Bosherston, Pembrokeshire To stand on the cliff as green combers thud into the walls beneath, roar into the cave and recoil in white chaos is to become aware of even rock’s fragility

The bird ledges on Mowing Word, a cock’s spur of a limestone point on the south Pembrokeshire coast, are empty now. The guillemots and razorbills that jostle, cackle and croon here through the spring months, their single eggs perilously free from nests’ constraints, are far out to sea, searching for food.

The cliff on wild days is storm-watchers’ domain. To stand on top as green combers thud into the walls beneath, roar into the cave and recoil in white chaos is to become aware of even rock’s fragility. Sometimes the whole narrow headland shakes beneath your feet, and white spume that looks so light lashes the skin.

On fine days the climbers congregate. From by the rusted smugglers’ rings on Gun Cliff, through a glass I watch a team tussling with one of my own routes. Their progress brings back to me all the thrill of fingertip pioneering on unknown and vertiginous rock in the lithe strength of youth.

Crowds of birds make an uplifting sight in an era of long-term decline Read more

The summary tease, too, of names we bestowed: Charenton Crack, after the lunatic asylum where De Sade was incarcerated, for the razor calcite edge of its impendent fissure that drew my blood; Heart of Darkness, for the hanging traverse above the black cave where waves sucked and roared; New Morning for that soaring crack that cleaves the golden wall above. The crux pitches of these last two, which I first linked 45 years ago, is now a classic in the British sea-cliff repertoire.

The last time I climbed it was in 2002, coaxed up it by my son Will. I recall his languid elegance on that glowing wall, so beautiful, like some great bird about to take flight. As soon he did. His going broke my heart. Now all that’s left is the wonder of the natural world, its surviving splendour, and to see into people’s souls, where sometimes there is good.

A fulmar drifts past on pale grey wings. The old mariners held them to be spirit-birds. Soughing waves beneath, a soft wind, the ache of absence here all reiterate presence of the elemental in our lives.

Follow Country diary on Twitter: @gdncountrydiary



