When thinking about the route beforehand I had almost wanted there to be a day when the wind howled and the waves roared, an elemental day that would show another of the island’s moods, a less welcoming face than had been shown to date. I had imagined a sea covered in white horses and spray; a moody, glowering sky; even an occasional squally shower; and to lie back in a nice, warm, comfy bed at the day’s end and look back on a wonderful day’s walking. And if it didn’t exactly match my wishes, today was a pretty good attempt at giving me what I wanted.
I was alone again today, Jan having had to cry off the previous evening, but I had given little or no thought to giving it a miss myself. The weather forecast was changeable when I saw it the night before but the year was getting on and I would have few chances to get back to the island before the next spring - I would wrap up warm and take my chances.
Although it was by now October, the sun still shone high in the sky as I wandered down to the harbour from the bus stop in Amlwch. The previous week had seen a genuine Indian Summer - temperatures in the high twenties, touching thirty even - but it had cooled off since then and I certainly needed the fleece I wore despite the sun. The red admiral butterfly on the gorse bush just above the harbour certainly needed to lay out his wings to extract maximum heat from its rays, meaning I could take a few photos and try and get a decent picture. As a child I knew very few butterfly names - they were either red admirals or cabbage whites - and I now realise that most of the ones we saw were actually tortoiseshells but I am now older and (I hope) a little wiser and can appreciate better the subtleties of colouring. Sadly, I also know that the “cabbage white” is a generic name rather than a genuine species and I realise that I can still only identify two butterflies - although I flatter myself that these days I am identifying rather than misidentifying.
The harbour at Amlwch - more correctly Amlwch Port - really owes its existence to the discovery of copper ore in Parys Mountain a mile or so to the south of the town. In the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries this small hill was the largest copper mine in the world. In those days the easiest way to transport the ore to its end users was by sea - roads were poor and rail had yet to come to this part of the island - so the tiny inlet was expanded and a pier built to increase its capacity still further. By the time of the Battle of Trafalgar in 1815, Amlwch was the most important port in the Welsh principality - its importance boosted by the shipbuilding industry that also grew in the area. Sadly, the ships built in Amlwch took miners and adventurers overseas and of course these miners laid claim to larger deposits of copper in south America and Africa, thereby sowing the seeds of the industry’s long slow decline. These days the harbour is once more quiet and peaceful but there is a general air of decay in the air and no number of “heritage centres” can disguise the fact that the town (large village really) has undeniably seen better days.
Moving away from the harbour (still quite pretty in its own way) the path skirts some of that industrial decay - a derelict factory to the right; the tracks of a long-disused railway line or tramway beneath the feet - and crosses a small playground and football pitch. A woman pegging out washing in a house adjoining the field smiled at me. “Blustery day. Good for drying.” Her accent was broad Black Country rather than North Walian. I smiled a greeting and strode on, keen to be back beside the sea. A little stream crossed the path - the Afon Goch according to the guide book or “Red River” if my translation is correct and it certainly lives up to that description, no doubt due to the minerals it contains. It is hardly a river though and is soon left behind as the path passes through scrubby vegetation and takes a right turn down towards the shore. Looking back beyond the town, you can see winding gear clearly visible on the hill above, signs of the old mining activity still there even after all those years.
My sights were really set on the sea and the land to the west rather than the views inland to the south. It wasn’t long before the sea came into view once more, white horses on the crest of the waves highlighting the many and varied colours of the water - all shades of green to grey, with a milky quality in places where the seabed lay particularly close to the surface. To the east lay the rock of East Mouse, the tiny islet that both protected the port and threatened those who sought its safe harbour. There are three “mice” along this north coast - West, Middle and East - and I well remember the bitter disappointment of realising that they barely resembled the tiny
rodents for which they were named, and that they certainly did not have cute little ears and whiskers. Today I watched the waves crash and break against its outcropping as wind and tide drove the sea eastwards, rather than onshore. I was reminded (not for the first time when walking) of Mrs Slater’s geography lessons back at Comprehensive School and in particular her descriptions of longshore drift. We always imagine the tide breaking onto beaches square on, whereas the majority of times the beach is set at some sort of angle to the oncoming waves, which then erode the land and move it infinitesimally slowly in the direction of the prevailing wind and waves - hence the breakwaters or “groynes” that you see on some beaches. We went on a field trip to the Mawdach Estuary in mid-Wales one February half term to see its impact, before climbing Cadair Idris the next day to see the effects of glaciation. It snowed whilst we recorded the longshore drift and noted how it had created a spit across the mouth of the river, and it fell still heavier as we drove back to the hut we were staying in. The next day on Cadair Idris it was so deep that we needed little in the way of imagination to see how a glacier had hollowed out the magnificent cwm of Llyn Cau. Mr George, the biology teacher, also accompanied the group and it came as little surprise that over the course of the summer holidays the two divorced their respective spouses and when they came back in September Mrs Slater was henceforth to be Mrs George. It was slightly more of a surprise that she was also a couple of months pregnant - if only because you would have thought a biology teacher would have known to be a little more careful! Anyway, it was with fond memories of those geography lessons and even fonder ones of that snowy weekend that I turned away from East Mouse and headed west.
