Choose Your Own Adventure

Part 2 of my Welsh holiday. First part is here.

On the Monday, we were supposed to go canyoning in the Brecon Beacons. The roads were now passable, but after all the rain, canyoning was off until the company could check the entire route for flood debris. All they could do was offer us a refund.

We were disappointed but we had seen this coming. The obvious replacement was to continue our Rhossili explorations. We had ventured north on Sunday; today we looked east.

We wanted to pick up a few things, so we decided to walk along the road as far as a camp shop at Pitton Cross and then back along the cliffs. After the practicalities of shopping were done, we weren't entirely sure what there would be to see along this walk: the internet vaguely mentioned a few landmarks and the promise of beaches that were interesting at low tide... which would be about 7pm.

Venturing through a lot of fields and disgruntled sheep, we came upon the coastal path close to the Paviland Cave (also marked as Red Lady Cave on Google maps). I looked it up later and discovered that at low tide, you can scramble along the beach to the front of the promontory and then climb up above the waveline to a cave where a stone age skeleton was once found.

This would never have been on the cards for us, but we followed the path into a steeply funnel-shaped cove and found the result of the storm's gales: foam. The waves churned into the bay like so much ice cream, and the wind whipped the foam up the sides of the cove and sent it airborne in a blizzard.

Even more surreal, across the cove from us, there appeared to be a steam train moving through solid rock, sending up white puffs from its unseen funnel. There must have been a cave in the cliff and as the waves surged into it, they sent their spray up through a series of blowholes.

We would find no better viewing for our picnic, and we immediately dropped our backpacks. As my boyfriend took pictures, I pointed out the slender line of a path running around the cove to the blowholes. He told me later that he assumed we obviously weren't going to take anything so suicidal, but moments later he looked back up to see me making my way along it.

The path was narrow—there wasn't space for my feet to be side by side—and the grassy sides were steep enough to induce vertigo if I looked down. However, it wasn't a sheer drop, and the dirt path was level and stable. The last stretch, descending down wet rocks and dirt to the blowholes was more of a slither, but it still felt well within safe limits.

My boyfriend joined me, and we sat as close as we dared to the nearest blowhole, waiting for the waves strong enough to go through the full series. It was February, but we reveled in getting soaked. (It helped that we'd come out with a good set of waterproofs.)

When we finally tired of water play, we ate our lunch, trying to catch foam from the flurries sent up to us, before choosing our own path back up to the clifftops.

There's a well-marked coastal path, but there are also any number of smaller trails that wind about the ridges and bluffs of the coastline. Some dead-end at spectacular views, others take their own fanciful route back to the main path. We followed them at our whim, climbing and exploring landmarks on impulse. As long as the sea was to our left, we couldn't get lost and the distant Worm's Head acted as our guide, calling us ever back to Rhossili.

The tide retreated throughout our journey and we planned to come down from the cliffs at Mewslade Bay and finish our hike along the beach. Yet Mewslade Bay was as narrow as the cove at Paviland Cave and when we got there, we found it was also covered in foam, gently quivering beneath the rocks we stood on.

We debated whether or not there was water beneath, until my boyfriend (who was anti-water) decided to settle this by climbing down to a shelf of rock on a level with the foam's surface and testing it for himself. He dipped his foot in but found nothing. He turned around, clinging to the rock while plunging his entire leg into the expanse of white. Still, he found nothing.

Fascinated, I came down to try. I lowered myself waist deep into foamy nothingness: the rock shelf dropped away past the surface, and I could find no purchase and no bottom to this uncanny sea. If this had been science fiction, something unseen would have pulled us in and devoured us.

We were both seized with the wild urge to simply leap into the foam—and with a dread conviction that there was no bottom, just endless white. (As well, there was the practical voice that said we could hardly leap blindly into what, for all we knew, could be a 15 foot drop onto jagged rocks.)

The clear solution was to go back to the path and walk into the foam. Here, we could hold onto the rocky sides of the cove for balance while our feet felt out a secure footing over the stones beneath us. Minor details: the last stretch of path dropped off steadily in irregular steps, and the foam drifted higher on the narrow path than the beach. In a few steps, knee-deep foam became waist-deep became over-my-head.

