Wind Walking in Wales

It's the half term holiday for the kids, and for the start of the week, they went off with their Dad to visit family in North Wales. I took this chance to dump the cats on my long-suffering parents and run off to South Wales for a long weekend away with my boyfriend. We booked an AirBnB in the tiny village of Rhossili and planned to explore the beautiful Gower Peninsula.

Wales in one picture

The small wrinkle in our plans was Storm Dennis. As the two of us drove towards Rhossili, we were also driving towards an oncoming storm that would bring with it high winds and torrential rain. We braced ourselves for some changes to our plans, but we were determined not to be put off.

The other issue we were facing was that low tide would mostly be happening at dawn and dusk, which would make it difficult to explore the Worm's (Wyrm's) Head: a series of tidal islands that stretch out from the tip of the peninsula like a sea dragon. Tide-wise, it made the most sense to walk to the Worm's Head on our first evening; weather-wise... not so much.

The causeway to the Head is either (depending on how close you are to low tide) a labyrinth of rockpools or a broad expanse of rocks. It is never a level crossing, but for most of it there are so many barnacles and mussels everywhere, that it's almost impossible to slip. With only the smallest bit of rock to put the ball of your foot on, you'll have perfect traction. (At either end, the rocks lose the barnacles and are extremely slippery when wet.)

Here there be dragons

On the evening we crossed, we were dealing with rain and winds so strong that we had to lean into them to make any headway. I found myself relearning how to walk... instead of feeling for my balance, I was throwing my centre of gravity forward or to one side, leaning on the wind. It gave us a curiously weightless feeling, and we became giddy with it, running over the slip-proof rocks and leaping into a wind we trusted to cushion our landing.

The first island (the Inner Worm) inclines sharply upwards in a long, high ridge, and I used the wind to run most of the way up before my muscles persuaded me that I wasn't actually weightless and I'd done quite a bit of work already. We still went to the top, where we staggered gingerly along the windward side, genuinely concerned that we might be blown over if we ventured too close to the leeward edge. (We crawled close enough to see that the island's flock of sheep were grazing down there.) At the far end of the ridge, we leaned forward into the gale and half-ran / half-floated back down to the footpath.

I was all for continuing to the Outer Worm, where you could cross the natural arch of the Devil's Bridge to climb the highest point at the very end of the path, but my boyfriend wisely suggested that we not risk more rock-climbing in such high wind.

What could go wrong?

When we returned to the causeway, it was his turn to be reckless as he suggested we stop and just take in our own private island for a while, but now I was worried about the failing light. We'd already entered twilight, and as we returned over the causeway, everything turned the same colour and the pools of water lost their reflection and became invisible. By the time we reached the last rocks at the end, we needed torches to find a route across them and we still struggled to find the signpost which marked the path back to civilisation.

But we made it home, wet, windblown—it took me forever to brush out my hair—and thoroughly optimistic that we could make this holiday work.

The next day, we woke to find ourselves stranded. The only road out of Rhossili was flooded.

No problem; we were here to walk, not drive. The weather forecast predicted that the rain would clear in the afternoon, so we set out at lunchtime, dressed in waterproof layers and carrying a picnic and a flask of mulled cider (recipe improvised). Setting out north from Rhossili, we were following a commonly recommended route of walking along the Down (which is mostly Up) to the holiday village of Hillend and back along Rhossili bay.

The wind was just as strong as ever, and it blew us along the Down. When we reached the highest point, I was obliged to cling to the marker to stop for long enough to take in the view. Not only did the rain clear up, the clouds went away too, and we found ourselves in glorious sunshine. We stumbled across the ideal picnic spot in the lee of some rocks and lunched in comfort with a stunning view over the Worm's Head.

Looking back down on Rhossili, while the Wyrm lives up to its sea dragon reputation.

Forward over the down and the Bay. The northern tidal island, Burry Holms, is just about visible.

Amid so much natural beauty, the regimented artifice of Hillend is jarring.

The sunshine made the wind spectacular, as we could now see all its effects on the landscape: wind-shadow on water, waves in seagrass, foam scudding along the beach and dry sand swirling. Our surroundings were so fantastic, that we didn't turn back when we reached Hillend. Instead we continued to Rhossili Bay's northern end, beckoned on by another tidal island.

I hadn't expected to find a stream crossing the beach. Perhaps it's normally a smaller affair, but in the wake of Dennis, it was neither shallow enough to ford nor narrow enough to jump. We decided that we weren't going to be stopped and waded across anyway. Despite February temperatures, we were walking hard enough that our feet weren't cold. Instead, wet feet liberated us, as we ranged away from the dry beach to walk on the wet sand of the retreating tide. Nor did we care about rock pools as we climbed up to the island of Burry Holms.

On Burry Holms, looking into sun and wind.

This small island has had various different residents over the millennia but has now been left to wildlife. We saw birds, rabbit-droppings and I even startled a fox as I passed. It was careful to stay out of my sight, but as it bolted across the path behind me, it was unwittingly in full view of my boyfriend before disappearing into the undergrowth. Our other unexpected encounter was with a sea snail that a bird must have dropped on the island. We disputed over whether it was dead or alive but we carried it back to the beach and left it in a rock pool anyway.

Having a worse day than us.

An old Spanish shipwreck left gold along this end of the beach, but no coins have been found for over a century, so we didn't spend time looking for them, instead we trekked back along the three miles of beach, back through the stream, onward to Rhossili and sunset.

Dancing Sand

The wreck of the Helvetia

At the southern end of the bay is the skeleton of a 17th century ship called the Helvetia. It's slowly getting reclaimed by the tide, but in the meantime, each piece of wood has become a miniature island of algae and seashells that wouldn't look out of place in a Japanese-themed garden.

We had hoped to watch a sunset, but a storm cloud had arisen instead, so we sat at the foot of the path back up to Rhossili and drank our still-hot cider while watching the rain coming in. We finally got caught out by the weather here, as the rain brought hail with it, and we found ourselves making a rather painful dash up the coastal path—at times having to walk directly into the hail.

But it was only five minutes back to the house where we peeled off our wet layers, and my boyfriend cooked us up an Asian noodle dish. I'm used to eating out while on holiday, but my boyfriend loves cooking and I love somebody else cooking for me! (I did make breakfast every morning and I supplied our evening drinking from a westcountry winery). Staying in and making our own meals meant that we didn't have to change to go out again (or sit in a pub with wet shoes), and we still got to try dishes we'd never had before.

Coming soon: Part 2 of the holiday, in which we choose our own adventures....