Sarah Stirling meets the ghosts of Wales’ prehistory
I’M DRIVING ALONG a narrow ribbon of country lane, tucked between hedgerows, and I’m stuck behind a tractor. I don’t begrudge the remoteness. Because of it, I’m gazing around at something unusual in the Anthropocene era: a landscape so lightly touched that you can see evidence of every epoch since time began.
As I near the sea, the rocky top of Carn Llidi comes into view, poking up through the patchwork green fields. A Neolithic burial chamber on its hillside dates back to around 4000 BC. Coetan Arthur’s 20-footwide capstone, supported
by a three-foot-tall side stone, mimics the shape of the summit behind it. It’s incredible to stand there, staring out to sea and forget time. I’ll pass it towards the end of my walk and perhaps detour up it.
Finally, I park in St Davids. Britain’s smallest ‘city’ (village-sized really, but it has a cathedral) perches at the westernmost tip of Wales. Back in the 500s, a monastery was founded on this spot by David, a renowned preacher who is now hailed as the patron saint of Wales. In the Middle Ages, a cathedral was built on the site, and it was declared that two pilgrimages to St Davids were equal to one made to Rome. This cathedral sits intriguingly hidden in Wales’ holiest hollow.
Nowadays St Davids is a pretty village with a handful of interesting shops, restaurants and cafés, which is busy on a summer’s weekend but doesn’t attract anything like the droves that Cornwall does. Everyone tends to congeal in the honeypots, anyway, leaving the coast paths practically empty.
I turn right along a lane and emerge to a dazzling panorama. I’m standing on a high clifftop; the sun has saturated all the colours and the sea is spread out, sparkling like polished lapis lazuli. A narrow path draws the eye along the cliff top, rolling into the distance, bursting with wild flowers in pink, blue and gold. In the heat, banks of gorse give off a heady coconut fragrance.
Below me lies a perfect little white sandy bay. With their raw geological folds, the sea cliffs look like they’ve just risen from the ocean. St Davids Cathedral was built from the distinctive purple sandstone here. In places, the sea cliffs deepen to a rose or red colour. Geologists love it around here. Some of this rock is Precambrian – pre-dating multi-cellular life – and there are plenty of other vintages on display.
On the far side of the bay the cliff juts to a rectangular promontory accessed by a narrow isthmus. I can see the remains of a little Iron Age hill fort over there, which took advantage of the site’s natural defences. The remains of about 50 of them can be found around the Pembrokeshire coast.
After a few minutes I reach the next bay, St Non’s, named after St David’s mother. The ruins of an old chapel, thought to be one of Wales’ earliest Christian buildings, are crumbling peacefully on the site. I imagine pilgrims visiting the holy well that tinkles nearby: it is said to cure ailments.
The next headland is Porthtaflod, the westernmost point of mainland Wales and a good place to spot seals and stare across at Ramsey Island, which stands one kilometre offshore. Its dramatic 120m cliffs are amongst the highest in Wales. There, a pious friend of St David’s, called St Justinian, isolated himself from the laxness of society.
Finally, the huge golden sweep of Whitesands Bay comes into view. Carn Llidi rises behind the beach, tempting me to make that detour before returning along country lanes to St Davids. Before that, however, I am definitely going in for a swim.