“I was stood on an island that was, for one night only, my very own”
Twice a day off the Swansea coast a wild peninsula is scythed from the mainland and a tidal island of limestone crags, golden beaches and Stone Age caves is born. Now imagine having that entire place to yourself for one night only.
Winter had arrived. Only it wasn’t that longed for, snowy mountain kind of winter, but rather an insipidly mild, short of light, pre-Christmas winter. Needless to say it wasn’t particularly inspiring conditions for the hills. They were still calling me though, so there was only one thing to do – it was time to reach for my dreams. One particular dream had been in the back pocket of my ambitions for a while now, and although crumpled and a bit faded, was still well and truly on my agenda...
The Gower Peninsula, and more to the point Worm’s Head and the tidal island, might sound like a curious choice, but throw in some of the most impressive limestone cliffs in the country, plus a mini mountain range right above one of the most beautiful beaches in the UK, and you have the most adventure-packed set of grid squares on the planet. Well, nearly. It definitely promised a few days of fun, and I was up for having my eyes opened to something different. First things first, tides had to be considered – and here more than anywhere, they wait for no one. There was just enough time to get down there, shoulder my pack and head the short distance from the car park in Rhossili to Worm’s Head. There are lots of things to know about this scrap of land, but the most important is that it gets cut off at every high tide, and the island breaks into two at very high tides. So when you’re out there, you really are out there. There’s a lookout station overlooking the crossing, which is manned by volunteers who help to inform the public (just in case they can’t read the many warning signs) about the narrow window of time for getting over and, more importantly, getting back. In the event of someone getting stranded, these guys call the coastguard. I was in a particularly responsible mood that day, so reported my intention to spend this particular December night in a bivvy bag (Note to National Trust – bivvying, not wild camping, which I know is not allowed on the island) a mile out at sea. “This chap’s a nutter,” was clearly written all over their faces. Somehow I demonstrated I was a responsible adult with all the right equipment, and was actually relishing the thought of the island to myself, cut off from the world for those precious few hours. Having left my personal details with them, including my next of kin, they then informed the coastguard that I was there. I felt very important, albeit a little silly.
It took maybe 10 minutes to cross from the mainland at Rhossili to Inner Head, the first part of the Worm. Crossing over rocks that in an hour or so would be part of another world felt like passing through some kind of mystical portal. Barnacles made for the surest route, thanks to their fantastically grippy properties. As cool as it was to reach the land of my dreams (quite literally for tonight), I couldn’t help but feel a slight sense of anti-climax though, as no big, dramatic wave closed the land bridge behind me. Instead, as I progressed along the Worm from tail to head, every time I glanced back I would see a slow giving way of the land bridge, as if it were sinking, being drawn down into that watery realm where no person can hope to survive for more than an air tank’s worth of time.
An hour or so later, the transition was complete and I stood on an island, that was, for one night only, my very own. Edged with cliffs and gulls, fringed with waves foaming in on dark rock. Although not up a mountain, I was wild and free. I could go this way or that way, sleep here, there or even over there. The freedom of choice is the freedom of the mountains. I pulsed and positively quivered with the challenge. Stood on the very summit of Outer Head, I looked back to the mainland, that worm of land leading so tenuously back to, well, all that I know. Turning I faced the wind and a whole world of seagoing wilderness that is, for me, as remote as looking up into the night sky, surreal and of little use, yet there and full of the unknown.
“I WAS STOOD ON AN ISLAND THAT FOR ONE NIGHT WOULD BE MY OWN...”
The Primus stove came out for a sunset cuppa. Alas sundown was more like some boring, unremarkable grey person, miserly and unforgiving, revealing little other than the inevitability of the beckoning darkness and isolation to come. I smiled a wild, half-crazed smile. I was about to sleep in the best bed in the country, which cost nothing and only required an adventurous spirit and a welloiled imagination.
Before the night left me high and dry on the summit, I scrambled down to find the perfect place for the next 14 hours of physical darkness, yet in reality enlightenment. As agreed with the volunteers manning the lookout station, I looked for an area where my headtorch wouldn’t be seen from the mainland. The last thing I wanted was well-meaning people calling the coastguard about some wretch stranded out on ‘the Worm’. Once in my bivvy bag I didn’t get out until the morning. I reclined, read, cooked, drank (tea!), thought, wrote, observed, but most of all listened. The sounds of the night were many, from the gull colony taking flight, startled into action, to a lone redwing flying God knows where, to the relentless waves lulling me deeper into the moment with every rhythmic breaking. I slept well. I felt no fear. It was the wildness I’d craved, and I loved it.
The very name ‘Worm’s Head’ can’t help but intrigue most, especially when you find out the origin – ‘Wurm’s Head’, Norse for sea serpent. The poet and writer Dylan Thomas was fascinated by this area. He once found himself cut off from the mainland and had to spend the night here. Apparently he was plagued by rats. This didn’t happen to me.
Despite there being a near full moon, the sky stayed cloudy all night, and dawn limped over the finish line, as a peregrine flashed past, almost too fast to be seen in the half light. I had until about 10am, when the land bridge would reappear, so I used my time to explore every nook and cranny. I walked the cliff tops, looking long into the nauseatingly ever restless sea. Just before my time was up, the last thing that I expected to happen out here did. I was being looked at by the largest brown eyes I’d ever seen. The head was tilted questioningly. “Can it be trusted?” it seemed to be thinking. The eyes belonged, of course, to a grey seal. Then there was another. I seemed to be a bit of a gooseberry all of a sudden, as I witnessed these two wondrous creatures in full-on courtship display, all of 10-15ft away.
Then before I knew it, the land bridge was back. The sun was too. I and the world seemed to be reborn.
Waiting for me on the mainland were the cliffs of the Gower – limestone formations along the south coast that rear and clash with the sea. An epic battle has been going on here for years and I wanted to get up close and personal with it. Tears Point, Mewslade Bay, Thurba, the Paleolithic cave at Paviland that’s home to the famous Red Lady (in fact not a lady at all), and on maybe all the way to Deborah’s Hole (snigger!). Amongst this lot there are enough arêtes to keep the craziest happy. I explored and scared myself silly on numerous occasions. Obviously I was off-path, looking for trouble. It’s not fun until you have some of the landscape under your fingernails.
As soon as the cliffs failed to thrill, I headed back to the village, then up and over Rhossili Down, getting a final view of Worm’s Head. The ancient past is here also, in the form of Neolithic burial mounds. Trawling back over the bay, miles of pure sand all stretching back alongside the hill just walked, there is even a shipwreck.
In this corner of the Gower a seam of adventure runs through the very land. From the tidal island to cliffs and arêtes of limestone, to caves, to hills and, of course, that beach. The tip of the Gower was clearly the last place in Britain to be allocated with geological features. Realising there were a few left over, the powers that be decided to throw them all in and be done with it. And that’s why I went to Rhossili on the Gower. It’s enough for any mountain man.