The dawn chorus wakes me up – two hours before dawn. It has been a hard day’s night in terms of lumpy bumpy noise. Grappling with my alarm app – which forces me to do a couple of rounds of a memory activity, presumably to kickstart my brain – my bleary eyes and sausage fingers force me to retry, no less than four times. What the ****. I’m glad no one can see me.
Through the window I can see a hint of good weather, exciting in the extreme. Now, if you were to say to me: today, you are going to cycle for half an hour, have breakfast, discover a bus is running back to Port Eynon in four minutes, hastily park and lock the bike (in such a way that anyone could remove the saddle and pinch the bike), jump on the bus, walk 7 miles of coastal footpath from Port Eynon to Rhossili, sprint across to Worm Head, and then cycle back to Port Eynon – I would say, “Uf, sounds a bit complicated and exhausting.” And so it was, but I had a blast.
A bit more flesh on the narrative… I arrive at Rhossili with the early morning shadows long. I seem to be the only tourist in the village. Two of the three cafés haven’t yet opened. But the third one serves up a fine poached egg with avocado mash and feta. It is while I’m eating it that I realise there is the possibility of a linear coastal walk – if I can get the bus back to Port Eynon. The bus is already approaching and I haven’t managed to secure my bike properly. I do a quick risk assessment and decide surely the south Wales bike-thieving mafia wouldn’t be bothered to come this far from home. I get the bus.
Setting off from Port Eynon it is a fabulous stretch of coast: craggy, full of contorted geology; vast, sandy beaches; swathes of gorse. And… stretches where cattle have hideously churned up the turf, leaving no way through for walkers. I remember why I avoid winter walking – though, to be fair, this mess caused by animals could happen at any time of year.
My thoughts swirl around – snatches of my choir repertoire becoming annoying earworms; mulling over some Buddhist teachings, and what I will say next time I message my friend Sally; sadness, when the rock formations make me think of Dad, and his previous interest in geology – one of so many things he has had to let go of; more sadness, because it was at this time of year, in this part of the world, that Juan and I decided to get married in 1998. And at other times I am concentrating 100% to avoid falling over in the mud, or I am marvelling as view after view makes me reach for my iPhone camera. I know that I am grabbing at transient moments, and in a few years time these photos may not mean much, but I’m greedy and I want to hold onto all of this beauty.
As I walk, I watch low-level anxiety regarding my bike come and go. It would be better not to make any map-reading errors, in the situation, but I find myself drifting away from Rhossili at one point. And then, suddenly, I want to know if I’m going to have to cope with the loss of my bike, in circumstances that the insurance would not pay out for. My pace gets ever brisker. Another five minutes and I will find out. And the answer? I get lucky. The bike and it’s open pannier are intact. Yay!
Rhossili is unrecognisable in comparison to the morning. Hundreds of tourists are walking up and down the track in order to walk the tidal crossing to Worm Head. Fortuitously, I am at the right place at the right time. And there is a fantastic bridleway down to the lifeguard station that overlooks the tidal strait – I sail down on the bike, gleefully swooping over the pony-nibbled turf. It’s best part of this trip so far. So it’s curious that I’m the only cyclist.
When I get to the tidal strait I can see why 2 1/2 hours is recommended to get to the Worm (called so, because initially named by Scandinavians – “worm” meaning “dragon”) and back – it’s a bit of a scramble in places. I’m a little short of time on that basis, but I manage not to break my ankle and enjoy the view back to the mainland.
An unexpected feature of the walk is the population of ponies – which look like miniature shires, with their hairy fetlocks. They are ridiculously photogenic.
I return to the youth hostel and find a father and son sluicing off the mud from their bikes with a hose. Incredibly, they have completed the same section of footpath as me – on bikes. Silly billies. And naughty – it wasn’t a bridleway. But kind – they wash my bike for me.
I join the long queue of customers waiting for fish and chips down by the beach. The sudden carb and cholesterol hit is mitigated by a stroll along the beach in gorgeous evening light. I have a little chat with a group of bathing ladies of a certain age, who look a strange shade of salmon, coming out of the sea. They apparently swim year round, no wetsuits. Respect.
A greater contrast with yesterday’s weather could not be imagined. Top day.
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