Dark clouds over Ramsey

An all too rare walk on the beach

It's often said that moving house is one of life's most stressful events—along with divorce, death of a close relative; a change of job or school... Combine two or more of these and the strain can fracture even the tightest of bonds. In our case they remain tight and intact, but there's no denying these last few months have taken a toll.  

For to live where we do exacts a price that few appreciate and most romanticise. 

The reality of rural life is somewhat different to the magazine dream—and especially so, when you add 'remote' to the mix. Chores and choices that were once incidental require careful scheduling: popping to the shops is an hour's round trip; the nearest airport, three hour's drive... Much of our life—and that of our dog's—revolves around the tides. 

But there are compensations too.

This morning we walked the silver-washed sands at Newgale, dark clouds gathering as Oscar chased his ball, oblivious. There were dead seals on the shore; pups washed up overnight... two miles in and I was regretting my decision to forego a coat. A great deal here depends on the wind.

And yet, today—like with so many of our darker thoughts— the billows passed and brighter skies prevailed. 

At the head of the beach, I caught Jane looking out to sea and remembered when we first came here, how we'd walked and walked... and made decisions that are with us still.  That they are is as much fate as it was foresight, for if these few months have taught us anything, it is that nothing is truly in our control, and that to think otherwise is hubris.

As we turned to face our home I reflected that change and stress—like birth and death—are part of life; it's how we respond which shows and makes us who we are. And if at times that's tough or taxing, it doesn't mean it's not worth the effort. 

Dogs know what to say

'Dogs are good when you're going through tough times - they just know what to say.' Those words came from a text my friend sent me after they learned we've had sad news. For the last fortnight, Jane has been nursing her mum, our lives temporarily upended—suspended even—as we come to terms with the limits of life.

It seems (at least in our case) that we settle quickly into roles laid down over millennia: the women caring, the men keeping going; each clutching to some semblance of normality. This week I have been in Pembrokeshire, writing and working—they merge into one, like sky and sea. Time alone feels like an indulgence, and yet there's pragmatism in it too; life goes on, jobs to be done...

Yesterday I walked with Oscar to the high cliffs at St David's Head. There were many other pilgrims, stopping for photographs at what's a highlight of the modern-day coastal path. People have been coming here for generations, seeking solace and salvation at this ending of the road. Near the car park, archaeologists are excavating a mediaeval chapel; one hundred graves are aligned east to west in the path of the sun.

It doesn't take us long to reach the cove at Porthmelgan, but already, I sense Oscar knows things are not right. Where is his pack, why are we not together on the beach?  He walks close to my knees, not from any shortening of the leash but because he's done so all week, his eyes check me every few yards. When we reach the Head he settles by my side, nose on my shoulder, snuffling in a soft steady rhythm.

Out at sea, there are gannets patrolling the flows and avenues of the tide, gliding effortlessly over what to them is its limpid surface. On the cliffs, there's a band of orange lichen that marks the limits of the salt spray, a hundred feet above the water. The rocks it washes are a mixture of granite and sediment that's half a billion years old. 

In places like this, it's natural to see our lives in perspective. We talk of being grains of sand, stars in the heavens... insignificant moments in a landscape of space and time that's beyond our knowing. And yet we come here to make connections too. For we are as much a part of this place as it is of us— like the countless trillions of quarks and atoms and cells which make up our collective whole. Had we the capacity, we could trace our roots to the genesis that brought all this into being and will ultimately bring it to an end.

The philosopher John Gray says we humans are straw dogs, fated to be forgotten and deluded by our sense of difference as a species. His reasoning—and his writing—is compelling and persuasive for those of us without faith. And yet, for all its deductive potency it somehow ‘feels’ wrong, because we don't sense or act as if our lives were insignificant, whatever the lack of a greater scheme.  

The problem with metaphors like 'grains of sand' and 'stars in the heavens' is that they are too static and temporally removed; they take no account of our churning of the waters; the disturbance in the sediment created by the waves and wakes of our lives. Our actions may not make much impression on the granite rocks of time, but there's value in the here and now, in the love and care and difference we make to our fractions of the universe, which are just as essential and eternal as any other.  

Across the ridge to the north of the headland is Coetan Arthur, the capstone remains of a neolithic burial chamber. It seems our forefathers' found significance here too, and walking towards it I find myself wondering if it also was aligned to the sun. Jane loves this sense of history, the thought that people before us were thinking and acting just as we do. She would like to be here I'm sure, but wouldn't have it otherwise for now.

As I sat with Oscar looking back on the path we'd taken, I wondered what he saw and was thinking. His ribs were pressing on my back, and I remembered that message from my friend—that dogs know just what to say.  That's a non-sequitur of sorts because, of course, we know they can't speak. But perhaps that's the point; that being present is all that matters—that sometimes, there's nothing to be said.

Somewhere, beyond the sea...

