Day 27
Freshwater West to St. Govans: 9 miles
New Title of the Day: Queen of the Cows
Reason: For the last three or four days, when cows see me coming, the entire field of cows will start racing toward me. It happened in Pembroke first, including calves running out of the woods, where I was in the field unseparated from them and I had to divert all the way around the herd. Then it happened yesterday on my walk back to the campsite - and it got a bit claustrophobic with only a few feet of space between me and hundreds of cows on either side. And then today it happened again near Castlemartin - this time in a field with a 'Beware of Bull' sign on it. I decided to divert through a field of camomile and brave the roadway given the herd was only kept in by a single wire. I'm hoping I'm their Queen rather than they're trying to murder me.
Turn right at the tanks, then pass the Green Bridge of Wales
So, this area is known for particularly interesting rock formations on its south coast. The one drawback, however, is that a large portion of the area is an army firing range, so access is restricted. Before WWII the MoD compulsorily bought the area, splitting up what had been a single estate from Stackpole to Freshwater West. In fact, troops practiced for the invasion of Normandy on Freshwater West, which was remade to look like the French coast. It was also the site of the largest non-combat loss of life for the British - when two navy vessels and a third trying to save them foundered and most of the sailors drowned.
Nowadays, the Castlemartin ranges are known for being the only live-fire practice area in the UK. I assume the area is as sparsely populated as you can get in a place as densely packed as Great Britain, but given how few roads there are to the villages here it seems like a difficult place for locals to get around with ever-changing road closures for military exercises.
What this means for hikers on the Coast Path is that the path skirts inland of Range West, which is always off limits - and you walk along a grassy path with signs very specifically describing your death should you choose to be stupid enough to pick up any ordinance you might find. But at Range East it's variable - usually weekends and after 4:30 you can walk along the coast - but you have to call a number to make sure there aren't exercises, since the timing isn't set.
Even with all these warning systems in place, including a sign indicating 'Open' Status as the trail cuts between Ranges East and West, red flags and a red flashing light that are only up and operating when the trail is closed, and a sentry box that's only occupied when there are exercises, there's still something disconcerting about walking along a path marked by green circles with a picture of a tank on it, and signs everywhere saying to stick to the path as live firing is possible.
After the cows chasing me incident, I made my way between the ranges toward the coast, and even though civilian cars were passing me it was still unnerving. Even more unnerving was when I got to a crossroads where a hundred heavily armed black-clad soldiers in berets were congregating around a bunch of tanks. Since the sentry was staring at me, I actively pointed out the way I was going just to make 100 per cent sure they weren't coming after me. He laughed and nodded so I assumed it was ok.
At another crossroads, you could see an old church set well back from the road. I'd tell you more about it except I only got halfway before I decided the signs along the road telling me I might explode convinced me it was inaccessible (it's not).
Finally, the actual coast
It was in this state that I finally met P, who had parked at Trefalen and walked the coast path the other way. We took a moment to read the signs and pick up the only national park pamphlet I've ever seen outside of Russia featuring a military helicopter pointing it's weaponry at the reader, positioned in front of a scene of natural beauty.
Then of course we went to see the lovely Green Bridge of Wales and Elegug Stacks. The former is a very tall archway caused by rockfall, partly covered in birds. The latter are chimneys of rock, also covered in birds. The beauty scene in the late afternoon light was made even more dramatic by an absolutely pounding ocean - the waves were shooting dozens of feet up after they smashed on the rocks.
We continued along an easy gravel path that skirted inland enough that we couldn't really see much. P said he'd originally thought to walk on one of the smaller criss-crossing paths, but then he'd seen some blue-ish exploded (he hoped) shells the size of his fist and thought the large path was good enough.
After the stress of walking through the firing range, I was a little giddy. I can't remember what I was saying - but I do remember it being stupid. At one point I laughed and said to P 'What's funny is this place probably has cameras all over it. I wonder how hysterical the guys listening think I am', to which P responded 'I think they're groaning and hoping we'll be gone soon.'