The path wended its way between gorse bushes, their pretty yellow flowers lending a bright colour to the scene. All of the books I’ve seen suggest that the flowers smell of coconut but I have a poor sense of smell and despite thrusting my nose as close as prudence allowed (the spiny “leaves” can draw blood, as you are no doubt aware) I could get little more than a slight whiff of this. Gorse is one of the few plants that flower almost year-long and there was still the occasional bee seeking out its pollen. Every so often there would also be a bush of ripening raspberries, redcurrant and blackberry and it was clear that autumn was very much upon us.
The wind continued to blow strongly, gusting as it did so and driving the white horses across the wide mouth of Bull Bay. The path took a brief detour inland, perhaps fifty yards away from the shore, and I was immediately struck by the absence of sound. No noise of the sea crashing onto rock, no buffeting of the wind, just peace! It reminded me of the feeling you sometimes get in the middle of the city when a combination of circumstances means that the constant flow of traffic ceases for a moment and a complete and surreal calm descends for a sweet second or two, before the traffic lights change and engines roar once more. Believe me, I would far rather be experiencing relief from the wind than from the rattle and roar of a city centre.
A mile or so outside of Amlwch the path joins the main A 5025 coast road for a few hundred yards. There are bungalows to the landward side of the road that must have magnificent sea views, being that little bit elevated, and many of them seemed to have telescopes in the windows to enhance the views still further. Bull Bay Golf Course lay beyond the first of these bungalows - it must be a test when the wind blows, although there can be few entirely calm days so close to the northernmost point of the country. To the seaward lay private gardens belonging to some of those bungalows and while it may seem a nice idea that the sea laps at the foot of your garden, I could see little benefit to be obtained from these extra few feet of their land - views from the attached part of the garden would have been infinitely better and the salt water would make growing anything but the most hardy of plants exceptionally difficult.
If Anglesey as a whole seems to operate on a different timescale to the mainland, the Trecastell Hotel operates on a still more relaxed timetable. The blackboard at the entrance to the car park promised a Mothers’ Day menu on March 3rd. Today being October 6th I was unsure if it was seven months out of date or five months early. Whatever, I would not be sampling its delights today and also gave the Bull Bay Hotel itself a miss as the path headed back to the cliffs and rock pools and left the little hamlet behind. The Welsh name for the bay itself is Pwll y Tarw - Tarw being Welsh for “bull” and obviously taking its derivation from the same place as “Taurus”; the hamlet is Porthllechog, or “slaty port”. Both bay and hamlet are conflated into the one English name of Bull Bay. An information board in the small car park mentions that a tidal swimming pool once lay north of the village, built for the Marquis of Anglesey in 1864. Judging by the weather today, he must have been a hardy soul if he swam in it on anything but the warmest of days. The same board also mentions the wreck of the “Dakota” off East Mouse on the 9th May 1877 - yet another of the many wrecks that have found the seas around the island so treacherous over the years. On this occasion there is a happy ending as all 218 passengers were rescued - one of a number of rescues undertaken by the Bull Bay lifeboat, which launched 41 times between 1868 and 1926, saving 63 lives of which 20 were in that one incident alone. The remaining lives were saved by other boats and what is described as “a rocket apparatus” - I assume a breeches buoy type of arrangement.
As a last aside about Bull Bay before leaving, that self-same information board (a real source of trivia about the area) mentions that the local rocks are of pre-Cambrian origin, some 57 million years old and some of the oldest in the world. I must admit that I find such mind-blowing figures a little daunting and can’t really get interested about geology in the way that I can about geography, history, natural history and so many other subjects that we’ve discussed and will discuss further as we continue our journey. But it bears recording nonetheless - this is one old island we’re circumnavigating.