Do you ever get one of those earworms that play in your head regardless of mood or moment?  

Yesterday, as we walked the ten miles or so of headland on the western edge of Wales, my mind, for once, was not on bigger things: I was with my family, barely feeling the pace, looking for butterflies in the bright spring sun...  

And all the while, Bobby Darren was singing in my auditory cortex: 

Somewhere, beyond the sea.

Somewhere, waiting for me.

My lover stands, on golden sands.

Watching the ships, go sailing.

Sometimes, the sea has a weight we cannot bear; sometimes it buoys us up.  

Yesterday was not for drowning.

Enough - back to proper blogging next week.

Abereiddy folly

Near to my house is the beach and former quarry of Abereiddy. The works have long since gone, its slate not of the best quality and the difficulties of extraction adding to its demise. Indeed, like the neighbouring village of Porthgain, the quarry is arguably more successful as a post-industrial beauty spot; their crumbling relics a picturesque and poetic reminder of the immensity of the sea. 

You either get it or you don't.

The quarry itself is now flooded and universally known as the blue lagoon on account of the water's aquamarine colour. It's become a popular spot for coasteering and tombstoning and more recently the putative sport of wild swimming. At their highest point, the walls are more than a hundred feet high and are occasionally used for extreme cliff diving championships.

Most visitors come to skim stones, to walk the cliffs to Ynyss Barry or perhaps on to the Sloop Inn for a pint and crab sandwich. It's a magnificent stretch of coast, the arc of the sea on your shoulder, choughs rising and falling in the breeze if you know where to look; the rock doves watchful for a peregrine overhead.

But I wonder what percentage of visitors ever visit the derelict round tower on the headland? It must be in almost every one their photos, however, is difficult to reach, requiring a short scramble that deters all but the most nimble—or the knowing, for in fact the scramble hardly merits that name and the view from the point is the one of best there is of the St David's peninsula. I went there this week, keeping tight rein on Oscar, as we climbed the loose steps to this remote West Walian oddity.

The origins and purpose of the tower are unknown. It's possible it was a sort of pilot house, but more likely a folly for the quarry owner's pleasure. Built of fieldstone, it has windows which frame the views and a fireplace that once kept the occupants warm. What a writing shed it would have made! Perhaps the wife of the quarry owner came here to paint or to crochet? Maybe his children used it for nineteenth-century sleepovers... or picnics... or like me, simply to watch the sea, quietly, alone.

Except for Oscar of course, who'd been in two minds about the headland scramble and was now eyeing the gulls with an intent that confirmed he was staying on the lead.  We settled down on the rocks, warming our backs in the sun, thrifts and campions flowering for the first time this year. How different this place must have been when it sounded with blasts and sirens, the clatter of trucks and hammering of picks on stone. The quarrymen's cottages were abandoned after its closure and later washed away in a storm. If you look carefully you can still see the old fire grates... ashes to ashes, dust to dust...

Heading back to the path I stopped to tie my laces. The car park by the beach was almost full, a line of walkers making their way to the lagoon. Two boys were jumping into the gelid pool below me, their friends cheering from the shore. A girl in a wetsuit was donning a swim cap for a 'wild' dip in the water. I smiled. It's good to see folks back I thought; it felt hopeful—and appropriate for a place that thrives on renewal.

Stuffed

It's tidy, so I'm probably writing...

Last Saturday I made a flying visit to our local independent bookshop and handed the sales assistant a box. 'I hope it's some use...' I said, before dashing back to my car that was on double yellow lines. Inside the box was an antique typewriter that we'd bought at a jumble and stored in the loft ever since. The shop has a quirky display of vintage models and I happened to know they were looking for more. 

I guess we could have sold it, but then we probably never would...

Malcolm Gladwell's latest podcast series begins with two episodes that explore the compulsion of museums to horde their collections. In many cases they have so many items in storage they haven't even catalogued their worth, let alone shown them to the public. The idea of giving away items that might be of more value to others is anathema to their thinking. Gladwell calls it dragon psychology after Smaug in The Hobbit, who sat on a mountain of gold.  

I don't have treasure to spare, but I do have a surplus of 'stuff'. In this regard, I'm no different to most people of my age and status. Actually, that's probably not true, for as Jane points out, we're pretty ruthless at sorting and disposing. She likes to remind me that at our last house move the removal people were disappointed at how little we had for the size of the property.  In the end, we hired a van and did the job ourselves.

Six years later and we're relocating again, this time to a cottage we've owned for three decades but will now be our permanent home. Space is at a premium and I'm continually thinking of what to leave, what we need; what to pass on or sell?  We're in no rush, says Jane—after all, we haven't yet put our current house on the market.  

But that would be missing the point.  

