards from shore a parasurfer rode the waves, now leaping high in the air as he let the parachute take his weight, now catching a crest and riding it for all he was worth, now plunged into the surf as an intended trick fails to take off. We watched for a minute or two, vaguely jealous of his athleticism but also conscious of the aches and pains we would feel if we only did a tenth of what he was doing. I remembered watching from closer quarters as Sarah and I honeymooned on the South Devon coast the previous October and marvelling at the strain on the arms, legs and torso merely from the parachute, never mind the battering of the (admittedly substantially heavier) Atlantic breakers. We had no doubt that there must be an incredible adrenalin rush as you are pulled at speed across the waves but this was outweighed for us on that occasion by the need to walk half a mile back up a steep shingle beach after each tack, rather than end up five miles further downwind within a very short half hour. Like the sandkarting we had seen on Red Wharf Bay, the ratio of hard work and frustration to fun seems too high for us dilettantes.
This isn’t to imply that we were not having to put in our share of hard work. Today’s height gain is over five hundred and sixty metres and as a consequence there is much climbing and descending into and out of the coves, bays and beaches. The path skirts Traeth Lligwy itself, descending gradually to a couple of car parks at near sea level - the café was still closed, despite the Bank Holiday weekend just gone and the one still to come for the Royal Wedding - before passing behind sand dunes and climbing again to another small headland. There are signposts at the second car park warning people off the beach at this point due to the presence of quicksand, and it is clear from the pathway above where these areas are. It does rather beg the question of why there are two large car parks in the immediate vicinity but it seems that the rest of the beach is quite desirable for holidaymakers and dog-walkers and the situation is obviously managed with care by the local authorities.
The path here was again awash with bluebells, sea pink and campion and was a joy to walk. For the day after a Bank Holiday (and some schools, including the local ones, remained on holiday) there weren’t many people out and about - the odd dog walker aside, those campers were the only people we had seen to say hello to since leaving Moelfre - but we were about to see the last people on the path for about four hours when we sat down on a convenient bench to take lunch. An elderly couple came downhill, exchanged a cheerful greeting and dropped down to the beach beyond us, where a couple of young children could be seen rock pooling as their parents tried to ensure they were sufficiently well wrapped up against the wind. In the field alongside, the cutest young lambs gambolled happily alongside their mothers and the presence of so many bluebells gave us something lovely to look at as we ate our sandwiches and drank our coffee in the absence of far-reaching views - the best we could see in the distance was a massive container ship awaiting the right tide to enter Liverpool’s docks. These carriers are a common sight here, local pilots taking small Rigid Inflatable Boats (RIBs) from Amlwch Port to board the ships and guide them through the tricky Mersey estuary.
Lunch over, we turned our backs to the sea for a while as the path became a track and then a road. A right and left turn and there was again grass beneath our feet as a signpost indicated the way steeply uphill. We clambered up the slope and were fortunate to spot one of the circular markers pointing through a seemingly impenetrable hawthorn spinney to a flatter path through fields above. Ahead we could see the long ears and distinctive silhouette of a couple of hares - sadly, no longer engaging in the “boxing” bouts that gave rise to the “Mad March Hare” of legend and is now known to be the does fighting off the unwanted advances of overly ardent bucks. As we passed through the field towards a green lane leading still further inland, we were to see more of these charismatic creatures, clearly so much larger than their rabbit cousins that the species are easily distinguished from each other. The lane eventually curved away to the right and our path led straight ahead across a couple of final fields before reaching the car park of The Pilot Boat Inn and the main east coast road.
To the left, uphill from The Pilot Boat, is a large white Celtic cross, memorial to four Morris brothers who lived in the area in the late eighteenth century. They achieved a lasting fame as a result of the remarkably prolific letters that they wrote to each other - and in particular the fact that so much of their correspondence has survived and so gives historians a glut of information about everyday life during the period. One of the brothers, Lewis, also drew up one of the best local sea charts during the period and was hugely respected as a result. We didn’t have any inclination to climb up for a closer view but gave a gentle nod in its direction to acknowledge the brothers’ contribution to our wealth of information about their life and times.
It could have been a little dispiriting to realise that we now had to almost retrace our steps back to the coast - this inland detour having been necessary purely to avoid the marshy estuary of the tiny Afon Goch. Happily though the immediate route is downhill and on what was extremely dry ground given the driest April on record (this morning’s downpour notwithstanding). We crossed the river - really no more than a wide stream - on a newly built or renovated wooden footbridge and turned sharp right, where paths took us down to the very edge of the high tide mark and beyond. The way ahead is on a tidal road - although the tide has to be very high to reach this point, there are occasions where the track lies underwater. In the distance could be seen the round tower on Ynys Dulas, although the horizon meant that the base could not be seen and gave the distinct impression that it was rooted on the mainland rather than a mile and a half offshore. The estuary is about a mile wide and largely salt marsh, with the sides heavily forested and rising to the fields we had already crossed and those that we were about to climb in a mirror image of the last forty five minutes walking. Two abandoned wooden boats can be seen ahead, the elements having reduced them to just the ribs of the hull - so much more attractive than rusting hulks of metal that modern wrecks would be and incredibly atmospheric. There are cottages on the shore here, so distant from any other habitation and with such wonderful views on the doorstep yet none of them seemed to have windows facing the estuary - no doubt as a means of keeping heat within rather than losing it to the gales of winter.
