We press on to Pembrokeshire. Here, on the west coast, the light is different somehow. Flatter, whiter, and cleaner. The land is flatter too and greener, all lush fields and hedgerows. Safe and soft. Where the north is harsh and unforgiving, the west is gentle.
I used to live here, once, for a short while. I wondered how I would feel, being back. The memories. There are places in this world that leave their mark so deeply it’s unwise to ever go back. They have become the part of you that you build upon. But I feel… Nothing. A faint sense of nostalgia – the scent of fried onions on an autumn day, transporting you to the fairgrounds of your youth. A wistful thrill of pleasure. Nothing more.
Whatever ghosts I carry, they are not here. And yet, twice on this trip I will be sure I saw one.
Poppet Sands is busy. A crowd of wetsuit clad surfers make their back up from the beach, toting colourful surf boards under their arms. The door to the RNLI station is open, through which I catch a glimpse of several enormous boats. Families determinedly sit behind windbreaks, wrapped in jumpers and coats – true testament to British grit. It is summer and they are on holiday, so they intend to make the best of it come rain or shine. We wander end to end, over white sand so thick that our feet sink ankle deep. Across grey rocks pooled with seawater and embellished with slick, emerald weed. Driftwood stands to attention, like perfect Matisse sculptures, amidst the spiked and scattered remains of crabs.
From Poppet Sands, we go on to Strumble Head. Reached via a maze of roads no wider than the car, at the very top sits a lighthouse on the cliffs overlooking St George’s Channel – all the way to Ireland. A white, rectangular building with a round tower, in which flashes a broad, yellow light like a warning beacon, the lighthouse crouches on a flat pedestal at the edge of the sea. Below it, a crowd of gulls gather to nest in the rocks. The sunset slides blue and pink and gold on the silvery waves. We walk across springy, purple heather, then return to the car to wait and watch the sky change. The beauty of a sunset, painting the earth in softer shades. Everything is hushed. The inhalation before the exhalation. The only sound is the hum of the car engine and the caw of the gulls overhead. In the distance, silvery flashes and glimpses of fins over the waves indicate a pod of dolphins. It feels as if they have come just for me. And why not? There is something inherently magical about this moment.