For I know that my compulsion to sort and simplify is something much deeper. In part, it's a stress thing (don't let anyone tell you that moving home is easy); whenever pressure mounts my first response is to make lists of tasks and chores, working to a pedantry that borders on obsession. It's part creative too: my writing process invariably sees me sorting and stacking before I sit down to work; too much in my head and I can't find the room for words.

Which is relevant, but not sufficient explanation for how I feel. There's more going on that I'm still working through and it's to do with age and aesthetics.  This summer I turn 60 years old, a landmark that was always for others...  as if!  

But if it were for me, then in my mind it was connected to retirement and security and having everything I needed and all I'd acquired around me to enjoy.  Yet here I am with a desire for less, for a freedom that comes with simplicity; a want to let go and let fly.

If only it were that simple.

The objects we gather around us are important, said my friend the author Jan Fortune.  She's right, and on this blog I've written often of the collections and belongings that have meaning and significance to my life. At the other extreme are those possessions we acquire without much thought and even less care: our kitchen cupboard has two shelves of beer glasses from a party I can't remember—I don't even drink anymore!. 

If these examples are obvious, the more difficult bit is the stuff in between: the items of putative value; the gifts it feels wrong to throw out; the pictures I painted and the boxes of toys... the bikes that hold memories of miles long past...  

Which is perhaps, the operative word.  

These items and their memories are part of my history. I don't need five bikes (I'd use two at most), nor for that matter three kayaks or all the paintings I'll never hang on a wall. And yet, to let them go feels like giving up a part of me; as if by holding onto the object I'm somehow not 60, but all my ages. It's nonsense of course, but powerful nonsense nonetheless. 

And so, what to do?    

Last year I read a great deal about minimalism; there's a popular documentary on Netflix of the same name. But the reduction of my possessions to a bare minimum is not for me—apart from anything else, there are my books to think of, and frankly, Jane's wishes too.  More to the point, I like having good things around me: they bring me pleasure and enrich my life.

And isn't that what matters most?  If it makes my life better, either through use or love, or even significant worth then I shall keep it; if it doesn't, then it's become the equivalent of Smaug's gold—like an artefact in a vault with a curator who doesn't care.  These items are possessing me not the other way round—they should go and preferably to a home where their presence is valued.

An old friend used to photograph her paintings to capture the memory, before burning them to clear the space for new ones. Maybe this should be my modus operandi. That's a term most usually associated with criminal behaviour, hardly the 'stuff' of giving 'goods' away.  But then I like contradictions, almost as much as I do consistency... which is itself a perplexing thought... and one that for now, I shall let go too.

Ripples on the sand

The beach this evening was all silhouettes; the tide ebbing as a westering sun cast shadows on the pools and rippled sand. A young couple walked hand in hand, paddling barefoot in the shallows. Oscar was having none of that, running instead over the silver streams that mirage the two-mile stretch to Rickets Head.

I've walked this way a hundred times. When our older boys were small, we'd come here day after day, them never tiring of the want to splash and dig. Back then it sometimes felt too open, too windswept—and too much a place where movement was needed, rather than the standing around and building of castles and dams that comes with little ones in wellies.

It's different now. Oscar wants nothing other than his ball: throw and return; throw and return... such ease in the way he runs, so swift he outpaces his quarry.  Whippets, I read the other day,  are the fastest accelerating dogs. I can believe it, as he sets off for the umpteenth time, his chase instinct stronger than any distracting scent or passing pooch. 

My youngest son—who's now in his teens—was obsessed with mechanical contraptions as a child. Try as I might, he took no interest in landscape or nature. Even camping, which he liked, was all about process not place; no sooner had we pitched the tent than he'd snuggle down and watch videos on the Ipad—preferably of trains. The cottage beach, as he's always called it, was—and still is—one of his few exceptions to the rule.

Which is pleasing, as we're relocating here full time, and walks like this will be part of the daily ebb and flow. To live within minutes of such a fabulous spot is a joy and privilege—for it to also be your favourite, must double the pleasure. Or in my case, triple it, for this stretch of sand and pebbles is redolent of memories I treasure; of times that will never come again. 

Or at least, not quite.

This evening as I walked back to the car there was a family near the breakwater which borders the road. Two toddlers in oversize anoraks and blue welly boots stomped in the puddles—they built piles of pebbles and ran in circles together as their mum and dad (mid-thirties I'd guess) watched with collars turned up. 

'I must have a hundred photos of mine doing the same,' I said. 'In this very spot too'.

'So it's not just us', they replied smiling.

We got to talking about parenting boys that are close in age, the companionship they have, the hardship they bring—and the joys too... I spoke of the times we'd spent on this beach, the pattern of our days determined by the sea...  

'We never planned to have two so close,' she said. 

'Neither did we,' I replied. 'Our first was conceived with IVF, the second a complete surprise... '  And from the look on her face I knew what she'd say next. 

'We were the same!' 

Her husband chipped in, ' We were told we'd not have children without treatment—or at least it was very unlikely. Then before we knew it we had two...'  