A clamber up a few steps leads you out of the village, where a kissing gate greets you. It is probably indicative of a growing waistline but I have noticed in recent years that kissing gates are not made with one man and a rucksack in mind - without the rucksack I could have negotiated the obstacle with ease; with it I am required to remove the backpack to create enough space to squeeze through. Beyond it the path resumed its association with the sea-cliffs, the sound of the surf and battering from the breeze. White horses raced the west wind
eastwards. A gannet flew low and slow above the surf, sun glinting on the pure white feathers of its back and a cormorant rode the waves, perilously close to the rocks, it seemed. It dived and I feared that the undertow would drive it to its death but it surfaced seconds later a few yards further from the shore. Not only are they strong flyers, they are strong swimmers also. Not as graceful as the gannet though.
The wind was strengthening all the time, it seemed and I was having to fight to make progress on occasions - I felt, at times, as though I could lean forward into its teeth and it would support my weight as I did so. Something white was blown into the air and I watched as it hurtled towards me and landed at my feet. Sea spume driven forty or fifty yards - the tide channelled into a narrowing inlet so it had nowhere to go but up, waves crashing fifteen or twenty feet up the cliff.
Around the corner came the anticipated view of the abandoned Porth Wen brickworks, across the gaping mouth of Porth Wen bay. I thought as I took a couple of photos that they would not reflect the effort I had to stand upright as I pressed the shutter and a photo never comes with the sound effects of a howling gale, and looking at them now it is true that all looks peaceful and calm - even the bay itself looks almost unruffled. As with so many old industrial buildings, the works seem to “belong“ in their lonely outpost whereas (as we will see soon enough) those of a more modern vintage are considerably less welcome intrusions in the landscape. Abandoned during the 1930s, these buildings only had a useful life of thirty to forty years, defeated by problems of access and “technical difficulties”. The buildings are apparently now in a dangerous condition and best viewed from a distance - they undeniably add interest to an already beautiful view.
As you make your way around the bay you have one of those strange situations when the public footpath goes straight through a back garden and you can’t help but feel that you’re trespassing. The house within the garden didn’t look that well cared for and I’d hate the lack of privacy but what a spot for a holiday home - it’s not a place I’d want to live in permanently but for a week or ten days……..? Fantastic. As I passed out of the garden I heard the cry of a curlew, always described as “mournful” it seems but I have never found it so. I glanced up just in time to see it disappear from view as it headed inland - yet another sight to gladden the heart on this wonderful adventure. I have occasionally seen curlews over the moor just five minutes from home but they still seem exotic and rare whenever I see them.
No sooner had the curlew disappeared from view than my eyes were caught by the blur of another feathered friend, this one identifiable as a hawk of some description but it was gone in the blink of an eye and I couldn’t get more than a brief glance of it. I stopped for a couple of minutes in the hope that it would quickly return but was to be disappointed. However it was only another minute or two before a wheatear alighted on a hawthorn just below the path and remained there for long enough for me to get a really good view. Three beautiful birds in less than ten minutes - you can see why I thought the cottage with the path in the garden would make a good holiday home!
By now I had rounded the bay and could see the old brickworks immediately below me. Not apparent from the opposite side was the natural sea arch alongside - a relatively small one but still the first we have seen on our anti-clockwise route. It seems strange that the brickworks was built immediately alongside this (minor) natural wonder, not something you can see happening today but from the winding house above the brickworks you can look back and see the mine workings on Parys Mountain and - beyond - the grey remembered hills of Snowdonia; another combination of industry and natural beauty that seem to go together on this stage of the walk.
The guide book now mentioned that “a good path traverses the coastal slope which is quite high here” and I began to wonder just how high that would have to be to merit the comment. I was soon to discover that it was very high indeed. The wind continued to blow onshore rather than off, thank goodness, but I still had to steel myself to brave a stretch of three or four hundred yards when the drop to my right was both long and precipitous. Upright wasn’t an option for me and instead I bent double, placed my hands on the ground to the left and sidled inelegantly along, not looking down, breathing deeply and talking to myself, counting down the yards until I was once again conscious of solid ground behind me. The path had skirted the cliffs for so long today that I had become a little blasé but these were cliffs of a different order to what had gone before. Hells Mouth it is called and I could certainly see why.