Walking into your full-body-length of bubbles, you can feel the weight of them. Once they cover your face, you're blind and spluttering. Attempts to wipe them away spreads the lather around while more foam sticks to your hand. It takes effort and determination to clear enough space to see and breathe.
Never better have I understood the panic of being buried alive.

I did hold my nerve to break through this wall and found myself in the less terrifying chest-depth of the beach. A few feet ahead of me a boulder-island broke through the foam. I pushed my way to this haven of visible ground and clambered to a seat followed by my boyfriend.

 After a rest, I attempted to go further, but I gave up after one foot slipped into a rock pool. I was afraid of sliding into a hidden depression, and finding myself stuck beneath the surface of the foam. (For reference, I'm 5'2". Most of the beach was under at least 4 feet of foam. Some drifts could conceivably have been over 6 feet.)

My boyfriend had a few extra inches of confidence to work with, so he struck out for the rocks where we'd made first contact with the foam, determined to finally discover what lay down there. As I watched, he walked deeper and deeper into the white, until—just a few feet from the rocks—he lost himself beneath the surface.

For a moment there was just wind and foam. Then! A lone hand emerged to grip the rock! The explorer pulled himself from his sea, lathered but triumphant.

(Sometimes reality likes a cliché.)

Sea foam is not the cleanest bath. It smeared us with white from head to foot, and when that eventually dried away, we were encrusted with sand and dirt. We didn't care, giddy with childish accomplishment as we regained the clifftops. Hail struck us, followed by a rainbow, and our spirits only rose higher.

At last we reached the tip of the peninsula and looked down on the Worm's Head. The tide had just retreated enough to make the crossing feasible, although we had to find a way along a maze of rock ridges above the water, many of which dead ended in small lakes.

It was 5pm when we began our crossing. Only one other attempted it and he merely stood for a moment on the Inner Head before returning. Our goal was to reach the Outer Head this time, but the light was already failing. Our return would be at dusk if not darker...

Aware that time was against us, we made no attempt to climb the ridge of the Inner Head, instead making as good a pace as possible along the muddy shoreline path. The wind was significantly lower than two days ago and now the sheep were grazing on this side. Of all the sheep we saw on the Gower Peninsula, these were the least aggrieved to see us on the path. They simply gave us an "Oh, it must be low tide again," glance and resumed their grazing.

The crossing to the Outer Head is shorter and on higher ground than the first crossing, yet it's more ominous. The rocks are black and taper upwards leaving small chasms between them, just large enough to create problems as you scramble across. We had walked about ten miles at this point, and here I realised how tired I was. Rocks I would have walked across that morning, I was now reduced to clambering over on all fours. It must have taken less than ten minutes to make the crossing but it felt like an eternity before we reached the welcome grass of the Outer Head.

If you were going to strand yourself on Worm's Head between low tides, the Outer Head would be the one I'd recommend. It's just large enough with enough features to properly explore and play around. The Devil's Bridge is a natural arch to cross from one part of the island to another. I don't think I'd like to cross it in strong winds, but even as tired as I was, I had no difficulty walking over the ridged ground.

It was getting steadily darker but the highest point, the true head of the wyrm, was still ahead of us. We pressed on while the colours slowly faded into twilight. We had to cross more rocks, and I was stumbling more and more, slowing us down further. The path ended at the base of the final climb, and here I decided I could go no further.

My boyfriend wanted to push on to the top, so I urged him to finish it. He scrambled upwards, disappeared for a few minutes and then came back down.

"I really think you should go up there."

Sometimes, the journey needs to be defined by the most fearful member of the party. Sometimes it's defined by the bravest. I listened to the conviction in his voice and climbed up the rocks until I pulled myself over the edge, onto grass, into wind and at the very top of the Worm's Head.

Ahead of us was the sunset, behind us stretched the wyrm and further back still, the whole Gower Peninsula. Our outward journey was officially and spectacularly done.