'Buy one, get one free,' I quipped, explaining that in our day there was no NHS funded fertility service.

Oscar began scratching at my pockets for his ball. 'It was nice to meet you,' they said, as I put him on the lead. 

'You've taken me back,' I replied, shaking my head in disbelief... 

By now, the sun was almost to the sea, the air chilling in the way that spring evenings do.  I climbed the bank of stones and wondered how imperceptibly slower my movements will become each year. At the top I paused; there were new silhouettes on the sand—night fishermen, casting lines from the shore.  

The tide here is a long time turning.

Details that make a picture

Yesterday we walked a section of the coast path near our house in Pembrokeshire. It was one of those crisp mornings, the horizon as sharp as the air was clear; skylarks out-competing the lapping of the tide. And all appropriate I thought for a Good Friday that feels like a harbinger of brighter days.

As we ambled through the quay I stopped to photograph some chains on the jetty walls. Why are you taking pictures of those, Jane asked?  I want them for the blog, I explained: they contrast the small with the large, industry with nature, the particular and the general... It's not a new observation; artist and writers have been doing this for centuries.

Among the thousands of photographs on my computer, there must be hundreds of shots of doors and latches, grills and benches, post boxes and signs. Often they're quirky or funny ( I have a selection of gates that go nowhere) and usually they're arresting or beautiful, though it can take a certain eye to see it. During the recent lockdown, I took to snapping items abandoned in our local canal.  

But this weekend has been far from melancholy. 

Rather, it's been a delight to see people returning to the beaches and paths. There have been smiles and greetings, a sense of hope and a generosity of spirit that was often missing last year.  It feels as though we've all come a long way from those first few fearful months— the desire for a new beginning is palpable, and I hope as irreversible as we've been assured.

Which leads me to ponder, if taking those canal photographs reflected my mood at the time? Was it anger and frustration that led me to capture those jettisoned toys?  Were the rusting boats a mirror of the gloom in my mind?  As the weeks went by, and hope returned, did I not begin to snap more cheerful subjects? 

I ought to check that hypothesis, if only by scanning my phone. For if it proves correct, then perhaps the more accurate answer to Jane's question would be that photographing the chains reflected my pleasure in returning to both the place and normality; a confirmation that the axiom 'this too will pass' still holds true.

Isn't it also true that our sense of the locations we love is founded as much on the details as any wider view? The memories from our childhoods are infused with specifics as are all significant times and places in our lives.  I may not be typical, but my recall of those particulars are often more reliable than that of the events and vistas. 

As if to prove the point, Jane and I were later talking of ways we might hang some sliding doors on the office I'm building.  What about the ones we saw in France, she suggested, on that converted barn with the window shutters... For a moment, I must have looked blank.  They were very beautiful she continued, with old iron rails and the original door latches still intact ...  

And suddenly, as the details came to mind, I knew exactly where we'd seen them. She was right as well; they'd be just the thing. What's more, I'm sure I've a photo of them somewhere...

Beachcombing.

I've not known a wetter Christmas. All week the rain has blurred our windows; driven by the Atlantic currents it beats on the walls, the roof tiles, the doorsteps - even the gutters in our village are bubbling, a muddy stream running parallel to the verge. On Christmas Eve I watched a line of empty beer cans floating past the farm at the head of the road.

We often tell visitors not to worry about the weather - there's a pleasure, we say, walking the coast in a gale. But this rain is dank and insistent - there's no thrill in it, just a constant drubbing, the ground sucking at your wellies if you venture off road. In the field across from our house, the starlings have sheltered all week in the hedge... waiting, like us, for any break in the clouds.

One came on Wednesday - an hour or so between fronts, the wind easing and the first hint of sun in days. The boys were happy to stay steaming inside, but Jane and I grabbed our coats and joined the dog-walkers on Newgale sands. There are few better storm beaches in Wales.

As we parked the car Jane commented on the plastic strewn along the high-water mark. It was horrid, she said, and I agreed, adding that it's bad for the wildlife as well as being ugly. And yet, as we set off, I secretly thrilled at what I might find - for there's a part of me that's always excited at the prospect of beachcombing.

I can recall going to the beach as a child, and my parents insisting on walking the tide mark.  Old pop bottles would be collected for the sixpence return fee, driftwood gathered for a fire; once (on Seaton Sluice beach) we came across a hoard of beeswax. My mother collected great lumps of it to make candles - she carved a horses head sculpture from it too.  Funny the things we remember?

I'm not alone in seeing the possibilities. The Cornish artist Peter Lanyon used to make constructions from objects he found on the beach. Using these as prompts to memory, he painted some of the best abstract landscapes of the Twentieth Century. Poets seem to respond to it too - though often I'm suspicious - their narratives and metaphors, (almost always a variation on 'washed up') a little too obvious, for my liking.

