The Heart of the Sea Cliffs: Meditations at St Govans, Pembroke.

Give me a few minutes of your time, and let me describe a scene to you. I’d ask you to close your eyes, but as this is written media that might pose a bit of an issue, so you’ll just have to imagine with your eyes open. 

It’s mid-morning on a bank holiday Monday in Pembrokeshire. On Friday night you made the long drive down along winding country lanes and endless roundabouts for the promise of a slightly better weather forecast than home. Though Saturday brought beautiful sunshine and that first real taste of summer, Sunday reneged viciously on its promises of more blue skies. Almost a whole day of rain left you huddled in the van, counting down the hours, only emerging to squelch across saturated ground to the campsite loos. 

That was yesterday though. This morning the clouds are clearing and the horizon is no longer blurred by incoming downpours. Determined to justify that tank of fuel, you and your climbing partner marched to the top of St Govan’s East, optimistically glossing over the damp grass of the gearing-up area and the muddy soil that stuck to your bare toes as you abseiled over the edge of the cliff and down to the large rock ledge below. This crag doesn’t have the routes that you both had earmarked for this trip, but it does catch that morning sun, and that’s exactly what’s needed to dry up those seeping cracks and burn off that early morning greasiness on the first few metres of rock, remnants of yesterday’s deluge. 

Horribly aware of the limited time before your imminent return to the real world tonight, you did, perhaps, come down a little too early. The route your partner wanted to lead is definitely too greasy to begin climbing. No one likes to reach for a ledge and find it slippery and frictionless beneath their fingers, or stand up onto what should be a good foot-hold, only to feel the clock ticking down to an inevitable slip. So, here you are. Waiting for an available route to dry, or for a dry route to become available. You’ve found a boulder between the tideline and the cliff, with a gentle slant and a sea-worn top just beginning to warm up. It’s perfect to pass the time on and you recline, stretched out with you harness carefully arranged so nothing digs into your back. 

You love sea cliffs more than any other type of climbing, and this is why. The mountains are beautiful of course, with their rugged peaks and stark faces, but the sea was your favourite place long before you discovered the mountains. You adore its changing faces: the drama it can add to already exciting climbs when the incoming tide angrily pounds the base of routes, or the tranquillity it brings to days when green-blue waves roll gently around the rocks.  

Quietly concerned that the weather may snatch back its summer promises once more, you soak up every iota of the young morning sun as it pushes through the clouds. Gradually, the early mistiness burns away, replaced by small thin clouds that crack apart like drought-ridden soil to reveal a rich, vivid blue behind. The wind is blowing off the land, so it’s going to be a hot day down on the sheltered crags.  

On the retreat, the tide crashes lazily against the boulder field that protects the ledge. The rhythmic gushing like a resting heartbeat, soothing your thoughts and beating back stresses and anxieties. Occasionally, a bigger wave interrupts the pattern with a low roar, and a plume of spray will shoot into the air, glittering as it patters back down onto the pitted limestone below. It misses you, but you wouldn’t mind if it didn’t. The sea too, glitters, a constantly changing swarm of dazzling pinpoints reflecting the bright sunshine. One of the small brown birds that swoop around the cliffs lands close by, tilting its head in that funny little staccato way that birds have, inspecting this brightly coloured invader into its world. It peeps indignantly at you, then hops to a lower boulder, searching for food. For the twentieth time, you promise yourself you’ll look up what it is when you return to the top of the cliff and signal, knowing full well you’ll forget as soon as you touch the rocks and the movement of the climb absorbs you.¹  

Aside from the sea and the birds, the only other sound in this rocky oasis is the gentle clinking of metal gear as it hangs from the harnesses of other climbers. Periodic shouts of “Safe!” and “Off belay!” punctuate the calm, but they don’t disturb your meditation – you’re used to only listening out for the specific voice of your own partner, and you tend to tune out the routine communications of other groups. That specific voice does call you now though, her chosen route is free and dry, and she’s ready to set off. You roll to your feet and pick your way back over the boulder field to the base of the cliff, joining her as she flakes out the ropes into piles that will move freely and easily up the cliff with her. You both tie in to the ropes, and you thread her end through your belay device while she pulls on her rock shoes.  

The sea will be waiting for you the next time you step backwards over a cliff on an abseil, but for now, its hypnotic murmuring fades into the background. Now, it’s time to climb.  

1. Thanks to writing this, I did finally remember to look up what those birds are, and I’m pretty sure they’re rock pipits. Years-long mystery solved.