Our route took advantage of the single track road that serves these cottages, so although we had another steep climb there were no problems of navigation and conditions underfoot were good. Hedges were high to either side and views restricted. For the first time, Jan seemed to feel the miles in her legs and the mile or so that we tramped the tarmac were probably her least favourite of the day - until the long last mile anyway. The wildflower hedges were delightful and we got to hear some birdsong other than the cry of seagulls - blue tits, great tits, chaffinches, the usual range of garden birds - and the shade given by the brilliant green of the new leaves was exceptionally pleasant but we were walking the coastal path and yearned for a sight of the sea once more.
The pretty little church of Llanwenllwyfo - don’t ask me how to pronounce it, I would not have the first clue - heralds a little respite from the tarmac, for it is only a couple of hundred yards beyond that a stile enters a field and leads away through some attractive farm buildings before taking to the road once more. I think it would be fair to say, though, that this is a path that has received little use recently. It may be that the hawthorn hedge had put on a growth spurt in the past couple of weeks but it made the stile almost impassable whilst the rucksack remained in situ on my back. Jan, being more svelte than I am, found it slightly less problematic but still had a struggle before she dropped into the field. It didn’t save us much time or distance in cutting across here - perhaps two hundred or three hundred yards - but the views opened out a little, our horizon stretched beyond the hedgerows and spirits rose at the sight of the sea once more. It was a briefish respite as it is only minutes until woodlands enclose the road once more, the branches stretching across and blocking out the sky. This dappled shade suits the bluebells to a “T” - this is their traditional habitat and they bloom in profusion here to either side of the road. But if it can ever be true that you can have too much of a good thing, this seemed to be it. A poet would speak of a “sea of blue” but we wanted the sea of a murky grey colour, the smell of it and the noise of the waves breaking on the rocky shore. It had been ninety minutes since we turned our backs on Traeth Ora and headed inland and we were getting withdrawal symptoms.
The sighting of a male pheasant in amongst the bluebells added greatly to the palette of colours and heralded our final escape from the woods above and the tarmac beneath our feet - Jan spotted it and I tried and failed to get a decent photo of it. Within yards we were clambering over another stile and heading down a little track alongside a dry stone wall towards the promise of coastal views once more. More pheasants - many more - could be seen in the field alongside. A sign on the stile had indicated that the path would be closed during the winter months for some thirty days and it became clear that these birds were no doubt bred for the shooting season - 1 October to 1 February. We had realised over the course of the last couple of miles that the area was largely owned by the Dulas Estate, the many signs warning that the woods and farm buildings were private property all bore the same logo, and it didn’t take a great deal for us to put two and two together and realise that these beautiful birds were not long for this world.
The path rounded a rocky outcrop - we pondered on whether it was an ancient burial mound as so many places in Anglesey are - and provided us with a view across a strange earthy field to the omnipresent Ynys Dulas out at sea. This wasn’t a ploughed field and the soil seemed to have little in the way of depth to it - it almost seemed like dust rather than soil. There was a clear path leading across it, trampled still firmer than the rest of the field, and a gap in the hedgerow halfway down showed the way to a more grassy slope beyond. The problem was the presence of some particularly large cattle between the hedge and us. They didn’t look intimidated by our presence in any way, shape or form; nor did they look indifferent. They looked a little put out that we were expecting them to move aside and showed no sign at all of doing so. In fact, they looked a bit like the bad guys in a western trying to bully the lone sheriff into backing down and not doing what a man’s got to do. After a little stand-off we passed to their left, the four or five most obdurate amongst them turning their heads to gaze at us unblinkingly as we did so and I think we both felt rather brave about having run their gauntlet. We were each remembering recent stories of ramblers injured - even killed - by a stampede of cows, and that was before we noticed that one of them was actually a young bull!
More cows blocked the gateway through the hedge but the footpath veered away to the corner of the field and led over another stile, this one a little rickety but with no vegetation to cause problems in its climbing. Having blindsided the final little bovine difficulty of the day, we fairly sped down the field turning left as we hit the fence at the bottom and finally making headway parallel to the coast once more. Ynys Dulas, having been a distant presence for so much of the morning, was now a close companion and we could clearly see the round tower built in 1824 at the instigation of Lady Dorina Neave of Llys Dulas Manor. Food and water was stored within the tower to give hope and succour to shipwrecked sailors, in addition to the shelter from the elements the tower would provide. Of course, the very presence of such a tall tower would help ships to see and so avoid the rocks dotted around the islet itself, although as we have seen the coast remained an exceptionally dangerous one for shipping no matter how many aids to navigation were provided.