On Thursday there was a longer break in the clouds - this time we went to Marloes, another fine storm beach, and is it turned out, with an even greater collection of rubbish under its cliffs. There were nets, and piles of wood, a fishing boat rudder, some buoys and a lobster pot float (now in my garden, thank you). I especially liked a jagged crate, half-buried in the sand and resembling a shark's jaw.  Strangely there was no weed, the beach seemingly scoured of any large organic matter.

Jane is right of course, about the detritus. It's troubling how much is now floating in our seas - there are whole island made entirely of trash where he Earth's major currents meet - one, between Hawaii and California is known as the Great Pacific Garbage Patch!  And she's right it's pretty disgusting - much of what's been washed up is simply discarded netting, plastic boxes and fishing buckets.  Not that it's any better (though certainly, it's more comical), a few years ago there was a huge container of sun cream washed ashore - the following spring every car boot sale for miles around had a stall selling Spanish sun lotion.

At both Newgale and Marloes, we added a pile of netting to the waste bins - a small contribution to the clean up. In truth it will make little difference, the sea will carry most of the trash away - only to bring much of it back next year. And when it does, I'll have that strange dual feeling - a logical empathy with Jane's view that it's horrid - and a childish thrill that maybe, just maybe, there'll be some treasure to be found.

Pembrokeshire secrets - Porthymynawydd Bay

On Thursday we dropped our eldest son at Whitesands where he was spending the day with his girlfriend and her family. He'd given us strict instructions not to 'lurk', which frankly, is understandable given the embarrassment potential that parents have for teenagers -  no doubt made worse by the prospect of us donning bathing costumes.

So instead Jane and I went to Porthmynawydd, one of my favourite beaches and somewhat of a Pembrokeshire secret. Perhaps the term 'secret' is a bit strong, for Porthymynawydd is seldom deserted in summer -  but on a day when the car parks were overflowing, there were less than a dozen people who'd made the one kilometre walk to reach this peaceful haven.

In fact, half the 'crowd' hadn't even done that; instead, they arrived by boats, launching from Solva, about three miles to the west. Some others came on kayaks, paddling from Newgale, a mile or two to the east and no doubt wondering why they'd not known of this place before. You'll understand from this, that Porthmynawydd is within easy reach of the tourist hot spots of West Wales.

And yet it's a world away. The bay is formed by a deep cove and headland (Dinas Fach), sheltering a shallow and soft sanded beach. The high cliffs enclose the horizon, adding to the sense of remoteness - and they still the waves, creating, at high tide, a shallow lagoon that's perfect for swimming and messing about. There are caves and rock pools, diving platforms and crystal clear snorkelling. One chap there on Thursday caught a huge spider crab, bringing it back for inspection before releasing it again.

At high water, the beach, as with most in Pembrokeshire, is all but gone - but no worries, for this gives the best swimming and the cobbles are fine, if a little lumpy, for sunbathing. Once the tide ebbs the shallow ground means the sand is quickly exposed and at low water, it extends almost to the headland. There is seldom any weed, there are no sharp rocks and the position of the cove means there's minimal tidal rip to worry parents. If you're lucky a seal or two may pay a visit, and the rock pools on the cliff shelves are abundant with blennies and anemone.  The only downside is the barnacles which coat the lower rocks - I'd advise sandals or booties for any scrambling.

But that's enough description - for more, you must visit yourself.

Porthymynawydd is more usually known as Pointz Castle, the name of the farm at the start of the access track. Pointz Castle lies two miles west of Newgale on the A487 at grid reference 831237. The track starts just past the farm and there is a good parking spot here. The route is well marked and obvious - just head down and follow the stream to the cove. In fairness, it's a steepish walk back, but like all good things, some effort is required.

Often I've read landscape writers describing this or that 'special place', but not revealing the location, claiming that to do so would risk the invasion of crowds. This seems a little selfish to me, and in most cases overestimates the reach of their work and the impact of recommendations. With the exception of disclosing sensitive wildlife sites which might be abused (remember the days when Red Kite nests were guarded by the military?), I take a more generous view; in any event, that one kilometre walk will always deter the tourist hordes.

Our day ended with the tide ebbing to low. We took a wrong turn on the coast path and ascended the western cliffs, only to have to descend again. From the summit though, I could see over the sweep of St Brides; there were tankers at anchor off Skomer, a heat haze softening the sky, and the cove below us - a sparkling jewel in what is already a golden crown.

Porthgain quarry

To the west of the picturesque harbour of Porthgain is an old granite quarry. It once supplied roadstone that was first crushed then shipped up the Bristol Channel. Never a commercial success, the quarry closed in the1930s; its greatest legacy is the industrial archaeology which helps define the village today - a patchwork of abandoned tramways and derelict buildings that could be Pembrokeshire's version of a spaghetti western film set.