Of course, we still had the return journey to consider. Tidewise, we were still more than an hour from low tide. Lightwise, we were well into dusk. It was 6pm and this was the time I would have liked to begin across the causeway. Instead, we had to traverse the entire wyrm.

Everything being twilight grey does funny things to your depth perception. We had one head torch between us: my boyfriend's, but he put it on me so that I could have more confidence in my own footing.  We didn't loiter on our way back, but we knew that we couldn't win the race against the light, so we didn't rush either.

We reached the end of the Outer Head with no real problems and the crossing to the Inner Head was somehow less ominous now that it was shadowy rather than starkly black. It was harder to pick out a path though and we slowed down dramatically as we found our way through, occasionally switching on the second torch to scout it out. I was feeling oddly calm now that we were dealing with the dark rather than worrying about it. My boyfriend was also staying calm which gave me faith that he was utterly capable of dealing with a night-time climb. It wasn't until we reached the grass, and he exclaimed his relief that I realised he was also feeling the fear of night setting in.

However, in this environment, Not Panicking was the main hurdle. Physically, nothing we were doing was very difficult nor dangerous. The closest I came to actual harm was on the level path on the Inner Head when I slipped on some mud and lurched towards the cliff edge. (A very low cliff but some nasty rocks beneath.) But I recovered and walked with due care for mud—I still slipped again, but I was ready to throw myself forward instead of wobbling over.

It was most definitely dark when we got back to the causeway, and my biggest fear had been that we wouldn't be able to see the land we were heading for. Thankfully, while the lights of Rhossili were hidden by the headland, their orange glow outlined it for us, the tide was at its lowest and we were familiar with the crossing by now. We just kept the sea louder in our left ears than our right, in order to account for the curve of the causeway.

Right at the end, we couldn't find the sign that marked the point where the footpath reached the causeway. We simply climbed up onto land where we reached it and scouted the bank for a few minutes until we found the path to take us upwards. It was now 7:15pm.

Back on top of the cliffs, we laid back on the grass, pulled out our flask of cider and gazed up at a clear sky full of stars.

(This was the one day we considered eating at the pub instead of going home to make dinner. Ultimately though, we were wet and dirty as well as tired, and getting out of our clothes and shoes was the far bigger appeal, even if it was almost ten o'clock before we finally ate. Shout out to my boyfriend, as I spent most of that time in quiet agony over my legs, while he stayed mobile enough to cook.)

So ended our Rhossili adventure, but we still had all of Tuesday between checking out of the AirBnB in the morning and picking my kids up in Bristol in the evening. So we returned via the Brecon Beacons with a view towards doing some canyoning of our own! (... minus the jumping into rivers bits. Hopefully.)

We planned to do the Four Falls Trail, which included one waterfall that would have been on our canyoning route. We had done enough googling to discover that there's a current trail and an original trail. The current trail has been put in since the walk got so popular and keeps away from steep drops, although it involves quite a bit of backtracking in the walk to and from the second and third falls. The original trail is a single loop, but it requires better mobility and a decent head for heights!

Clearly, the original trail was more our style. At the viewing platform for the first fall, we went through the gap in the fencing, forded a small stream and found the trail running parallel to and above the river.

Fortunately, we were able to avoid any plunges into the river below us. After all the rain we'd had, each and every waterfall was in full force.

Sgwd Clun-Gwyn

Sgwd Isaf Clun-Gwyn

Sgwd y Pannwr

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Sgwd Yr Eira

The final Falls, Sgwd Yr Eira, were the ones we would have visited while canyoning, as it is possible to walk behind them. As I understand it, Sgwd Yr Eira is usually three separate falls that you can pass behind. On the day we visited, they were one massive sheet of water.

Undaunted, we trekked behind them to be deafened by the thunder and soaked by the spray. It was anything but a peaceful way to commune with nature. Yet it was irresistible. We passed back and forth along the shelves behind the Falls and left it only when some tour group with hard hats and ponchos came along.

We ate our last picnic on some riverbound boulders, still gazing at the waterfall. But that was as far as we could stretch our Wales adventuring. All that was left to us was the lengthy walk out of the valley and my waiting car.