Jack_Walkaholic continues to North Pembrokeshire

Walking the coast path in North Pembrokeshire


The June sun, already setting records for the hottest, blazed down on my back as I crunched over the rocky coast path. Whitesands Bay stretched behind me, a turquoise jewel framed by golden cliffs. Not a bad view, all things considered, especially considering the disaster that was to become today’s walk.

It started perfectly. Birdsong filled the air, the scent of wildflowers drifted on the breeze, and the map app on my phone, accurate as always. Then, right after passing those ancient hut circles, it went kaput. No map, no internet, just me and the increasingly confusing waymarkers.


Abereiddi Bay, with it’s impossibly blue lagoon and cliff-jumping crowd, was a welcome mirage. But where were the usual vendors? No ice cream van, no burger bar, just an empty car park. The thirst settled in, a dry whisper at first, then a persistent hum. My map app decided to behave itself again, what else could go wrong?

Pushing on, Porthgain offered more history than hydration. 


Slate quarries scarred the cliffs, a ruin that was a  loading factory, remnants of an industrial past, while the ruined Trefin Mill whispered tales of bygone toil.

Each cove brought a fresh hope for a shop, a cafe, anything with a liquid refreshment.

Porth this, Porth that, they blurred into a thirsty symphony of P-words.

Eventually, Abercastle, a tiny fishing village hidden in a cove, with it’s impressive burial chamber, “Carreg Sampson”.

It seemed to hold a promise of a can of pop, but nothing.

By the time I reached Abermawr and Aberbach, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows and my tongue felt like sandpaper. Three villages, countless coves, and not a single sip.

The geology lesson at Pwllcrochan, with it’s mind-bending rock formations, did little to quench my thirst.


My legs, too, were starting to complain, each step a protest against the heat and the empty void in my stomach. Pwll Deri, Porth Maen Melyn, the names blurred past like silent pleas for water. You know it’s getting late when the moths start coming out.

And then, in the distance, a blink of salvation – Strumble Head Lighthouse, its white walls glowing in the sunset. Half an hour, that’s all it was. I practically ran, spurred on by the promise of liquid redemption. 

Reaching the car, I guzzled down two litres like a man possessed, the cool water flooding every parched cell.

I’d had enough this day, but still had to drive home, just to finish my day off nicely, the M4 was closed from Pontarddulais, the diversion went into Llanelli.


Until the next time


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