Scrambling from Trefalen Cottage

While I was waiting for the warm weather to return, and for the seeds in my vegetable patch to germinate, I spent some time scrambling on the rocks near the cottage. Scrambling is not the same as climbing, though both involve using your hands as well as your feet. (And ropes may be used for more challenging scrambles in the mountains). But the scrambling I do round here is little more than moving from one cove to another across the rocks. Low tide is best, when each cove has its own beach and I can scramble out to sea, along the rocky outcrops which are hidden at high water.  These coves are peaceful worlds of their own .The only foot prints on the wet sand are mine , the only sounds come from the birds, or perhaps a seagull trying to smash a spider crab on the rocks. And from the sea of course, gently moving between the rocks on a calm day, crashing and echoing in bad weather.

     It is possible, when the tide is very low, to scramble all the way from Broadhaven Beach  right along to Smugglers Cove; climbing, jumping, and wading, until you get round the final rocks and see a figure (or more often a dog ) on the sand. That’s when  you  know that you have reached safety. (In the next photo of Kathy she will be in a wedding dress).Smugglers Cove also seems to be called New Quay.  But to us it’s always been the Secret Inlet. We once called to tell the coastguard that we had found what looked like a grenade high in the rocks and within minutes a vanload of men had arrived to bear the object away.

     But now it is getting warmer.  The two yellow deck chairs, one each for Marcia and Lawrence, have reappeared outside the farmhouse. Every day now there are campers driving through the gates; old friends who come back every year or first timers, listening carefully to information about showers (there are none) and views (unbelievable). The alpacas and horses are venturing nearer to my vegetable patch, the horses friendly, the alpacas aloof and mysterious. Warren has started cutting the grass, his machine chased by a loudly barking Buster. And Malcolm’s caravan has returned to its usual place in a corner of the field outside our cottage.

     There are, I think, seven or eight of us at Trefalen. Perhaps it’s time to say more about who we are?