Our desire to set foot on as many beaches and coastal paths of the world as possible led us to the Gower Peninsula of Wales. Welsh beaches in winter are probably not at the top of the list for most sun-seekers, but the images planted in our heads of Rhossili, Oxwich Bay, and Rhossili Beach were enough to send us across the Atlantic from Nova Scotia once more.
Travel literature on Gower suggests that much of the coastline is “jaw dropping” – a most downright proper way to describe it. As a life-long surfer and coast-of-any-kind lover, I am continually amazed at how beaches, bays, and rugged stretches of shores across the U.K. can be so diverse and enticing. As Rhossili Beach appeared to be one of the grand daddies of them all, we drove there soon after our arrival.
My wife Linda was itching for a run and Rhossili is a solid three-mile stretch of sand, so we headed west across the length of the peninsula through Kittle and Penmaen, before deking up some narrow, twisty back roads through Reynoldston, Fairyhill, Burry Green, and onward until the road ended in in the appropriately named Hillend and we knew we were there.
We could see the unmistakable cliffs of famous Worm’s Head to the south but would save that for another day when the tide was low and the wind was lesser. We abandoned the car and tromped down the massive dunes. Down on the beach at Rhossili it was wonderfully windy and wild, and Linda convinced me it would only make her morning run “more exhilarating.” I hiked while she ran head-on into a freshening Atlantic gale. I could see the rain clouds out to sea bearing down on us as if, on cue, they had taken note of our arrival and were soon to come ashore to greet us. When the rain arrived, the wind torqued up a notch or two, long enough to drench both of us and make me fantasize about a possible afternoon tucked into a warm Welsh pub by a fireplace as I drank a Gower Gold beer fresh from the tap.
The best thing about running or hiking directly into the wind is that, when you turn around, the wind is to your back. We were both ruddy faced by then, reminding me why so many hikers in the U.K. had those seemingly perpetually flushed faces. The rain soon gave up, realizing we would not be discouraged or disappointed in any way. How could we? This long stretch of sand was just too impressive.
I realize that I am slipping into superlatives about this place, but I’m not alone. No am I quite as creative as some others; voters on TripAdvisor picked it as “Britain’s best beach,” while The Independent labelled it “The supermodel of British beaches,” and The Times touted it as “The UK’s Number 1 dog-friendly beach.”
A Doctor Who episode was once shot on the beach here and, in the summer of 2011, nearly 400 folks stripped naked and jumped in the ocean setting a new world record for the number of people skinny dipping at one time.
Clearly, many factors add up to Rhossili being a beach of legend.
Today, of course, there was not a single skinny dipper to be found within miles of here. However – and despite the daunting wind and rain – dog owners and their beasts were plentifully out and about. The canines were mostly long-limbed and loping on the hard-packed sand near the waterline. Occasionally they would throw themselves into the waves for no apparent reason. It was mid-tide, so we didn’t have the advantage of an even-wider expanse of sand to be found when the tide was out. But we had a remarkable morning of getting to know this grand place without the throngs that might be sun-worshipping here – slathered in sunscreen – in July and August.
On our drive away, we admired nearby Llangennith with its tidy village green and a historic church named for St. Cenydd. If we are to believe legends (and I often prefer to do just that, no matter how outrageous), the saintly Cenydd built himself a hermitage here – presumably, a quiet place to be alone for prolonged periods of time – a long, long time ago. Obscure references suggest that this was during the time of King Arthur. As a disabled child, Cenydd was placed in a cradle made of willow branches and launched into the River Loughor west of Llangennith. He must have drifted down the river and out into Carmarthen Bay before heading south all the way to Worm’s Head. Angels, seagulls, and something referred to as a “breast-shaped bell” helped him to survive. I know this does sound far-fetched. I can accept seagulls being helpful, and even angels, but am, admittedly, having a hard time with that unusually helpful bell.
Whatever the case, Cenydd grew up in this neck of the woods, became a good Christian hermit, and had one unlikely person to care for him – a servant/thief who liked to steal from other robbers. A travelling saint by the name of David came along in 545 AD and cured Cenydd of his infirmities. However, this did not go over well and Cenydd prayed to have his condition restored.
I’m not sure what Christian Welsh children would make of this story, or if there is some moral to be learned, but the folks of the Gower have clearly held the man in high regard for generations. In downtown Llangennith, the townsfolk and others from nearby caravan parks still celebrate a feast in Cenydd’s honour on July 5 each year involving the sharing of a dish known as “Whitepot” – dried fruit, sugar, flour and milk.
