Cefn Bryn (again), Port Eynon and Rhossili

One of the things I most enjoyed about holidaying in Gower was that while there were lots of places to see, we didn't have to drive very far to see them. The peninsula is 19 miles long and about six miles wide; our holiday cottage was sitated equidistant from both coasts and nowhere was more than a short drive away. 

So it wasn't too surprising to find ourselves driving past Cefn Bryn the very next day after we'd visited, so we stopped off again, this time taking a slightly different route that led to the Great Cairn.

The weather was dryer, if less dramatic, than the previous day, with clearer views.

We watched a couple of ravens take on what looked like a kestrel for a while, both sides giving as good as they got.

A different view of Arthur's Stone

the longest slug I ever did see

We then drove down to Port Eynon, which was a little disappointing, on account of most of the beach being very dog-unfriendly. We found ourselves corralled in a rocky corner with other dog owners and their dogs, while the sandy - and sunnier - larger part was empty. 

Knowing me, knowing you ...                               Aha!        

Cwtch and I made our way down to the Salt House, which is believed to have been built in the mid-16th century for salt production, although the usual tales of secret tunnels, smuggling and piracy attached themselves to it in Victorian times.

Dewberries

Then on to beautiful Rhossili, one of my favourite places, where we had lunch in a cafe called - aptly - The View, after which we ventured down to the beach. A couple of choughs blew overhead.

Worms Head

The wreck of the Helvetia

Cwtch didn't want much truck with the sea

The wind blowing ribbons of sand along the beach was mesmerising, but it was time to leave so we made our way up from the beach ... 

... and back to Three Crosses to load up the car and head for home. We were leaving a day early, as I had a reading the next day in Portishead, but we'd had a memorable if not very summery holiday, with plenty left to explore another time.

A birthday trip to Berrow

It was my 60th year* to heaven yesterday so we went to the beach, we being me and the Northerner and Cwtch the collie, and the beach being Berrow on the Somerset coast. It's a favourite place but we haven't been there much lately, what with work and family stuff and the pandemic and all, so it was good to get out of Bristol on a jolly.

And we were going to do things differently: the plan was to get to the beach and turn left towards Burnham-on-Sea, and not right - as we always do - towards the wreck of the SS Nornen and Brean. And we would walk as far as Burnham's low lighthouse, which has achieved near mythic status as far as I'm concerned, as I've never seen it. 

Except that the tide was just right for the wreck and the fates it was named for were singing, much like sirens, so we diverted in that direction just long enough for a closer look.

See, Mam, I 'as got you a sea doggo for your birthday. Is heckin' smelly

We turned south towards Burnham. It was still very blustery from the previous night's storm and the wind was hitting us full in the face.

Then we hit a patch of sinking ground, except it wasn't mud, which is generally easy to spot and avoid, it was quicksand and pretty much indistinguishable from the slow variety until you're in it. The Northerner struggled to save his wellies, which was a bit daft really as they've seen better days and need replacing, unlike him, though I suspect walking back to the car in socks would have been uncomfortable. 

We made our way back to terra firma. It started to rain, and we realised we needed to get home for sons bearing cake and later, friends in a restaurant on Cheltenham Road, so Cwtch found herself back on the lead and the lighthouse retained its unicorn status. 

Although only marginally more sandy and muddy than us, it was Cwtch too that had to suffer the vigorous towelling back at the car. (And the evening in her crate, but that's a different story.) 

*In fact, having been born in 1961, I think this is now my 61st year to heaven, and that Dylan Thomas probably should have written his 'Poem in October' - or at least the opening line of it - in celebration of his 29th birthday, not his actual 30th, but there we have it: the error must now be perpetuated, much like the entire world celebrating the new millennium a year early. 

Up North, Down South and Good Luck Poo

With the lifting - just a little - of the lockdown, Son the Elder arranged a trip for us to Minsterworth, just outside Gloucester, where he needed to pick up a purchase from off eBay, and to Gloucester Cathedral, where he was meeting his friend Tom for the handover of acting DVDs. It was only going to be a flying visit, but I was glad of the chance of getting out of Bristol for a couple of hours, as well as giving my new-to-me car a bit of a run. 

So here's Gloucester Cathedral ...

... and some ghost signage on Berkeley Street ... 

... and 99 - 101 Westgate Street, which building dates from c1500 and is said to be the last lodging of Bishop Hooper before his execution by burning at the stake in St Mary's Square on 9th February 1555.  

When I got back to the car, I noticed a bird had christened my car with some poo, which I took as a good luck sign. 

Today I was off again - this time with the Northerner and Cwtch the collie - to Uphill, where I was due to get my second dose of Pfizer vaccine at Weston General. Immediately afterwards, we headed to Berrow beach so that Cwtch could get her first taste of the sea proper (her recent visits to Portishead notwithstanding). 

Upon arrival it was clear that the powers-that-be at Burnham and Berrow golf club had been brandishing industrial-sized secateurs and diggers during the enforced shut down, much like at the local golf club.  For a start, there was a pill box I'd never seen before ... 

... and much of the lovely tunnelling footpath through the dunes had been ripped open and the sky let in.

The pussy willows lining the reedbeds were lovely, though, and the ascent and descent to the beach was as exciting as ever. 

As luck would have it, the tide was so far out that Cwtch still didn't encounter the sea ...

... though she did get her first taste of the beach. 

We didn't walk too far as the Northerner has been recovering from something narsty (albeit not in the woodshed) and I was being careful on account of my jab. It was enough to be at Berrow with our eyes on ... well, more or less the same horizon as up the meadow, actually, but from a very different angle. 

It was sandy enough to walk out to the wreck of the SS Nornen too, which was as photogenic as ever, with no need to dodge the sinkinny sands and mud. 

A different dog that is ours with us on this visit, though - and she couldn't quite contain her surprise and delight that such a place exists, even if the sand looks better than it tastes and the water is salty.

There are even sticks, which are one of Cwtch's favourite things. (Ted was only interested in balls.)

Time to go back through the sand dunes and around the marshes ... 

... and past the little white bench with its views of Brent Knoll and Crook Peak ... 

... and through the churchyard of St Mary's with its cowslips and dead nettles ... 

... to the car which once again had been anointed with good luck poo. 

I did start to wonder if you could have too much good luck poo, so when a muck spreader pulled out in front of me between Berrow and Burnham-on-Sea, I decided to keep well back, just in case.