Abercastle to Strumble Head

Stage 18: 10 miles plus climb of Garn Fawr, taking 6hrs in all on 31st August

From Strumble Head, where I parked, the Strumble Shuttle bus takes a route through the narrowest of lanes, following all sorts of diversions and excursions. At one point I noticed us passing a sign - 'No Coaches' - well that's all right then, this is a fully fledged 23-seater BUS. Rather against my expectations, it deposited me safely at Abercastle just before midday in glorious Pembrokeshire sunshine.

The little harbour boasts a plaque celebrating the achievement of famous inhabitant Alfred 'Centennial' Johnson, who single handedly sailed across the Atlantic from West to East in 1876. In those days Abercastle was a bustling, important port. Now it is a sleepy picturesque village with mostly holiday-let cottages.

I headed off up to the cliff tops and once again walked past countless coves, only accessible from the sea, and looked down on the often needle-sharp rocks which poke their noses up all along the coastline. The clarity of the water meant almost as much was visible below the surface as above. In almost every bay where there was some kind of beach I could see one or two seals loafing about in the shallows, probably waiting for the mothers to give birth - I saw no pups.

A couple of kayakers were making their way along in the same direction as me, but I couldn't keep up: what a way to see all the caves and crevices which are concealed from the cliff-walker.

The beach at Aber Mawr, where I ate my sandwiches, is long and pebbly, though apparently it wasn't always like this - 140 years ago a storm threw up the pebbles here as well as on its baby brother, Aber Bach about 250 yards further on. Brunel originally chose Aber Mawr for the location of his Irish embarkation port, and indeed started construction work there, before changing his mind and chosing Neyland in the Milford Haven waterway instead. Aber Mawr was also the terminus for the

first Atlantic submarine telegraph cable in 1873.

Pwllcrochan beach can only be reached by boat although, if one of my guidebooks is to be believed, there was, perhaps is still, a rope down which the intrepid explorer can absail to the bay beneath. I never shone at rope climbing in the gym at school (never did reach the top of a rope), so I had already promised myself this was not a diversion I was going to make. Discretion is, as Roger McGough would have it, the better part of Valerie. Instead, I gawped at the tortured rocks and watched the youngsters cavorting in the waves beneath me.

From Pwllcrochan the path climbs up on to a rocky ridge, which the map doesn't even grace with a name. The greyish white rocks here are typical of all this stretch of coast, from about Caerfai, close to St David's. On my left, the sea was far, far below - some 400ft - while to my right cows were grazing about a field's width away. So, despite feeling as if I were alone on this ridge in the Himalayas, I wasn't really.

An open stone shelter - like an animal pound - had been built on one summit while a cairn had been placed on another, presumably as a guide to boats, around this rocky, treacherous part of the Strumble peninsula - the headland beneath (Penbwchdy) has been the cause of many a shipwreck.

Civilisation was on the horizon I could tell - a well-placed bench (no plaque on this one) forewarned the intrepid explorer - and I was shortly looking down on Pwllderi bay. The caves, fissures and small rocky islands combine to make the bay very picturesque.

In front of me all the way along the rocky, boulder-strewn path had loomed Garn Fawr, at 700ft the highest 'peak' in this area. By the time I arrived at the white cottage at its base I had decided: I would clamber up, just because I could. (The lower white house in the picture is a youth hostel).

As expected, the views in every direction from the rocky peak were panoramic and I would have spent longer there had there not been about a million flying ants protecting the trig stone. Stone walls outlined enclosures on the summit, which I interpreted as part of the prehistoric fort marked on the map.

Rather touchingly in the ruins of a lookout hut is a stone inscribed with two WW1 names, and nearby another with the names of the two builders. Close by is a compass engraved on a boulder - not wholly necessary, I feel, as even I knew that Strumble Head lighthouse is pretty well exactly due north! And if the lookouts couldn't see the lighthouse about a mile away, how on earth would they see invaders coming from the west? A cold, lonely spot which didn't see much action is probably the answer.

The lighthouse might be a mile away as the proverbial crow / gull would find it, but along the path there was still about 3 miles. It was a stony and what I call 'grumbulating' route, as the lighthouse - which has the air of the sort of birthday candle you can't blow out - seemed to take an unconscionable time to reach (actually about 1½ hours).

I guess even a cairn needs sunglasses - and the colour scheme matches the heather!

Total walked: 142.5 out of 186