When the quarry closed, you'd not have bet on Porthgain becoming hit with the tourists. Yet today, the Sloop Inn is the best pub for miles; there's a renowned fish restaurant, a couple of galleries, some old anchors on the village green ... Cerys Mathews had her wedding reception here. And from the harbour, it's less than two miles to Abereiddy and the Blue lagoon, on a path that's a high contender for best coastal walk in Wales.

The village attracts thousands of visitors every week, but I'd bet that less than one in five hundred ever ventures into the quarry. There's a geocache there now, so perhaps that should be one in three hundred; who knows, the point is most folk walk by, despite the coast path skirting its western edge. Part of the problem is that to reach the middle tier requires an ungainly scramble, and the lower platform a moderate rock climb. In a way it's a pity because the quarry is the ultimate relic of Porthgain's past - it's also one of the best micro-sites for wildlife, due in part to its relative isolation.

We went there yesterday evening - to look for peregrines. Dylan insisted on playing Lord of The Rings - he was Gandalf, I was Gimli, and Jane, 'that girl with the frizzy hair'. In between his thunderbolts and wizard spells, we sat with our backs to the sharp granite boulders facing the pale horizon of the sea. There was no wind under the cliffs, the afternoon's clouds had cleared; a rose chested bird was hopping between the boulders.

The bird was a wheatear; there were whinchats too, swallows and martins swooping over the edge -  no choughs which bred here last year; no ravens either. They say if you can't see the peregrine you should look to the sky - I did, but the sun was too bright. And so as Dylan fought his second battalion of Orcs, I found myself reflecting on how this place was at it's commercial height.

Pretty hideous I expect. Photographs in the Sloop show gangs of labourers, sledge-hammers in hand - even the tramways were once hauled by men - none of them look fat and they all look older than I suspect they are - there were no pensions those days. The landscape I love so much would have been little compensation for the toil of hewing rock under the constant threat of lay-off as the quarry lurched from one financial crisis to another. Back in Porthgain, the two room cottages that are now considered too small for holiday lets, would have housed entire families.

I'm no expert on the history and importance of this quarry, but I'm pleased that the National Park has not interfered with the headland. It's a small delight that the buildings and tramways are not being prettied up and museum-ified, and heartening that the quarry hasn't been cordoned off for health and safety concerns. None of this is for lack of care on my part: the industrial past is part of what makes Porthgain so special (interestingly, we find visitors either 'get it' or they don't - no middle ground) - but in my view, you understand that best by getting close, not by reading information boards. The landscape and wildlife are important too - and nature's slow reclamation of the quarry has added not taken away. By leaving well alone, it seems to me we are honouring both sides of the equation.

Having had enough of being Gimli and the frizzy girl, we left the quarry and walked to Ynys Barry cliffs. There was an enormous oil beetle on the path (be careful where you tread - it's a species at risk but holding out in coastal regions) - we picked it up, letting it crawl from hand to hand between the three of us, before placing it carefully under some gorse. If I had more time I could easily become fascinated by beetles - astonishing little things. The shadows on Garn Fawr were darkening to purple - the peregrines had not returned but it didn't matter.  We made it back to the village with just enough time for haddock and chips on the harbour walls.

A secret waterway

If you mention Pembrokeshire to most people, they'll almost certainly reply with a comment on the beauty of the coastline. That's understandable, for it's the cliffs, coves and islands that dominate the tourist brochures, drawing thousands of visitors each summer. The coast is synonymous with the county and yet, one look at the map shows there's more to the National Park than a ribbon of land by the sea.

To the north is the Preseli, a line of hills-cum-mountains, best known as the home of the blue stones which form the inner ring of monoliths at Stonehenge. The Preseli hills are under-rated, but they are not the subject of this post, for even high on the ridge the sea accompanies your every step: it defines the horizon, it shimmers or dazzles according to the light, and in the evenings, it draws your eyes to the dying sun.

To find a truly different view of Pembrokeshire you have to head further inland. In the centre of the county, a few miles up river from Milford Haven and Pembroke Dock (two towns so industrialised that they're excluded from the Park) is the Daugleddau Estuary. This is the secret waterway: forty miles of rivers and reed beds, castles and mills, tributaries and mudflats. All roads lead to a watery end - to cross the channel you must divert north or pay the toll at Pembroke bridge.

Yesterday we went to Lawrenny Quay, situated at the central junction of the estuary. The Daugleddau is a kilometre wide here - upstream it narrows only gradually, splitting eastward into the Carew and Cresswell rivers; further north into the Western and Eastern Cleddau. But the term upstream is a little misleading, for the river is strongly tidal and at low water the smaller tributaries (known as pills) are little more than runnels in the mud. The dominant flow is more of a gradual seep than a bubbling spate, helpful for heavy barges - years ago this waterway was busy with ships taking coal to Bristol and beyond.