Llanlleiana Head lay before me now, the northernmost point of Wales according to the guide book but with the islet of Middle Mouse visible beyond it is a claim that should surely be qualified - although you also can’t call it the most northerly in “mainland” Wales. A ruined summerhouse stands proud on the summit, erected to commemorate the coronation of Edward VII in 1901 (although the coronation was delayed by a year or so due to his unfortunately timed appendicitis - a fact I first came across in a Blue Peter annual of the great John Noakes/Peter Purves/Lesley Judd era). Two things stopped me from climbing the path to the top; fear - the cliffs seem still steeper than at Hells Mouth; and the wind - it was now whistling from the west and I genuinely struggled to stand upright for a few moments as I dropped down to the foot of the headland. A sign brought me up short - “Shooting - path closed” - and I temporarily feared that I would have to retrace my steps as far back as Bull Bay but instead realised that it applied to the footpath to the left rather than my route leading straight ahead. I was pleased, nonetheless, to reach the far side of the headland and sea level unmolested. There are yet more ruined industrial buildings here, the remains of a china clay industry from the 1800s. It was becoming more and more apparent that this northerly coast was a hive of industry during the nineteenth century - I had seen evidence of copper mining, shipbuilding, brickworks and china clay and yet not seen a solitary other walker. Since I had exchanged a few brief words with the woman pinning out her washing in Amlwch I had seen one person to say “hello” to (a woman walking her dog along the road in Bull Bay) and a few cars along the same stretch of road but that apart had been totally solitary for four hours. If I had been walking this path a hundred and fifty years earlier, it seemed, I would have been walking through an industrial heartland.
As soon as it reached sea level, the path continued its switchback progress by heading steeply uphill once more. I paused halfway up to catch a breath and looked out towards Middle Mouse (also known as Ynys Padrig - or Patrick’s Island. The story goes that St Patrick was shipwrecked here on his way to convert the Irish to Christianity. He made his way safely to shore and founded the church of Llanbadrig as thanks for his safe deliverance. More of this when we reach it in twenty minutes time.) As I stared out to sea my eyes were caught by something bobbing in the heavy swell between Mouse and shore. I reached for my binoculars, deep in the bottom of my rucksack, and brought them to my eyes - struggling to focus on what I had glimpsed. It took a minute or two to find it but was worth the time spent - not one seal on this occasion but two. I wondered if it could be mother and calf, for some seals do give birth during the autumn, but it was almost certainly still too soon in the season - certainly for a calf to be out at sea in such conditions. Yet again it was with a song in my heart that I turned away and returned to a stately upward progress and yet another hill.
The view opened out from this particular summit. As for the whole day, my eyes were steered to the view westerly and I was initially pleased to see The Skerries, a small group of islands that are now an RSPB reserve but once were famous as the final resting ground of King Charles II’s Royal Yacht, the “Mary”. Having gone down in 1675, it was almost three hundred years before the exact location of the wreck was located, in 1971. The sinking of the “Mary” was possibly the spark that was needed for an enterprising Irishman to build a lighthouse here - the only private lighthouse in British waters until Trinity House took over in the 1840s. I’m unsure how this could have worked - you could hardly stop ships from using its light and how you actually collected payment if they did , I cannot fathom - but the Trinity House buy-out made very rich men of the then-owners with a price of £445,000 being paid, big money in those days.
A less-welcome sight was the mass of Wylfa Nuclear Power Station beyond Cemaes Bay, a huge square monolith of a building that is currently inactive but with plans in place to re-commission it in the not too distant future. It is hard to believe that the station was only opened in 1971, nine years after work initially began on the site. At the time it was the largest reactor of its kind in the world, a sign of the new modern “white heat of technology” age; nowadays it looks as dated as a Model T Ford and commits the ultimate crime of appearing ugly in an area of outstanding natural beauty. The other industrial relics we have seen are of a scale and design that sits well with nature; Wylfa seeks to overpower it, it seems. I make no comment on the rights or wrongs of nuclear power but do wish that as much thought went into its architecture as must have done for its technology.
Craning my head around to the left, it was possible to see wind turbines dotting the horizon like the Martians in War of the Worlds. Turbines divide opinion like few other structures - some love them, some hate them. I find them both elegant and - with their huge sails describing regular perfect circles - soothing but can understand why those living within their shadow find them intrusive. But however much you dislike them, they are surely preferable to the brutality of Wylfa.
Just as I was pondering on the beauty of the turbines, my attention was caught by another elegant user of the wind - a kestrel soared upwards from a rock pool, riding the breeze with nothing more than minor adjustment to its outstretched wings, then hovered above the path, staring down in a search for small mammals in the close cropped grass. Its speckly, reddish-brown feathers and head are strikingly beautiful and although I had enjoyed the much rarer sight of the seals, I am an absolute sucker for a close-up view of kestrel or similar bird of prey and never tire of what is a fairly common wildlife experience if you only keep your eyes open. Gerard Manley Hopkins, a priest and metaphysical poet of the late 1800s, wrote “The Windhover” - an ancient alternative name for the
kestrel - that opens “I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon.” I will confess to not having the first idea of what the poem (or much of its language) actually means but I believe it is nearly compulsory to quote the poem when discussing the bird. There is apparently much Christian symbolism within and I can see that its outstretched wings as it hovers can be likened to Christ on the cross but I would much prefer to admire its pure beauty than ponder on any religious significance that could be read into it.
