Early October at Southerndown and Llantwit Major

Another day, another rail strike. (Solidarity.) Faced with the prospect of two round trips from Bristol to Cardiff through heavy traffic, I decided to spend the day with the dog on the Glamorgan coast instead, and having dropped The Northerner at work, set off for Southerndown, which I last visited 40-odd years ago.  

It was high tide when we arrived, so we walked up through Slade Wood and across several fields to the edge of the village of Southerndown. 

On the way we saw this tree, which appears to be flourishing despite clearly having fallen some time ago ... 

... plus these intriguingly wind-warped whitethorns.

Our route involved several stiles ...

... and a bent old kissing gate (always more picturesque than the modern variety) ...

... although this  newer one wins the prize for best tune.

The return leg of our short walk took us along the cliff edge, with views along to Porthcawl ... 

... and ahead to the cove of Southerndown, which also goes by the name of Dunraven Bay. Poor Cwtch was kept firmly on the lead in case she tried to chase a seagull over the cliff edge.

Meanwhile, across the rain-squally Bristol Channel, the coast of Exmoor.

En route I found these young puff balls, but decided to leave them for someone else to have a fine breakfast once they'd grown a bit bigger.

As we descended to the car park, you could see Dunraven hill fort on the opposite cliff and so-called Dunraven Castle, which is really just a manor house that was castellated in the 19th century. 

Cwtch and I decided against labouring up the long flight of steps to the fort and set off for our second destination, Llantwit Major. Having last visited - inadvertently - at the end of May, during the summer dog ban, I was looking forward to letting Cwtch run on the beach, but just three days into the season of the dog, there were diggers on the beach and it didn't feel safe to let her run. Instead we climbed up the steps up the cliff to Castle Ditches Camp, a second iron-age hill fort.

From here, we could see the lighthouse at Nash Point, where I walked with Son the Younger, his then dog, Lucy, and my old collie, Ted, back in 2018. 

The coast path took us up and down over the ramparts of the fort and then along the edge of a large arable field. 

After a while we turned inland, passing a large piece of farm machinery surrounded by sunflowers, and some sheep, at which Cwtch directed a hard stare. 

At this point we had to make a sizeable detour as our path was blocked by a load of sheep and a lorry, and we ended up in some hellscape of mock wooden cabins. We eventually found a way out and back down to the sea, following a footpath that ran alongside the little River Col-huw. All the whitethorns that were still just blossoming back at the end of May were now clotted with berries, with dashes of white provided by Old Man's Beard.

Back at the beach, we walked out a little way on the limestone pavements the receding tide had uncovered, steering well clear of the cliffs, which don't look all that stable. 

A shower of rain forced us into the car for the last hour of our stay, much to Cwtch's disgruntlement, then back to Cardiff and the eventual drive home.

Another day our in Wales brought to you by the RMT union and ASLEF, but a far better and cheaper prospect than spending twice as long sitting in heavy traffic. I hope they get a resolution soon. 

Return to Eastleach Martin and Eastleach Turville

An armed man was holding a two-year-old boy hostage in a stand-off with police on the M4. As a result, the motorway was closed and by the time we'd negotiated a series of traffic-choked A and B roads to reach the irredeemably posh Cotswold pub where my then husband had booked a table for my 40th birthday lunch, we were very late indeed. The staff took one look at us and our neurologically interesting children, and showed us into the skittle alley where we ate our indifferent (but expensive) meals in isolation. And by the time we emerged, this being late October, it was getting dark, the motorway was still out of bounds, and there was no time to do any of the things we'd planned apart from the briefest of visits to the clapper bridge spanning the River Leach in the neighbouring villages of Eastleach Turville and Eastleach Martin.*

Here's the bridge, in the etching by Robin Tanner I'd been given to mark my great age. 

It's taken me 16 years (almost) to muster the heart to go back. 

This time the worst thing that happened on the motorway was a sudden squally shower. Not to worry, I told the dog. We are poets. What care we about soaked jeans and dripping hair?

But by the time we'd parked in Eastleach Turville and made our way down to the river it had stopped and the worst hazard we had to negotiate was some over-protective swans and their offspring. 

It isn't an exact rendering of the bridge, by the way, nor the view from it. It's more of an idealised composite, but no less pleasing for that. 

After the bridge, the next stop on our short but sweet route was the mediaeval Church of St Michael and St Martin, which gives the village on yonder side of the bridge its name. 

Even I could throw a stone from this House of God to the neighbouring church of St Andrew's, so it's no surprise that only one of the buildings is still in regular use. 

St Michael and St Martin drew the short straw for closure and is in the care of the Churches Conservation Trust. It has that pleasing emptiness of such churches that makes it easier to focus on the fabric of the building. 

One of the windows contains fragments of mediaeval glass.

I am always drawn to the faces. 

It's hard to pick up in photos, but there's a delicious wonkiness to the north and south walls and windows. 

There were also postcards on sale featuring the local hunt. This was less pleasing. I bought one, pointed out the incongruity on the back, and left it there. 






Our route took us down a lane past an orchard with already rosying apples, and trees dripping with damsons and plums. Putting thoughts of my favourite damson vodka from my mind, I conceded that even if they weren't owned by anyone, their bounty properly belonged to the villagers rather than me, but it was a close call.

The walking book boasted an idyllic path by the river with herons and even the chance of a kingfisher, but sadly the route has been diverted away across a field, I suspect due to erosion. 

And when I did spot it, the river was clearly a bit of a winterbourne, being almost completely dry in parts. 

And instead of herons and kingfishers, I was accompanied by the bedraggled squeak of a bullfinch.

There were one or two impressive trees, though, and it was interesting to see how the river, in more prosperous times, has affected the lie of the land. 

Eventually our route turned south and climbed. On top of a ridge, I encountered a sizeable collection of puffballs. Yum.

No more self-restraint - I seized a couple, stuffed the smaller in my satchel and tucked the other under my arm.

Having stowed them safely in the car, I made my way back into the village to visit the other Church, that of St Andrew. 

Its saddleback tower is so very familiar from the etching. 

St Andrew's obvious glory is its Norman doorway, dating from 1130 ...  

... the tympanum of which depicts a defaced Christ in Majestas, flanked by angels. 

The interior feels rather more lived in than that of its sister Church, though still very stripped back.  

There was just time for a last maunder down by the bridge, this time sans swans. With the trees beginning to think about changing their garb for something rather more seasonal, it felt like the last lushness of summer.


*As I recall, the little lad was safely rescued.