A friend once told me the Daugleddau was the quietest landscape he knew. I'd beg to differ - it's true there's an immediate stillness, but in an aural equivalent of looking at the night sky, it takes only a few minutes for your ears to adjust. Once they do, there's a myriad of voices.

In the stunted oak wood to the north of the quay, there were too many trills and craws to discern. We saw wrens and long-tailed tits, an unidentified finch stabbing at the bark - there were swans and geese on the water, herring gulls too, a little egret by the far shore. The last time we were here there was a green woodpecker at Garron Pill. Yesterday a raven circled overhead, jackdaws strutted on the salt-marsh, rooks and magpies too - almost all the common corvids I said - and as if to prove it, I spotted a jay flying from tree to tree in the churchyard on the hill.

Birds are ever-present on the Daugleddau, but they are far from the only attraction.  Along our path, wood anemones made the most of the light before the canopy returns them to shade; a fern uncurled its first helix, everywhere were primroses, early bluebells, forget-me-nots and celandines. A small tortoiseshell was basking on the brambles, a peacock (butterfly not bird), made its way to the blackthorn blossom. There were plume moths, ladybugs, red spiders I couldn't name...

And then there's the landscape. The river was flooding as we descended to the quay - boats swayed on their moorings, a catamaran glided down the channel - the first sail of the year perhaps? To the east the Carew appeared motionless, it's mirrored surface glinting blue as the clouds parted, the bank-side fields dotted with lambs. All the scene lacked for perfection was an otter swimming to the shore;  I've long hoped to see one here, but though they are certainly present I've yet to be so lucky.

We're fortunate though, to know this place, to have it close and most times to have it almost to ourselves - apart from the wildlife that is. There is also one fine exception to the silence and stillness - the busy little cafe on the quay, which serves perhaps the tastiest crab sandwich and coleslaw side that I know. A delicious way to end a fabulous spring walk, and a gentle reminder that even in the middle of the county, the coast is never far away.

Clear September sky

The path from Whitesands to Abereiddy traces one of the longest unbroken stretches of the North Pembrokeshire Coast. For nine miles there is no access by car and with the exception of the smugglers' cove at Pwll Caeorg the cliffs maintain their height throughout. At this time of year, Atlantic grey seals come here to pup and breed. It's the inaccessibility of the rock beaches they favour, seemingly untroubled by the storms that scour the granite and slate of all but barnacles.

Jane and I walked their yesterday. We saw the first seals at Porth Lleog, barely two hundred yards after leaving the car; they were two females, lolling on their backs in the sunlit surf. It was one of those breezy mornings, a jade sea, spotted with the shadows of scurrying clouds; bright one minute, showers the next.

To the west of Carn Llidi is a hidden valley of ancient stones and feral ponies. It shortcuts St David's Head and leads to the sheltered cove of Gesail Fawr, which my minimal Welsh translates as the big armpit!  Here we saw our first pups, four of them sleeping on the rocks, their mothers basking in the clear water under the hundred foot cliffs. Two of the pups looked newborn, a third so plump its features had lost all definition; the fourth, older again, had fur that was mottling from cream to grey.

By now the sun had chased away the showers and the breeze was at our backs. We made good progress toward Penberry, passing a few walkers on a sponsored hack. There were gulls and rock pigeons on the cliffs, a great skua floating in one of the bays - and on the landside, the last of the wheatears, their little 'white-arses' (their old country name) flashing across the field stubble.

Beyond Penberry we watched a kestrel hovering over the bracken. They are surprisingly scarce in Pembrokeshire, their inland territories lost to buzzards and kites - one birder told me the increasing numbers of goshawks played a part too. But they thrive at the coast and I often see them at the Head or the Porthgain quarries near my house. Of all birds of prey, I think kestrels are my favourite; they remind me of my blind grandfather, his gnarled hands holding mine as we'd walk each other to the scrub fields by his house; windhovers he used to call them.

Beyond Penberry the path had been strimmed and I wondered aloud if it was a way of managing the wild flowers. Probably not, but it sounded plausible. As the sun warmed the bracken some butterflies came out: a small copper, a common blue, three tortoiseshells. I was telling Jane that it's been a poor year for butterflies, the numbers in the national count down by 11%. 'You know,' I said, 'I haven't seen a painted lady all summer. Two years ago, there were thousands passing here on a mass migration.'  And no sooner had I stopped talking than one opened its wings on the rocks by my feet, its auburn wings edged with scales of black mascara. That alone would alone have made my day.

There was a seal pup at Pwll Caerog too. We didn't realise at first, mistaking it for a rock in the stream that trickles to the pebbles. A young couple on the beach pointed it out. They were camping at the bunkhouse they said, but they had to dash because their friend was getting married in an hour - on the campsite above the cliffs. Jane and I were married twenty years ago this week - we were meant to go to Rome but work intervened. Instead, we came here, eating flapjacks and drinking tap water from a plastic bottle as we listened to the pup's mother calling in the bay.