As we sipped at our water bottles and took in the view our eyes were caught by a movement in the sea close in to shore. Could it be a seal, or were we being fooled by a buoy or some form of flotsam into seeing what we wanted to see? We looked closer, more intently. It certainly wasn’t a buoy. We looked at each other, eyes brighter. And suddenly it dived and made our minds up for us. It was - that is, it had been - a seal. The first that I had seen from anything other than a sight-seeing boat - on the Farne Islands off Northumberland, in Loch Linnhe south of Fort William, on Blakeney Point off the north Norfolk coast and of course on Puffin Island a few miles to the south. It was only a couple of weeks later that I read on the internet that Ynys Dulas was sometimes known locally as “Seal Island” so the sighting came as a complete surprise. Had we known beforehand that seals could be seen here, we would have been anxiously on the lookout and been disappointed had we not seen anything. As it was it came out of the blue and filled us with a pleasure that can only come from viewing wildlife in its natural environment. I’m no naturalist - I had no idea if this was a common or grey seal - but I get enormous enjoyment from such encounters. Indeed I get the same pleasure from standing at our kitchen window and watching the garden birds at our feeders. It wasn’t the best wildlife encounter ever - far from it - but it did more than enough to make this a day to remember. Subsequent research leads me to believe that it was actually a grey seal - strangely twice as populous as the supposed common seal. Stefan Buckzacki’s “Fauna Britannica” says that half of the world’s population live in British waters and “tend to breed on remote offshore rocks”, which describes the environment perfectly. Were I to have an “I-Spy Book of the Seashore”, I would be claiming the points for a grey.
Those “I-Spy” books were an indispensable part of journeys and holidays as a child. The basic principle was that you got points for spotting specific items - whether it be the “I-Spy Book of Birds/Trees/Cars” or whatever. The rarer the object, the greater the number of points. Having accrued so many points you could send off for a certificate, although I was never obsessed enough to do so. However, I did join the “I-Spy” tribe and received a code book and metal badge for my pennies. The code book enabled you to read a message in the weekly column written by “Big Chief I-Spy” in the Daily Mail - something of a waste that, as we had the Express delivered - but also to write to and receive messages from other members. Again, this was a little pointless as I knew of no-one else who had joined. I will confess therefore to having shared the codes with Steve and our “gang” and trust that such a transgression does not leave me open to being retrospectively drummed out of the club. Big Chief I-Spy was the pseudonym of the man whose brainchild the books were - Charles Worrell, a former headmaster who initially self-published the books before they became a viable commercial project and achieved enormous popularity during the 1950s and 60s. Worrell lived until the age of 106 and so lived to see their tremendous success. I well remember them from the following decade but the 1980s saw sales drop - despite David Bellamy becoming involved as the third Big Chief - and they were quietly dropped from publication at the turn of the century. However, Michelin have resuscitated the brand and have published a number of titles over recent years and they can once again be seen in bookshops - it is wonderful to see something so simple taking on the might of handheld computer games as a way to entertain youngsters and I wish them every success. In the meantime, mark me down for twenty five points for a grey seal.
It was fortunate that the sighting had put a little spring in our step for the way ahead now lay up a steep slope, and one that could have been better signposted - the one occasion today that this could be said. At the top of the slope the path once more turns to the right and runs nearly parallel to the coast with lovely views down to the waves crashing onto the shingle beach. For a mile or more there are few decisions to make about route finding, the way ahead clearly indicated on the few occasions that there could be doubt, and stiles and footbridges well-made and maintained. The gorse was - as for so much of the year - in bright yellow bloom and sheep and rabbits kept the grass short and neat and tidy. It had been so long since we saw human life that the sight of a bearded man and his young daughter took us completely by surprise. They stood atop a rocky knoll and were taking photos of each other playing “I’m the King of the Castle” with the raging surf as a distant backdrop. I called across, asking if they wanted a photo of the two of them taken and received a heavily accented thanks. The accent - both Jan and I agreed afterwards - appeared German and the brief conversation did nothing to dissuade us of this opinion. They were staying, he told us, at the lighthouse - good news this as it meant that our next target could not be far away. Fifteen minutes, he said, with Amlwch another mile beyond.
