Days 177 & 178: Rhoscolyn to Church Bay

A fiery glow is visible through the tent wall, tempting me to swap my warm sleeping bag for the dawn chill.

Breathtaking — I’m excited about what lies ahead despite the shepherd’s warning.

On leaving the campsite, I sneak up to the owner’s cottage, slipping the half-eaten chocolate sponge cake into the porch, only to be rumbled and apologise.

The walking is beautiful from the start, with soft short-cropped grass underfoot, surrounded by yellow gorse and rocks, including a colourful display at Porth Saint.

This fine chap is happy to pose.

It’s possible to scramble down the slope for a closer look at the Bwa Gwyn arch.

Never doubt a shepherd. The weather worsens, wind and rain sweeping in. At Porth Dafarch, two women run in and out of the waves, screaming.

The South Stack Cliffs Nature Reserve is divided into two sections and I’ve reached the smaller southerly one. A brutal coastline, razors of rock slicing into the sea.

Ellin’s Tower, the Victorian castellated folly, perches on the towering cliff edge. The rain and wind are relentless, so I take advantage of the nearby RSPB cafe for a delicious pear and stilton panini, draping wet gear over any available surface. I’ll not be popular.

The rain hasn’t stopped but I must push on. The small road outside the cafe ends with a tiny car park. Three lightly dressed men leave their car and climb up exposed steep steps leading to a lookout shelter. Halfway up, the wind blasts into them and they start yelling, retreating back down to the car. Smiling, I walk past them, buffeted by the wind, making it to the shelter overlooking the South Stack Lighthouse far below.

The larger of the South Stack Cliffs Nature Reserve sections includes Holyhead Mountain — technically not a mountain at only 720 ft — and it’s hard to imagine a harsher contrast with the cosy cafe I’ve left down below. The wind howls across the ridge, dotted with radio antennae. There’s nothing moving up here except me.

Despite the rain, I can just see the buildings on North Stack island at the end of a fearsome headland.

A sheer grey quartzite slab rises up before me. Surely the path is not going up that? A stone staircase is hidden in the gorse, traversing beneath the mountain summit.

Reaching the top of the path, I turn round and embrace the full force of the wind. The adrenaline is pumping and I feel so alive. There’s nothing dangerous about the path but the elements and the isolation weave their magic.

Robert Macfarlane, in a chapter of Mountains of the Mind titled “The Pursuit of Fear”, observes:

“… what moves decisively to the fore is a sense of a wild landscape, with all its hazards and asperities, as a testing-ground — a stage on which the self can be best illuminated.”

Sheltered in the lee of the mountain, it’s a gentle walk down into Holyhead, passing the burnt-out empty shell of Soldier’s Point House.

The grounds are ringed with barbed wire, although there is a small open window in the wall. Tempting, but this is not the day for exploring.

The town looks grim under damp grey skies. I struggle to find a pub that serves a decent pint and end up with a bunch of sandwiches in my Travelodge sanctuary, reflecting on an exhilarating day.

Next day

I’d planned a long walk for the last day as I can leave my gear at the Travelodge. However, the weather is awful and I’ll be walking into the wind, so catch the bus to Rhydwyn and hit the coast at Church Bay for a shorter walk back.

Having taken a photo, I turn and stumble over a molehill, which gets a long accusatory stare. It’s not as though a mole just chose that moment to dig a sneaky tunnel — it was always there — but it makes me feel less of an idiot.

There’s a long diversion inland round the Alaw estuary and it’s a relief to reach the river crossing.

The Stanley Embankment, built in 1823, takes me back onto Holy Island.

Halfway across, I’m mesmerised by the patterns in the powerful current flowing through a sluice under the embankment, like silk rippling in the breeze.

The final part of the walk winds through pretty Penrhos Coastal Park, which has a pet graveyard. A sign explains the return of red squirrels with advice to “keep your eyes high”, which is my cue for 15 minutes of hazardous neck craning rather than looking at where I’m walking. I see a drey but no movement other than birds.

It’s been a challenging eight days hiking weatherwise but wonderful scenery. Next up is the East Highland Way at the end of the month and then back to finish the Wales Coast Path in April. I might even make it to Liverpool and a certain group of sculptures that have long been on my radar.

Walk distance: 31 miles.

Total distance: 2,939 miles.