The Bridge, Bosherston, Barafundle: The Green Bridge of Wales to Freshwater East

Having enjoyed our stay at Freshwater East in the February, and having reached the part of the path that passed through Freshwater, we again returned to the Freshwater Bay Holiday Village and stayed in another extremely cosy and convenient chalet during the May Bank Holiday weekend. Our aim this time was to walk from The Green Bridge of Wales to Tenby, which would close the gap that had been bothering us for some time, and complete our Pembrokeshire Coastal Path adventure. We were, as always, ridiculously excited.

https://www.fbmholidays.co.uk/cottages/freshwater-east

This was Helen's Facebook post to me a few days before:

The closing of the gap. The mystic portal awaits....

Pack your bag, Mr Frodo, we are going on an adventure.

It was 25 miles over two days and I really couldn't wait. I know some of this coastline and it is simply outstanding.

This walk was going to be exciting because, as Rhian has mentioned, we were going to close a gap. But it was also exciting because we were going to be staying in Freshwater East which is on the Wales Coastal Path and we were going to end one day's walk there and start the next. I realise this doesn't seem that exciting a prospect but it gave me a frisson of pleasure. We set off in Rhian's car and drove to the Castlemartin Range bumping along to the strains of Abilene on Rhian's Haunted Music system. After parking the car we walked down to the path, turning left to start the section that we had seen stretching ahead of us at the end of the February walks.

This section of the path is well known and is considered to be one of the most stunning. We were expecting a good day but I suppose on some level we were getting a little complacent with all the stunning beauty we had seen on previous walks. The Pembroke Path is considered to be one of the finest long distance paths in the world but we couldn't have expected when we saw, in the first few moments of walking.

The first thing we saw were the Elegug stacks just off the Castlemartin firing range and they were covered with thousands of birds. Not only that, the sea was full of them too. It was astonishing.

‘What are they?’ asked Rhian. (I should know not to ask this kind of question by now.)

‘Birds’, I’m quick like that. I keep telling her that I'm not that sort of Biology teacher but she never listens. Thankfully there was a chap there, with some very impressive camera equipment with massive lenses. It was a fair bet that he would know all about them, so we asked.

'Guillemots and razorbills.' he said. 'The ones on the stack are breeding adults, the ones in the water are too young but will come back next year to breed.' Googling the stacks to write this article it would seem that their name, Elegug is from the Welsh for guillemots and razorbills, so I was showing my ignorance of avian identification and the Welsh language. In spite of that it was one hell of a start to a day's walk. We thanked him for his help and wished him a good day. As we rounded the corner I couldn't resist a childish comment about the size of his lenses and how I had lens envy. Rhian treated me to a withering look so I decided to behave. He did have a massive lens, though, just saying.

This is another shot of the stacks taken a little way along showing that there are two, huge, carboniferous stacks, the smaller one was hidden in the first photograph.

The whole of this section was just one spectacular view after another. We walked along the cliff tops, which made for very easy walking and we managed to miss yet another hill fort on the way to the wonderfully named Bull Slaughter Bay. The tide was in so there was little point in clambering down to the beach (as if we even contemplated that idea!) but the near vertical layers of strata in some of the arches were amazing and testament to the exciting geology of the past. I'm very easily impressed by a nice bit of geology. Physics plus a lot of time.

We soon came to the famous Huntsman's Leap. there are a few formations so named on the path but this is the best known. Allegedly a huntsman on his horse cleared the chasm, looked back and when he realised what he had done, died of shock.

Huntsman's Leap - Wikipedia

It is a measure of just how stunning this section of the coast is when you realise that all of this occurred in a 3 mile section, tucked within the Castlemartin Range. So even at our slow pace of walking we saw all of this within an hour. We eventually passed an empty sentry box and left the range, heading towards the next tourist spot of the day.

And this one really was a tourist spot. The previous three miles involved walking from the Stacks and so we had walked them in splendid isolation. Access to St Govan's Chapel, wedged in among the rocks is easy as there is a car park near by. You do have to descend a few slippery steps but its not too difficult. Legend has it that if you count them down and back up again you never get the same number. Sadly we didn't know this at the time so we missed out on this bit of supernatural shenanigans. Still, we still had Rhian's haunted car to enjoy , and you can't have everything. The Chapel is very austere and dates mostly from the 13th century with some earlier bits dating back to the 6th.

St Govan, who was probably an Irish monk, supposedly had to escape from pirates and so opened up a crack in the cliffs which allowed him to hide. The chapel was built above the cave where he hid. The vagaries of early Welsh history are such that not a lot is known about him and he might be linked to Sir Gawain in the stories of King Arthur.

Climbing the steps, back to the path, I mused.

'So he was a monk then?'

'Yes and a saint'.

'What was he sainted for, being a relative of St David's?' (This seemed to be a local fast track to sainthood; have an affiliation with the Local Boy Who Made Good.)