Minutes later the lighthouse came into view - still a mile or so distant at the end of Point Lynas headland - and with it a tiny tent perched on the very edge of the cliff. We had assumed that he meant they were staying either in the lighthouse itself or in the keeper’s cottages alongside but suddenly felt a little worried for the little girl - if she slipped out in the middle of the night for a call of nature she would not have to stray far before she was over the cliff edge. We were relieved some forty minutes later to look back and see them return to one of the keeper’s cottages - it was some other poor soul who would have to dice with death if caught short in the early hours!
A light was first established at Point Lynas in 1779 by the Liverpool Pilotage Service - a pilot station having been based here for some fifteen years with the pilots being rowed out to guide ships through the difficult waters of the Dee and Mersey estuaries and up to Liverpool’s rapidly growing docks. The beacon was upgraded to a lighthouse in 1835, built at a cost of £1165 and funded by the Trustees of Liverpool Docks and including a telegraph and signal station within its castellated walls. Unusually the light was (is) based on the ground floor with signal station above. The signal station was one of a series along the coast - each in view of those to either side - and skilled operators could get a semaphore message between Holyhead and Liverpool in an unbelievably short time. It is reported that in 1830 a message passed between the two ports - and back - in just 23 seconds. Clearly, the newly built station had little to do with the system’s efficiency but its beacon meant signals could also be seen during the hours of darkness.
As with all lighthouses in the care of Trinity House, Point Lynas was automated in 1989 and its light with a range of 28 nautical miles is now operated from a centralised office - probably miles inland. The buildings - including the two keepers’ cottages now rented out as holiday accommodation - were purchased and renovated by a couple who placed the complex back on the market during the summer of 2010. The asking price? £1.5 million - although there is an income received from Trinity House for the lighthouse and from the two cottages. The sales brochure has a photograph of a pod of dolphins with the lighthouse beyond and makes great play of the fact that the headland is one of the best places on the island from which to see dolphins or porpoise. Sadly, we were not as fortunate here as we had been with the seal earlier and it remains unticked in our mental I-Spy books. Oh, and if you were considering a stay at the holiday cottages, please be warned that a foghorn goes off if visibility drops below two nautical miles (how can they tell from their computerised bunker, I wonder?) and continues to sound at thirty second intervals until conditions improve!
The footpath cuts across the headland and so avoids a close up view but the buildings are a fine sight in retrospect as the footpath drops to near sea level at Porth Eilian. This is a beautiful little cove, sheltered by headlands to north and south and providing excellent shelter for the few boats that were drawn up on the sands in the now-early-evening. There is a Betjeman poem - “A Bay In Anglesey” - that would perfectly fit this lovely spot, were it not for the line about Snowdon “far to the eastward”. It is more likely that - if it is a real bay, rather than an idealised vision using poetic licence - the subject is on the island’s west coast but I make no apology for quoting it in full here. For me, the poem will forever summon memories of Porth Eilian in the fading light of a late April evening and will be enjoyed all the more for that association:
The sleepy sound of a tea-time tide
Slaps at the rocks the sun has dried,
Too lazy, almost, to sink and lift
Round low peninsulas pink with thrift.
The water, enlarging shells and sand
Grows greener emerald out from land
And brown over shadowy shelves below
The waving forests of seaweed show.
Here at my feet in the short cliff grass
Are shells, dried bladderwrack, broken glass,
The next low ridge that we climb discloses
One more field for the sheep to graze
While, scarcely seen on this hottest of days,
Far to the eastward, over there,
Snowdon rises in pearl-grey air.
Multiple lark-song, whispering bents,
The thymy, turfy and salty scents.
And filling in, brimming in, sparkling and free
The sweet susurration of incoming sea.
It is sad that there is broken glass to mention but it clearly didn’t spoil the magic of the moment for Betjeman and doesn’t spoil the magic of the poem for me. In particular that last couplet and that last line - the sweet susurration of incoming sea. It’s not a word I’d heard before but it has a wonderful onomatopoeic quality that immediately brings to mind the noise of surf on sand or shingle. Susurration. The online dictionary defines it as “to whisper or rustle softly.” I shall try and remember it.
The next low ridge that we climbed disclosed more close-cropped turf and a final mile of ups and downs as the path drops into and out of little inlets. The tiny island of East Mouse can be seen at the entrance to Amlwch Port but doesn’t seem to get any closer very quickly and by now we were each beginning to feel really quite weary. People were coming thick and fast now - we saw two separate fishermen and two other walkers in that final mile - and it was obvious that journey’s end was close by but it just couldn’t come quickly enough. Finally, though, we passed a particularly ugly (and possibly empty) house - a fine example of the prevalent Welsh pebbledash school of architecture - through a car park and dropped past a renovated sail store (now a visitor centre) to the port itself. A group of children were being taught canoeing where once would have stood ships loaded with copper ore mined at nearby Parys Mountain but that is a story for another chapter. All that remained for us was to wearily remove our boots, give another fish and chip shop our custom and set our sails for home - reliving the day’s incidents as we went.
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