Have you ever wanted to plant your foot where no foot has been before? Is it necessary to do like Bear Grylls or Steve Backshall, tackling terrifying climbs and delving deep inside the most remote corners of the Earth? You’d need Steve’s physique and a broadcaster’s budget, wouldn’t you? Actually, no – you can just go to Pembrokeshire.
I’d been watching the social media posts of a guy called Henry Castle for some time. There was usually a photo of an amazing cliff above a turquoise sea and a pristine strand of golden beach. Then Henry would write something like, “New routes to be done here”, or “No one’s been here for years!” I gave him a ring.
Some time later, I found myself standing on just such a beach near Stackpole Head, on Pembrokeshire’s southern shore. There were vast legs of stone all around, vaulted caverns lit by shafts of sunlight coming through blowholes far above. It was like walking with dinosaurs: we were the tiny mammals scampering under the bellies of immense, ancient creatures and there were no other footprints. “Let’s go up the far end of the beach,” said Henry. “We’re going to do a climbing route called Diedre Sud – it’s a classic.”
We wandered through a maze of caves. In one place a gush of freshwater came spurting from the floor. There were sparkles of crystals in cavern roofs, shards of shipwrecks, rockpools twitchy with prawns.
To get into this lost world we had abseiled 45 metres off a grassy clifftop, our lives hanging on a metal post that Henry assured me was secure. Not every abseil is quite so demanding, but all of Henry’s journeys do begin, necessarily, with a descent. My own experience began with a moment of self-examination, but when I heard Henry’s shout – “Kevin! Abseil when ready!” – I stopped the internal dialogue and went for it. Within a minute, I was an abseil addict. The views were magnificent and the sense of space exhilarating.
On our first morning, we had climbed the cliffs at Penally, a mile south-west of Tenby: sea-washed slabs of rock, not vertical, and so a little easier. At low tide, we scrambled along to an inaccessible beach called Frank’s Shore and peeped up a blowhole that led all the way to the clifftop. “That’s Inner Space Hole,” Henry told me. “A 35-metre abseil, ending on a beach inside a cave!”
Henry is a sea cliff evangelist: his passion evident in every story he tells, whether it’s about the flora and fauna, or the early climbing pioneers. On Diedre Sud we had to reroute ourselves to avoid disturbing a nesting seagull, then paused on a hands-width ledge to admire the staggering view. Henry told me about Colin Mortlock, who first climbed this 45-metre epic in 1967. It was the Summer of Love and revolution was in the air, but Mortlock had another transformation in mind: he wanted to inspire people to tackle real adventures. Not only did he pioneer Pembrokeshire climbing, he also began exploring the coast by kayak.
“They had blank canvases then,” says Henry. “They wouldn’t even climb anything that had been done before. It’s different now, but there are still plenty of new routes to be found, and some of these coves rarely see anyone.”
Is there adventure for climbing novices, and children?
“There’s something for everyone.”
With Mortlock’s inspiring example, I decided to continue my search for places without footprints. A few days later, with daughter Maddy (13), I took Henry’s advice and investigated some other lost corners, this time by canoeing and swimming.
First we paddled from Stackpole Quay around to Barafundle Bay, stopping to inspect two beaches and several long caves – waterproof torch required. On a hot day, these caverns are magical: quiet and cool with, perhaps, the distant sound of waves slapping the smooth stones somewhere deep inside the Earth’s belly. On the far side of the bay, we tied the canoe to a buoy and swam through the double sea arch. Over our heads was a climb pioneered by Henry, called Rhino Ridge.
Our second discovery was Skrinkle Haven, a beach that is only accessible via its neighbouring cove, Church Doors, and then by a mysterious clamber through a narrow sea cave. There are some great wild swims here, but remember the rule of tides: in the six hours, approximately, between low and high tide, avoid the fastest flow rates in the two middle hours. (The book Wild Swimming: Hidden Beaches gives further advice.)
Not all of Pembrokeshire’s hidden delights are so difficult to reach. Another of Henry’s tips was to canoe the inland creek from Cresswell Quay to Lawrenny, home to a very good cafe (Quayside). Further inland, far from main roads and towns, is another lost world on the banks of the Cleddau estuary, an area of winding, tranquil lanes and a creek fringed by small cliffs and ancient oak woodland. It’s a place that slipped from view when the railways took over from shipping, and is now left to the otters and the curlews. Artist Graham Sutherland found inspiration here for much of his work, especially in the strangely twisted trees. From our cottage at night, we went badger watching and found otter tracks by the water.
And when the adventure is done, my advice is to head for Narberth: not exactly a place without footprints, but I certainly did not expect to find such a buzzing little town with a great cafe, Plum Vanilla, and a truly wonderful deli, Ultra Comida.
• The trip was arranged by Visit Pembrokeshire. Henry Castle at Climb Pembroke runs guiding and skills training courses, and rock climbing and abseiling days for groups and families; from £50pp for groups of four to six. For would-be climbers, Henry recommends Rock Climbing by Libby Peters. For wild swimmers: Wild Swimming: Hidden Beaches by Daniel Start. Ria’s Cottage (from £457 per week, 01348 837871, qualitycottages.co.uk) near Landshipping, sleeps four and welcomes dogs. Rail travel was provided by thetrainline.com
