Animal

Country diary: the roar of gale and surf blocked out most other sounds


Beneath the narrow footbridge, runoff from the precipitation inland was roiling over the stony bed of the Afon Arth. The deeply cut channel, which effectively divides Aberarth into two, was filled with the almost random sound of falling water. I walked towards the sea and, emerging from the shelter of the narrow streets, realised just how strong the wind had become. The torrential rain had stopped – or at least paused – and a vague blueness was beginning to appear in the sky to the west, but heavy bands of dark cloud still hung over the hills. Just behind the beach, two red kites swung warily on the rising air deflected by the cliff, then stooped towards the pasture with scarcely a wingbeat.

Coastline south of Aberarth



Coastline south of Aberarth. Photograph: John Gilbey

The coast path towards Aberaeron follows a ragged cliff that drops away towards the cobbles and boulders of the shoreline, the rough turf worryingly undercut by erosion in places. It was close to high water and, powered by days of gale force winds, four or five sets of waves were breaking towards the beach at any given instant. Thick yellowish foam accumulated on the foreshore, with football-sized clumps being torn away by the wind and sent bounding along the beach, fragmenting and scattering as they went.

Small streams, draining the fields to the east, have cut runnels in the cliff edge, exposing the coarse glacial subsoil that underlies the pasture. Wedges of clay track the paths of long abandoned drainage channels, a memoir of a cold, environmentally rowdy past. As I studied the sorted sediments, drops of water from the miniature waterfall were blown upwards into my face by the onshore wind.

The rough turf of the coastline is undercut by erosion in places



The rough turf of the coastline is undercut by erosion in places. Photograph: John Gilbey

The roar of gale and grounding surf blocked out most other sounds, except the piercing alarm calls of a group of oystercatchers I disturbed as I turned a corner of the path. I knelt behind a broad, tangled briar patch to watch them as they settled again, hunkered down in the dubious shelter of a pebble ridge. Their orange bills were tucked under their feathers, leaving only their watchful, piercingly red eyes to stand out. They looked just as chilled and exhausted as I felt.



READ SOURCE

Leave a Reply

This website uses cookies. By continuing to use this site, you accept our use of cookies.