Prologue
It’s dark – we’re in the Severn Tunnel:
our wider world’s begun to funnel
to concentrate on where we’re heading,
on where we’re walking, where we’re bedding.
Quick! Daylight’s back – pass built-for function
with dullness, Severn Tunnel Junction:
but speed we on: change trains as ought
at Cardiff station, platform nought –
no train of nothing – board a carriage
to take us to our Pembroke voyage
in hiking boots, the coast path treading, for Milford Haven hope is heading!
Amroth Castle
Behind a wall and beyond an archway
but barely seen from across the road
where walkers start on the coastal pathway,
don’t notice castle as off they strode:
a February day that is dim and cloudy,
as empty beach waits the Summer hordes,
when quiet village becomes more rowdy,
ignoring mansion though named on boards:
it’s not a castle in style historic –
foundations maybe from what had been –
a build from gentleman’s dream iconic,
like stately home as is often seen:
the castellation around the roof
concocts a fantasy dark, romantic,
of dashing swords from a time aloof –
was never known, and the claim’s pedantic.
Yet it’s besieged in the Summer months
by tourists seeking their holidays,
the castle falls to their drive-in hunts
to settle there for their chalet stays,
hence tour the country, explore the coast,
brave chilly sea and the swimming pool,
lies fortress as their relaxing host,
while dinner’s mood has them suave and cool.
Thus Amroth castle behind its walls,
grey silence watching the passing years:
no warlike trumpets, just car horn calls
departing homeward up through the gears.
A Day in Tenby
The busyness of populace,
with traffic milling in the streets:
the council powers and shopping hours
when worker serves and tourist greets:
on fishing boats a seagull gloats
for fish, not ice-creams, bag of chips,
while bed and breakfast, lodgers steadfast
prepared for any walks and trips.
Meanwhile the tide embraces sandy fringe,
and Caldey’s opened by its ferry hinge.
The ocean’s surge brings daily purge
that cleans the beach for swim and spade:
cars, trains arrive, keep town alive
when vital trade and wealth parade:
high clifftop roads with named abodes
whose glassy eyes gaze down on rocks,
catch setting sun when day is done,
and midnight sounds in chiming clocks,
while Tenby sleeps, lies still its busyness,
awaits another waking populace.
Return to Manorbier
Sitting in the Castle Inn,
people packed yet restful:
recollecting coastal path
walked on strong and zestful:
down and up successive coves,
each one steeply sided,
muscles tested on the climbs,
efforts not derided:
marched across the grassy cliffs,
ocean black heights washing,
wandered round to sandy beach,
rocks much sea spray tossing:
faced then cold Manorbier,
castle staring greyly,
like Canute forbidding tides
thrusting shoreward daily:
building for the Winter closed,
stony, solid, silent,
heavy peace prevailing mood,
long ago since violent:
past the castle, up the hill,
mealtime contemplating,
café and the hotel shut,
bed and breakfast waiting:
took a rest, to Castle Inn,
cosy in its welcome,
drink and good food warmly served,
qualities known seldom.
To Lily’s Ponds
We wound and climbed above the cliffs:
Manorbier was left below,
its stones of old historic rifts
forgotten in the times we know
as rose we on to level sward
where easy walked our rhythmic feet:
the sun was bright on sea and shore
that took us on to Stackpole Quay,
its rocks and stonespiled up by tides,
grey jetty’s bones,
and sheer cliff sides,
boat drawn on shore
where café serves
who would explore
the pathway’s curves
towards the beach of Barafundle,
soft sandy stretch with woods and dunes
whence people stroll with picnic bundle,
find peace unfolds its quiet runes:
found two miles on Broad Haven South,
bay not unlike preceding beach
but welcomed there a streamlet’s mouth,
had trickled from Bosherston’s reach
where trees and fronds,
plus blooms and sedge,
touched lily ponds
along each edge,
whose lilies’ scent
floats airborne ride
come June’s ascent
across each tide:
across the ponds two pathways run,
where rising sea makes footwear wet
but quay and lakes were seen and done,
boots dry when to Bosherston get,
‘St. Govan’s Inn’ gives comfy bed
to rest our bodies strained and stiff,
far from St. Govan’s faith that led
this hermit’s life in nearby cliff.
War and Peace
Onward bends the coast path
but we must walk inland
lest we stirred the army’s wrath,
says danger close to hand,
notices and red flags,
the sound of spluttered guns,
walking roads the pleasure sags,
determination shuns:
Castle Martin passed by,
nowhere to stop and rest:
troops not seen, heard bullets’ cry,
moved us to coastal crest.
And that was when
we saw again –
the sea restored: wide, surging, gleaming main
in curving bay of sand and pebbles, lain
by tides of millions curling up the sound:
they carved the hills, dune remnants piled around:
two buildings seen, plus road along the shore,
a few cars parked while, in the Winter’s hoar
from bustling wind, the drivers take a stroll
with dogs across the beach close to the roll
of white-beige waves’ eternal roar and rasp,
where Summer’s bathers many surfboards grasp:
around the bay towards the point our path
ascends and we survey in aftermath
of view beneath our feet, Freshwater West
where bleakness, beauty, ocean meet to rest
Angular Walking
Come at it by a short right angle,
or longer route by cliff rectangle,
take either, coffee’s still in reach:
seek what from menu one can wangle,
what things will every taste bud spangle
inside the café by the beach?
From coat and back pack disentangle,
lean back on chair at restful Angle,
and watch the people on the sand:
give orders, hopes at hunger dangle
and with their price , no need to wrangle,
all calm, like wavelets touching land:
new mood surrounds like jewelled bangle
as rest with food and tastes now mangle,
know day long journey’s end is near,
the feet feel free of bootlace strangle,
and roadway’s short to central Angle
where pub will sell refreshing beer:
with takeaways tired bodies jangle,
sleep comes till rise the new day’s Angle.
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