In 2023, I returned to the centrepoint of all my childhood holidays, where my family and I spent two weeks every summer in a simple cabin overlooking a curved beach and a rocky headland. I had been unsure whether I wanted to re-awaken those memories, which make me sad last time I visited, given that both my father and my sister are no longer with us. But the beautiful summer weather, and encouragement from Jo, led me to the car park next to the abominable set of houses built in the 1980s. They’ve fortunately been surrounded by an ever-increasing number of trees that hide them more from view in recent years.
Striking out across the back of the dunes, I was immediately reminded of how difficult it is to walk in trainers on shifting sand. Twenty-five years ago, these dunes were in danger of sliding away altogether; now they have been anchored by grasses and ferns. Spiky memories from childhood are now constrained to the lower slopes of the sandy hillocks bordering the beach — a great shame, but at least one that ensures the dunes will stand the test of winter tides.
As we schlepped up to the top of the highest dune, we came across a bright green moth caterpillar with yellow stripes, desperately making its way from one side of the path to the other. We stopped and watched its efforts for a few minutes and were pleased to see that it made it safely across — a minor marathon for such a small creature.
A little further on, I found the view I had come to photograph: looking down over a tufted hillock of grasses, across the beach with tiny stick-like people making their way back and forth, and across the bay to the distinctive rocky headland I remember so well. Having taken the photograph I wanted to capture, we carried on along the trail, part of the Pembrokeshire Coast Path.
Passing through a leafy glade, on the left of which the remains of a ruin still sit, we reached the junction leading up to the cluster of houses and bungalows where I used to stay as a child. The path leads on towards Swanlake Bay, but short, rocky steps lead onto the beach here.
When I was about thirteen or fourteen, I remember running all the way up from this beach to a family friend’s house to use the telephone, calling the Coast Guard when an older man slipped on the rocks, banged his head, and knocked himself unconscious. The great excitement of the big yellow helicopter landing on the beach was one of the highlights of my time in Freshwater East — albeit a slightly happier memory for me than for the man concerned. I sometimes wonder what became of him, whether he was okay in the end.
The intervening years have played many tricks on the distances and sizes of places from my youth. The tiny trickle of water running from the coast path down to the beach is smaller than I remember, yet the rocky elevation where my dad used to sit and keep an eye on us as we played in the surf remains unchanged. The next cluster of rocks along the coast, where we were allowed to sit when we were a little older — with more space to spread out and further from the steps down to the beach — is still the same.
I scrambled easily over the red sandstone rocks, finding a vantage point from which to take another photograph towards the headland. It’s strange that I didn’t feel as sad as I had expected. I had worried that being at the beach would make me unhappy, but in the end it was okay. Although I have so many memories here, the fact that Dad and Sarah are no longer with us didn’t weigh too heavily on my mind. Perhaps it was the beauty of the warm day, and the sense that they wouldn’t want me to be unhappy, that allowed me to focus on taking pictures and enjoying an hour or so by the sea.
I no longer have the expertise to judge exactly when the tide is coming in or going out, but it soon became clear that we weren’t going to reach the large cave this time, to which I’ve been returning since I was a kid. As I was photographing a large rock with my camera on its tripod, it became evident that the tide was indeed coming in, not going out. I took my shots and moved around the corner to the large rock pool I remember from my youth — one of the subjects I particularly wanted to photograph on this visit.
I had a quick and amusing chat with a young local family, reminiscing about playing in the giant rock pool in which I played as a child. Their dog entering the water made me joke that perhaps the sea wasn’t warmed by the sun, but by enthusiastic pets splashing around. As it turns out, the family father also remembers the days when the small cabins and the ugly houses down at Trewent Point were rental properties; now they are all privately owned holiday homes.
Having taken the photographs I’d hoped for, we walked back along the beach for twenty minutes or so, barefoot with our trousers rolled up. Jo searched for stones and found a couple of Pembrokeshire rocks with small holes in them. I took a few snaps of the water lapping over my feet and recorded a couple of short video sequences with sound, so I can replay them when I’m back home in the mountains.
After walking the full length of the beach — remembering how we used to call the Trewent end “the shitty end” because of an increased amount of litter nearer the beach cafe— I stood in the water for a few minutes, not caring about the base of my trousers, taking it all in. Looking up along the beach to the headland, across to Trewent Point, east along the coastline. I paused for breath before turning my back on the sea and walking back to the car.