And that's why what happened next was even funnier. We got to a place where several smaller paths criss-crossed down to the cliff edge, and you could see well enough it was safe to walk there. So we did. Not all the way down (to where I assume the climbers go), but close enough to see across the bay we were in and see the crashing waves.
I stopped, turned around, pointed and said to P 'That's a weird looking rock, isn't it?'
Assuming the military doesn't use CCTV that projects sound, what some poor soldier back in the viewing area then saw was a close up view of my nose and mouth as I leaned in for a super close look of the strange grey rock with the round chips in it, which then mouthed the words 'Oh duck! That's a creaking camera!' I may not actually have said duck.
At which point I laughed hysterically and P and I moved as quickly as we could out of the range of view of the two inch camera lens I had just stuck my face directly into. I literally couldn't stop laughing - I was still laughing when we passed the low valley where the wind was kicking up enough that foam was being hurled 40 mph horizontally for several hundred feet. And I was still laughing when we took a wrong turn toward a building it looked very much like we weren't supposed to go to and now what was I supposed to do since they had my mugshot.
St. Govans Chapel - one of the coolest set chapels bar none
I'd finally calmed down when we left the military area and got to St. Govan's chapel. I've been looking forward to coming here for a long time - the chapel is built in a precarious position in a very tight sheer-sided cove. It's said that St. Govan hid here in the 6th century when he was fleeing from pirates - and when the pirates passed this place, the valley walls closed up to hide him. So he built a chapel here, and there was a miraculous well that helped eyesight, and mysteriously if you count the steps you get a different number up and down (I counted them, and can tell you I got two different numbers - P had some explanation but I told him to leave my sense of wonderment alone.)
We took the twisting slick steps down to the precariously perched chapel, and came out onto the other side to discover the fury of the Atlantic raging on the rocks just in front of us. It was crazy to see the waves come rolling in and smash up sheer rock arches, just a few feet in front of us - and we sat there mesmerized for some time. I could see why someone would build a chapel here.
Meanwhile, Back at the Farm
At the end of the day I was back, alone, at my campsite (P had to go back to school sometime). I haven't mentioned it before - but Gupton Farm where I was camping, felt like a very special place to me. It was literally exactly what I would want in a campsite - and I don't just mean entirely deserted, though being the only camper certainly was awesome.
Only opened to the public in the Spring of 2017, Gupton Farm is a National Trust property that's still in the process of being refurbished. Currently the centuries-old farmhouse is available to rent as a whole unit (i.e. for a large number of people) but they hope to make it into more hostel-type accommodation once they've fulfilled all the building requirements. There's a very large field for tents that's separate from caravans, and there are wheelbarrows to take your things to your tent since your cars stay in the car park. The shower-block is sparkling, there's a small National Trust gift shop, and there are fire circles for anyone's use with carved logs to sit on. There's even a wet weather internet barn.
As P and I had bought some wood in St. David's we'd never used and that I didn't want to carry out, I made quite an effort of using every bit of it to boil one pan of water to make a camping meal with. At one point I suddenly realized I was singing a Girl Scout campfire song 'On My Honor' out loud without having realized it. That's a real unconscious response - even if it was still brightly sunny out at 8:30pm there's just something about a campfire.
But the even better part about Gupton Farm is its ten minute trail direct to Freshwater West. Besides the cows following me down and back, walking down to watch the sunset almost by myself in silence along a enormous stretch of tan and silver beach backed by dampened green dunes was almost overpowering. I know that when the surfers and the school holidayed children come the silence won't be as overwhelming, but the feeling of remoteness isn't something you can do away with completely.
Going back to my tent, that feeling made even the sharp breaks in the silence - i.e. scattered gunfire, what sounded like artillery, and also cows making the weirdest mooing noises from only 25 feet away from my tent - seem like drifting smoke.
So yes, Gupton Farm and Freshwater West Beach - you have my undying love and support, and I'm sure that the surf-scene that pops up in full force later in the summer will appreciate the fabulous opportunity to (legally) camp right by the water.