At Abereiddy we bought mugs of tea from the van that is always there. The storms of a fortnight ago had carried thousands of rocks to the lip of the breakwater; the beach, normally black with shale, was a glistening ochre. 'Give me a kiss,' said Jane, 'and don't you dare pull away.'  The surf was spoiling in the wind and I could hear the jackdaws reeling above Blue Lagoon quarry. When I opened my eyes, the pools of an ebbing tide were bright in a clear September sky.

Tin town halls

For all its other qualities Pembrokeshire is not awash with grand architecture, at least not in the usual sense of that term. Much the same could be said of Wales. There are many reasons for this: the quality of local materials; a low wage community that prioritises economy over fancy design; and in the case of Pembrokeshire, the Atlantic weather which eats away at any structural weakness.

I read somewhere that Jan Morris had declared the quintessential Welsh building to be the farm. That's a good shout; it certainly isn't the castles, most of which were built by the English and in any case are largely in ruins. I'd add the chapel, particularly those Methodist tradition tabernacles which stand austere at the centre of most villages here abouts.

But a third, and often overlooked contender, could be the tin village hall. These are not unique to Wales but there's an abundance here that helps to define the place. Often they were attached to churches but the community would use them, if not quite seamlessly, for both religious and secular purposes. My late neighbour gleefully told me tales of Saturday night shagging behind our village hall - of course, there was a Sunday School too, he said.

Tin halls and churches are having a resurgence. There's some that are listed buildings, others have been converted to holiday homes; occasionally a tea room, an artists studio... They're a popular motif too: on postcards, paintings, tea towels - there's even a coffee table book of moody photographs called Tin Tabernacles.

Until recently our hall was open to the wind; House Martins had colonised the rafters with their pulp nests and in the cupboards you could find posters for the Silver Jubilee dance, paper plates in red white and blue. There was a sink unit holding white china crockery and a water boiler with a two pin plug.

Three years ago the church sold it off. It was bought by a local farmer - he's had it repainted, sealed the doors and otherwise left it alone. In a way I hope it stays that way. Better that than being replaced by a rendered bungalow.

It's easy to become falsely nostalgic about the heyday of these buildings. The sense of community the halls embodied and sustained has waned; in most places it's long gone. In isolation that's to be lamented, but the reality is that few us would opt for the life choices of those who built and used these glorified sheds. On a tangent, I once bemoaned the loss of the simple youth hostels in Wales to which a trustee replied that the visitors had stopped coming long before the hostels closed. There is an equivalence here, but let's not get too embroiled in politics and social history.

Few visitors come through my village unless they're lost. Those that do tend to be looking for the old church with its arts and crafts rood screen; most walk past the hall on the green without a glance. That's a pity, for in the right setting these tin structures are some of the finest and most typical architecture of Wales.

Pretty in pink

Advocates of good food often talk of the need for seasonality. Real strawberries, they say, ripen in an English summer and not a Spanish poly-tunnel in January. The equivalent applies to apples, tomatoes, asparagus... you name it. What's more, by embracing the idea that different seasons bring different produce our enjoyment is enhanced - we appreciate the harvest and look forward to the next.

It's not a perfect analogy but something of the sort applies to one of my favourite places to eat. The Pink Caff (at least that's what I call it, for so far as I know it has no name), on the road between Newport and Cardigan, is open for a mere six weeks a year. Pembrokeshire's summer visitors make it a viable enterprise, but it's locals in the know who most eagerly await the appearance of the roadside billboard. This year I made a few early forays in the hope they'd extended their season, but no luck; I had to wait like everyone else.

And it was of course worth it. Yesterday, I had fish pie washed down with home made ginger beer, both as real as they come - and just the job after a walk along the delightful river Nevern. Dylan had a doorstop sausage sandwich, Jane's was crab and I swear there was a whole one in there; Mike tucked into a plate of chilli. The food is simple, home cooked, fabulously tasty and served on a jumble of old crockery at rickety tables in a botched up barn. Frankly, it's brilliant.

What I so like about the Pink Caff is it's lack of pretence. You go there for great food in relaxed surroundings; not to be fawned over or seduced by an out of place menu offering seventeen different coffees all ending ino. And the barn has its charm too. The table next to us yesterday described it as shabby chic -  its the sort of place you actually talk to other people - but that's not quite right.  It's more cobbled together than that - I'd say hippy-chick and cheerful, finished off with whatever's to hand. Like my new writing shed, it's very simplicity is the whole point - you either get it or you don't.

I resisted a pudding (though Jane didn't), which is quite a feat, for they don't ponce about with those either: rhubarb crumble, ginger sponge, chocolate pudding, home made cheese cakes - half portions available for the kids though I've never seen one ordered. And now I'm rather regretting that I did, for as I said at the start of this post there's a finite season for the best of foods.

What a shame, I shall have to go back there soon.