The 303 bus spat me out at the Three Golden Cups. It’s a reliable bit of clockwork, that bus, which is more than I can say for my left hip. Toby, who has the patience of a toddler in a sweet shop, watched the bus pull away with a look of deep betrayal. He’s convinced the driver has a hidden stash of sausages and has gone off to eat them all himself. I stood there on the damp pavement, adjusting my bag and wondering if I’d remembered my knees.

The Starting Pistol

The village road was still glistening from a recent shower, reflecting the pub like a postcard nobody asked for. I took a second to check the camera settings. Toby took a second to nearly pull my arm out of its socket. We set off past the Cups, a sixty-eight-year-old man trying to look purposeful and a dog who thinks every blade of grass is a breaking news story.

Divine Timing

We hadn't gone far before the sky decided to stop sulking. The clouds parted and these massive sunbeams hit the village and the sea. It was the sort of light that makes you feel like you’ve been chosen for something important, though in my case, it just meant fumbling with a lens cap while my glasses fogged up. Toby gave a proper, audible sigh—the kind only a dog can manage when his human stops to "look at the view" for the tenth time.

**Sunbeams over Southerndown, like the sky remembered I brought a camera.**

The Village Censors

Moving through the village, I noticed that big building on the right standing there like a stern headmaster. With the telegraph wires cutting across and the sky having a full-blown moody tantrum, the whole place looked wonderfully dramatic. It’s a very honest sort of landscape. It doesn't try to be the French Riviera; it just sits there being Welsh and sturdy. I’m becoming quite sturdy myself, mostly around the middle.

**Houses, wires, and a sky having a full-blown tantrum.**

The River and the Left Turn

We finally hit the coast and the air changed. I stood there for a moment, squinting across the wide expanse of the sands and taking it all in. Then, I took a sharp left, heading toward the silhouette of Dunraven Castle. The river finally made its appearance here, running along my right-hand side as we made our way toward the bay. It felt like having a travelling companion that didn't bark at seagulls. The sky was brooding, the river was steady, and Toby was, as usual, pretending he’d discovered the ocean personally.

**First sight of the beach, and the river finally turns up.**

Showing Our Age

The tide was way out, exposing the "Jurassic Threshold." These rock shelves are magnificent. They look like the coastline is showing its rings, much like my forehead does when I’m trying to read a menu without my glasses. It’s a lot of history to step over. Walking on it makes you realise that the rocks were here long before your first mortgage and will be here long after the kids have spent the inheritance.

**Rock shelves and cliffs, like the coastline’s showing its age (same as me).**

The Ego Has Landed

Toby found a stretch of wet sand and suddenly transformed into a professional model. He stood there, staring out at the dusk line on the horizon as if he were contemplating the deep mysteries of the universe. In reality, he was likely wondering if a seagull would be foolish enough to land within a fifty-yard radius. I felt a surge of pride, though. He’s a handsome lad, even if he does judge my walking pace.

**Toby on wet sand, posing like he’s on the cover of a dog magazine.**

Gastronomic Visions

The sky turned a bruised purple, leaving just a thin strip of warm light on the horizon. It was stunning. It also looked exactly like the glow from a kitchen hatch. My stomach gave a loud growl that actually made Toby look around. The waves were getting louder, and my internal compass was now pointing purely towards "chips."

**A thin strip of warm light under a heavy sky.**

The Polite Leak

As we followed the cliffs toward Monknash, the waterfall appeared. It isn't a roaring cataract; it’s more of a polite Welsh leak. It spills over the edge as if it’s just noticed the sea and decided to join in. There’s something deeply satisfying about it. It’s been doing the exact same thing since the Triassic, which makes my complaints about a four-hour walk seem a bit petty.

**The cliffs stretch on, and the waterfall makes a quiet entrance.**

The Mirror Test

I got right up close to the falls where the water hits a reflective pool. It’s a beautiful mirror trick. I looked into the water and saw a sixty-eight-year-old man with a happy grin and a head that's been aerodynamic for quite some time now. No hair to worry about in the coastal wind, at least—every cloud has a silver lining, even if the lining is just a very polished scalp. My fingers were damp and I was starting to lose the feeling in my toes, but you can't beat a moment like this. It’s better than any TV show.

**Close on the waterfall, with a reflective pool doing its mirror trick.**

The Photographer’s Limbo

The sun gave us one last burst of gold on the cliff faces. I had to do a sort of undignified shuffle to get the rock pool in the foreground. Toby watched me with a look of pure embarrassment. "Is this really what we’re doing, Frank?" Fortunately, there were no witnesses, and the light was worth the risk of a slipped disc.

**Cliffs catching warm light, rock pool foreground.**

Lost in the Maze

The low tide left a labyrinth of ripples and channels. It looked like a giant tide-made map. I fell for it instantly, trying to find the "perfect" path through the reflections. It’s a dangerous game for a man of my vintage; one wrong step and you’re doing the horizontal tango in a puddle. Toby, having four-wheel drive, just trotted through it like it was a carpeted hallway.

**Low tide leaves a maze and I fall for it instantly.**

Satin and Silence

As the light faded, the world turned to blue satin. The sand was so smooth and the sea so calm it felt a bit rude to walk on it. The light was almost gone, and the "quiet" of the coast was setting in. It’s that lovely time of day where you stop worrying about your camera settings and start worrying about whether the pub kitchen shuts soon.

**Blue hour turns the beach into satin.**

The Holy Grail

We didn't turn back for Dunraven. I’m sixty-eight, not a marathon runner. We pushed on to the finish line: The Plough and Harrow at Monknash.

Toby arrived looking like he could do the whole thing again for an encore. I arrived looking like I’d just been rescued from a shipwreck. The boots came off—which, let’s be honest, is a sensation better than most holidays—and I was successfully poured into a chair. One pint of the local best, a sleeping dog at my feet, and not a single influencer in sight. Absolute bliss

A Long Walk to a Short Pint: Southerndown to Monknash