Having dismissed religion in one breath, I must now confess that I was looking forward to seeing Llanbadrig Church, just minutes away now. This is the church allegedly founded by St Patrick as thanks for his safe deliverance from shipwreck on Middle Mouse. If true, he could scarcely have built it closer to the sea that so nearly claimed his life (which would mean, according to legend, that there would still be snakes in Ireland) for the churchyard wall is separated from the cliff edge by merely the width of the path (the cliffs are a little lower here but still gave me the heebie-jeebies for a few yards). It is a spectacular setting and reputedly a spectacular church - sadly I was unable to access the interior as the doors were locked due to recent random acts of vandalism. I had been looking forward to seeing the inside, as it combines Christian and Islamic influences in its design - the result of a restoration by Lord Stanley of Alderley during the 1880s. The church itself dates from the 1400s but there are earlier gravestones and the font dates from two hundred years earlier than the church itself.
I took a couple of photos and exchanged pleasantries with a chap getting his dog back in the car after what must have been a bracing walk along the beach. He spotted the guide book I carried and asked how far I’d come. On hearing it was Amlwch he kindly offered me a lift into Cemaes but it was easy to decline - even if I had been tempted, the dog would have licked me to death and I had no desire for that fate. The path is clear now and the worst of the cliff edges long-gone. It wasn’t long before Cemaes came into view and the words “ugly little, pretty little town” came unbidden onto my mind. I felt sure that it was a Dylan Thomas phrase describing either Llarregub in “Under Milkwood” or his home town of Swansea but I have been unable to trace it. If I am to be credited with coining it (and I sincerely doubt it), I mean that there are undoubtedly pretty pastel painted cottages but also grim, grey pebbledash and they cheerfully intermingle so you are never quite sure if the town (village, really) is a pretty one or not. Undeniably, the shadow of the power station cannot be overlooked when considering the issue.
As I passed through the car park at the edge of the village the clouds finally opened and, with the wind now shrieking, rain from the skies and sand from the tarmac were driven horizontally in my direction. I fought to remove my rucksack, access the waterproof within and pull it on but to no avail - my legs were already soaked to the skin, fleece wet through and hair matted with damp sand. Annoyingly, by the time I had made my way uphill to the road (a distance of some four or five hundred yards and five minutes) the rain had passed and a watery sun was breaking through the clouds once more. If only I had not stopped for five minutes at so many points of the day, I would have stayed dry - but didn’t I say I had wanted a day when the wind blew hard, an elemental day? Be careful what you wish for - although in hindsight, the squall was a memorable end to a memorable walk and so (only in hindsight, mind) I am glad to have experienced it.
Having enacted one of the great delights of holidays past - trying to remove the sand that had got into every item of clothing along with eyes, ears and nose - I called in on Uncle Pat. Did I want dinner, he asked, but I didn’t want to trouble him and at just after four o’clock it was a bit early so we just sat and chatted over a pot of tea. He told me of the vineyard recently opened in Llanbadrig and the trip he’d recently made there when Meg visited; of the seals Gwen and he had seen off Holy Island; and of the helicopter rescue they’d watched on another occasion. It had been my wedding day when I’d last seen him and we hadn’t really had time to talk much but I was pleased to see him in good form and to hear that he was off to play indoor bowls in Trearddur Bay later that evening. He’d just finished watching Countdown (“keeps the mind active”) and had a crossword puzzle on the go on the kitchen table.
Sitting there I remembered Meg standing at the kettle telling us all a long and rambling joke about a worm called Cyril. I won’t bore you with the details - it’s not a joke that works on the page but relied instead on her wonderful delivery - but just bringing it to mind brought a smile to my face. Meg’s had her own health issues in recent years - she has fought and hopefully beaten breast cancer - and although we’re all grown up and married now I still remember her standing in the kitchen putting on the lisping delivery of a little girl as she told of Cyril’s adventures in the big, wide world. No wonder she went on to make her living as an actress. When Gwen died I’d sent a sympathy card, mentioning the many happy hours we’d spent on Anglesey and finishing with the words “They were good times” and when we spoke before the funeral Meg remembered that. “They were, weren’t they” she’d said and I was glad to have been reminded of them again today. Maybe this walk has been nothing more than an exercise in nostalgia but if so, it’s been a good one!
 |
| Gwen and Pat |
No comments:
Post a Comment