I’m not sure how this one-of-a-kind holy man met his demise, but his early edifice was wrecked by the Vikings in 986 AD. The church now standing there was built in the twelfth century. As elsewhere in the UK, it seems that those snarly Vikings really did a bang-up job of destroying significant buildings anywhere along the shores where they landed. They likely faced some serious opposition however, as the locals here have long had a reputation for being a tough bunch. Around the peninsula, they were known as “Llangenny Oxen” who were handy at salvaging whatever they could from shipwrecks, often duking it out with neighboring citizens who wanted to muscle in the wreckage racket.
Having run out of daylight, Linda and I retreated to our rental home, named Under Milkwood, in Mumbles where there was a very noisy alley cat that kept us up much of the night. We were hoping for a less windy, less precipitous day to head back to our most desired destination, Worm’s Head, but we gave up on that after studying the weather predictions and drove the peninsular length again, this time coming to the road’s end just past Rhossili at the National Trust car park.
In case you are wondering, the name of the headland comes from Old English: wyrm – meaning sea serpent.
Thus, that snaking body of land when fully above sea level appears like a serpent with a head at its furthest point seaward.
Up to that point of standing in the parking lot, I had not properly recognized the difference between a ‘Near Gale’ (32-38 mph), a ‘Gale’ (39-46 mph) and a ‘Severe Gale’ (47- 54 mph). But, since this was proving to be such a windy Welsh adventure, I had spent part of my near sleepless night studying up on the Beaufort Wind Scale. I thought it might come in handy as I tried to report about weather conditions. Standing in the car park, watching other unwary tourists leaning at 45-degree angles into the stiff breeze, I was now fairly certain we were up against at least a Severe Gale. Clearly, it was not the best time to venture out onto the narrow steep Worm’s Head headland.
The other issue was that there was no way we could safely hike out at low tide. During this week, both daily low tides would not even occur during daylight hours. Worm’s Head is only accessible for a couple of hours either side of low tide and we’d been warned that attempting it any other time “could be fatal.” None other than Dylan Thomas got stranded out there once and referred to it as “the very promontory of depression.” In 2020, the local lifeboat lads had to rescue a group of university students who had timed their hike poorly. Suffice it to say, you needed your wits about you concerning tides, and in our case, winds as well, to make the pilgrimage.
Nonetheless, we decided to lean into the increasing sea wind to get as close as we could. After indulging in the luxury of the heated National Trust washroom facility (they do get a gold star for that), we soldiered-on past the old Coast Guard station and several helpful warning signs about cliffs, tides, proper footwear, littering, and wild animals.
Well, the animals weren’t completely wild. They were horses. Gower horses to be exact, but often referred to as ponies. According to Jessica’s Nature Blog, “They are magnificent beasts, much heavier and hairier than the ponies you normally see.” (I wasn’t sure “hairier” was an actual word, but I now know it is.) The ponies didn’t seem to mind the spitting rain that greeted us here or the abundance of moving air, nor did they mind us tramping across their dinner table. We knew better than to try to pet the beautiful beasts or disturb them in any way – apparently, more than a visitors had done just that in recent year, and startled them enough that a few fell to their demise over the cliff.
The grass beneath their feet was brilliant green, and small hearty flowers still bloomed here in the cold. The sea below was wild and dramatic as it went about violently crashing on the cliffs. Rhossili Beach began below and stretched out its full three miles to the north. But here on the headland, we hiked as far as we could. The trail ended for us as it dropped down a pebbly path leading to the rugged rough stone causeway that was now completely underwater and swept over by the treacherous chaos of those angry, disorganized waves. The view was still marvelously otherworldly, and I closed my eyes and envisioned a soft summer day when one might casually wait for low tide and amble across the exposed sea floor and then up onto the narrow headland before rambling onward to the tip a mile or so out into the water. But that would be for another trip, another day.
As historypoints.org points out, at the end of the last Ice Age, “Worm’s Head was then a hill on a wide plain where animals such as woolly mammoth, wolf, hyena, and rhinoceros roamed. Human remains from circa 8,800 years ago have been recovered from a cave on Worm’s Head.”
There are caves out there carved from the Carboniferous limestone and at least one blowhole where those ambitious waves shoot compressed air and seawater up into the atmosphere like a Las Vegas fountain for a hikers’ entertainment. As I write this, I remain jealous of both the summer hikers and the ancient humans who have spent some ecstatic inspiring moments at this stunning sacred spot. ~ Story by Lesley Choyce
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