Crikey, it’s a good job I’m not a watchmaker – five hours to get to Southerndown, a brand-new camera slung over my shoulder, and one red fox Labrador who doesn’t believe in rest days. That, my friends, is the making of a blog post.

We set off in high spirits from the edge of Llantwit Major, the morning light crisp and clear. Just a short way in, the land opened up to one of those postcard-perfect Vale of Glamorgan views — Rosedew Farm standing proud among golden fields, each dotted with neat stacks of hay. The whitewashed farmhouse sat tucked between rich green pastures and a fringe of trees, a picture of rural calm before the wilder coast ahead. I couldn’t resist stopping for the first shot of the day. The Canon EOS R hummed into life, Toby waited (impatiently), and the walk truly began.

The morning was glorious in that moody Welsh way – shafts of light piercing through a quilt of cloud, the sort of sky that makes you think something epic’s about to happen. And maybe it was. We’d barely made it out of town when Toby decided today was a sprint day. Every puddle, every sniff, every rustle in the undergrowth had to be investigated at full throttle. At one point I was genuinely concerned he’d found a portal to another dimension in a rock pool.

Just beyond the headland, the path dipped down to the first of the day’s coves — Tresilian Bay. It’s one of those places you could easily miss if you didn’t know it was there. A pocket of calm tucked away from the main trail, with a pair of whitewashed cottages sitting like old sentinels above the pebble shore. The gardens were bright with late summer colour, the air still except for the faint hiss of waves across stone. Toby, naturally, broke the peace by trying to introduce himself to everyone within a fifty-yard radius.

From there, the trail curved gently toward St Donats, and we dropped down to the small, tucked-away beach. The tide was gentle, washing over the rocks in a steady hush, and the sand was dark with the morning’s retreating waves. Toby trotted straight in, paddling and splashing like he’d been waiting all day for this moment. I picked my way across the stones, trying to keep my boots dry — not entirely successfully — as we left a meandering set of footprints in the wet sand.

Just along from where Toby had been splashing about, the beach opened into a sweep of wet sand and tide pools. The retreating water had carved delicate lines through the shore, pulling back around small islands of rock crowned with seaweed. The cliffs in the distance stood muted under a soft, shifting sky, and the whole scene felt like a pause — the sort of quiet you only get between tides.

From the beach, the trail pulled us up into the shelter of a woodland path. A steep set of steps wound upward, and then — quite suddenly — we were out in the open again. Before us lay a wide, golden field, its tall stems bending and whispering in the breeze. Overhead, the sky had taken on a mood. Clouds piled high in slow motion, deep charcoal at the edges and bright silver where the sun still fought through.

From there, the path dropped gently toward Nash Point Beach, where the tide was well out, leaving a wide sweep of pale sand and a patchwork of tide pools scattered across it. I wandered among the rock formations, their surfaces patterned with barnacles and seaweed, each surrounded by still water that mirrored the cliffs above.

Soon, the sands of Monk Nash Beach stretched ahead, the tide so far out it felt like we were walking into another country. Long lines of rock ran like pathways through the sand, broken by pools that mirrored the heavy sky.

As we left Monk Nash behind, the light began to change. The sky took on a heavier tone, deep greys gathering to the west while the sun still lit the cliffs in warm gold. Pools of seawater lay across the flat rock beds, each one a mirror for the approaching clouds.

At last, the cliffs gave way to the wide-open sweep of Dunraven Bay. The tide was far out, leaving a broad plain of smooth sand that seemed to go on forever. Above, the clouds layered themselves in shifting shades of grey, the sea just a pale strip at the edge of it all.

We skirted around the bay toward Temple Bay, where the cliffs rose up in great, striped walls of sandstone and shale. The little waterfall here spilled gently from the greenery above, trickling over rocks into shallow pools. I found a flat stone to sit on and let my legs relax while Toby explored the water’s edge.

Climbing up from the beach toward the village, I couldn’t resist turning around one last time. The view stretched endlessly — a tapestry of sand, rock, and water, framed by the cliffs we’d followed for hours.

Leaving the beach behind, we cut inland across the fields toward the village — and the Golden Cups — carefully giving a wide berth to a small herd of young, curious cows. Ahead, the sky darkened again, a deep and brooding curtain gathering across the horizon. The golden grass glowed against the storm, and an old stone barn stood weathered and calm, as if entirely unimpressed by the spectacle above.

The Golden Cups was a welcome sight. I ordered something hearty and unpretentious, and a pint that tasted like liquid reward. Toby collapsed under the table with a sigh that said, “Wake me for sausages.”

It was the sort of meal that doesn’t need frills. Just food, a tired dog at your feet, and that post-walk glow that settles in your bones.

The bus home was bliss. Toby was out cold before we’d pulled away from the stop. I just stared out the window, half-listening to the driver chatting about the weather, replaying bits of the walk in my head, already thinking about the photos and whether any would be good enough to print.

Back home, Toby made a nest out of his blanket and didn’t move for the rest of the night.. Kicked my boots off, and started flicking through the shots. Some good ones in there – maybe even a few keepers. But honestly? The walk was the real win. Fresh air, empty paths, wild skies, and a daft dog for company. I had a well earned glass of whisky … only to wake up in the early hours still in the chair, glass in hand, bar two sips missing.

Moody Skies and Muddy Paws: A Coastal Ramble to Southerndown

A Wet Walk to Nash Point (and a Soggy Photographer and Toby)