'No, he caused a crack to open up to hide him from pirates'

I started to snigger. I'd been holding it in since Big Lens Man.

'So he was made a saint because he opened up a crack?'

Bloody hell! You are incorrigible. How old are you?'

'At heart, about 8.'

Rhian shot ahead of me, leaving me to run behind her, sniggering lightly.

We resisted a short diversion to Long Matthews Point, in part because we had 12 miles to walk that day but also so that I didn't descend into more infantile smirking and innuendo. Plus we were going to take a slightly longer diversion into Bosherston to see the lily ponds. I'd wanted to see them for more than two years since we bumped into a group of ramblers who where heading there for a day's walking when we were doing the Carmarthen section of the walk. (In the Local Morrisons, a great stopping place for breakfast and a place to show off your banana outfit....see the Carmarthen section for further details).

As the road took us into the village of Bosherston I saw this bit of graffiti which I felt exonerated me from laughing at St Govan's crack. I don't really think I'm God. Well not entirely. And it made me laugh.

It made me laugh too. Megalomania is not a helpful trait in a walking companion.

(Should point out, for those people who don't know me, that my surname is Brace, otherwise this weak gag doesn't work.)

The village of Bosherston was picture prefect with what looked like an excellent local pub, attractive church and an enticing Tea Shop (see, I'm avoiding 'nice' Rhian!) but this wasn't really our destination. We were heading towards the lily ponds which are now managed by the National Trust. The ponds were formed when the land owners of the Stackpole estate dammed the river in the 18th centaury and created the lakes as part of a huge landscaping exercise. Each of the lakes has a subtly different make up and provide important habitats. Its an SSRI and well worth a visit. The lilies themselves were just beginning to bloom, there were small fish darting under the lily pads and there was a heron in the distance standing in the shallow water waiting to catch its lunch. Beautiful. Apparently there are otters in the lakes but we didn't see them.

We crossed the first bridge, managed to miss the hillfort and then crossed a second bridge, stopping on the ridge to have lunch. The day was warming up, the grassy knoll on which we sat provided us with lovely views out towards the sea and so we lazed there for a little while. Ahead of us we could see some very high sand dunes that would need climbing and we were in no hurry. It was luxury to sit down and have some coffee. It never ceases to amaze me how much you enjoy trivial things when walking. Plus, Rhian had bought yoghurt coated raisins. More luxury. Getting up was less luxurious as my legs were aching but we managed it with a few moans and groans.

Bosherston Lily Ponds - Freshwater magic walk | National Trust

As suspected, the sand dunes were hard going, the one blessed relief being that Helen was too out of breath to try to explain dune formation to me yet again. We laboured uphill, being passed at speed by teenagers, dogs and small children alike. Ah well, it wasn't a race. And reaching the top, the view was its own reward, with the sands of Broad Haven (South), and the river in one direction, and green clifftops in the other.

We were enjoying the view and catching our breath when a middle aged couple came up to us and obviously wanted a chat. He was wearing shorts which I felt was an optimistic choice for a walk that early in the season and a determined expression. The woman walking with him looked as if she put up with a lot.

'Hello!' he said, 'What a MARVELLOUS day for a walk' (Standard walking conversation opening gambit).

Rhian parried confidently, 'Yes it IS, isn't it? Walked far?'

'Yes, six and a half miles from Manorbier and it was quite tough, wasn't it dear? I was alright but June found it ', he beamed and glanced at his partner, 'quite a bit harder. Said her feet were hurting.' June looked weary and stared into the middle distance. You got the strong feeling it had been a long 6 miles for her and that her feet weren't her main irritant.

'Oh' said Rhian, 'We are only going to Freshwater East.'

He looked us up and down appraisingly, 'Probably wise. You don't want to go too far if you are not used to it.'. This was fighting talk.

'Well, ' Rhian said, with a slight but dangerous edge to voice, 'We have walked from the Green Bridge today and that will make it 12 miles or so'.

He looked a bit disbelieving at this and started to open his mouth.

I cut in, ‘Well actually we have walked from Aberystwyth, but just not today’.

He looked stunned. June looked pleased and gave us a slight, sisterly glance of solidarity.

'Come on the June, we need to make progress!' And off they went.

We walked on.

'Still, there are lots of cliff edges for June to make good use of once they get past the Lily ponds.'

'Yes'. I paused for a bit.

'She was very patient. Am I that irritating, Rhi?'

'Not quite.' And she couldn't say fairer than that.

Actually, I have to say she is not that irritating really. And she joins this kind of competitive walking conversation with an enthusiasm that I can only admire. As she has said to me more than once when I say I am not competitive, "Rhian, darling, life is a competition!".

I put my fairly non-competitive spirit (unless roused by someone looking askance on our efforts) down to being an only child. I never had to compete. I had all my parents' attention - not always a good thing, I might add, but it meant I didn't have to try very hard. Again, not necessarily a good thing, and I do have a tendency to give up when things are difficult.

We made our way towards Stackpole Head, an area where there are a number of caves and natural arches - even I was fascinated by the geology of this area because it produces such wonderful sights. The weather was warming up and the sun was coming out. I was looking forward to the next few miles because we were going to be approaching Barafundle Bay. This beach is legendary among those in the know (which is lots of people nowadays!) as one of the prettiest beaches in Wales, and a lovely sheltered bay with pristine sands. It can only be reached on foot which serves to make it a little less accessible to the crowds of summer. I wanted to show my good friend a place I really love. The bay is fringed by trees at one end and seeing the blue sea and golden sand through the trees was like being somewhere in the Med. As we followed the path downhill a group of jolly, red-faced Welshmen and women approached us, puffing and panting, wearing their best daps. We smiled at each other and one woman, who reminded me somewhat of Nessa from Gavin and Stacey, said, "Phew! Nearly at the top! I feel like Rambo!" We all laughed loudly. (I won't lie to you, I bloody loves Nessa from Gavin and Stacey. Ruth Jones is a comic genius.)

Getting down onto the beach is a bit of a scramble down a set of steps that seem to stop six feet from the bottom, and necessitate an indecorous jump. I went first and stopped to enjoy watching Helen coping with this. She moved very cautiously, exclaiming "Ohhh!" a couple of times, but made it safely on to the sand.

We decided to stop for a while and rest on a rock. There were quite a number of people on the beach but it was still quiet. As we were now quite hot, and our feet were throbbing, it was a perfect opportunity for a paddle. In fact, I wished I had brought my tankini. Still, it was very satisfying to plunge one's feet and ankles into the cold but clear, sparkling waters.

"God I love this place", I said to Helen, feeling at peace with the world.

"It's not as spectacular as I was expecting, though, Rhi." (In my defence I would like to say that it is very lovely. But my feet were hurting quite a lot and I was tired.)

If side-eye could kill, Helen would have dropped on the spot. I was quite upset. I wanted her to love it as much as I do. Then I remembered that Helen is not a great beach-lover. She is not one to spend a day on a beach, whereas I am. I am prepared to put up with sand in the sandwiches for a dip in a sea that is calm and transparent and cold and to do some rock-pooling. I must have been feeling mellow because I shrugged, "Ah well, each to his own." I said, and left it at that.

We set off to climb the walled steps up to the cliff top and were met by families and couples all making their way from the car park at Stackpole down to the beach. I was glad we arrived when we had because the place was going to be busy that afternoon.

Stackpole Quay came into view. There were lots of people about here and the slipway and quay itself were bustling. The Stackpole estate is owned and maintained by the National Trust and it is a lovely spot. There is also a lovely cafe to go with it, and we took advantage of that fact. Time for some cake.

Family history has it that we originally came from Stackpole and moved to the Rhondda via Onllwyn (the village in the film Pride). I did a bit of research online and while I never managed to find proof of this but Brace is a very common name in this part of Wales. So on some level I felt that I was walking on old family ground. It really is a stunning part of the world and it is sobering to think of the poverty that must have driven people from all this beauty to work in the coal mines of South Wales. Similarly, my grandfather left the family farm near Blaenffos near Cardigan to become a miner in the Rhondda - an unfathomable move unless motivated by the false promise of money to be made.

Both my children, when they were in year 6 at primary school, spent the best part of a week at the Stackpole Centre on the estate, doing outdoorsy activities like canoeing, cycling and orienteering. Alys recalls that she was not keen on the food, and she was all but attacked by a very angry mother goose. Happy days! I remember they both came home with a suitcase full of stinking clothes, and both fell into bed, exhausted, and slept for 12 hours straight.

The last leg of this day's walk was from Stackpole to Freshwater East and we were refreshed and ready to go after our stop at the cafe. The path led up to the clifftop and was busy with visitors venturing a little way along the path to experience some of the fabulous views. However, the number of people soon diminished and we were left to enjoy it all. The path descends and rises frequently here, with those warning signs that pull no punches, like "Cliffs kill", "Keep to the Path". (Unfair to my Uncle Cliff who was a lovely man and wouldn't harm a soul. Sang first tenor with Treorchy Male Voice Choir and was the choir's librarian. That is a hell of a job to take on and can only be done by the most patient and meticulous of people. He once misheard the lyrics 'Mull of Kintyre' and was outraged. He thought that they were singing 'Bollocking Tired'. I always think of that when I hear that track and now, so will you. But I digress). We were glad that we had brought our walking poles and took our time, enjoying the exertion (to a degree!) and the good weather.

We paused at Greenala Point (apparently there is an iron age hill fort...) and then headed towards Trewent Point, from where the path would lead us down into the half-moon loveliness of Freshwater East bay, via a steep, grassy hillside that gave us some stunning views towards Manorbier and Tenby, our next day's walk. We crossed the narrow wooden footbridge and made our way along the road a short way to our chalet. Dinner and refreshments at the Longhouse would end a very satisfying day's walk.