Before the Footprints Arrive

Arrival and first impressions

Starting early, down on the pristine, untouched sand before the sunrise.

Peeling myself out of a perfectly warm, cooperative duvet at 5:30 AM requires a specific level of grim stoicism usually reserved for polar expeditions or people who have miscalculated their airport transfer times. The bed is actively pleading with you to stay, but the ultimate payoff for sacrificing that final, glorious hour of proper sleep is that you get to have the entire coastline completely to yourself. There are no dog walkers, no over-enthusiastic joggers in neon Lycra, and absolutely no traffic. Just a vast, empty landscape waiting for the day to start.

I headed straight down the slippery path onto the sand first, keen to catch it before the day's inevitable footprints could arrive and ruin the pristine look of the place. Down there on the beach level, tucked beneath the towering cliffs, you're beautifully shielded from the worst of the morning wind. The retreating water had left these perfectly combed, fluid ribbed patterns across the expanse of the damp shore, looking like a giant piece of corrugated iron stretching out toward the surf. I spent a few quiet minutes closely examining a remarkably stubborn, densely packed colony of barnacles that had claimed a large foreground boulder as their permanent home, just enjoying the pure, cool stillness of the bay.

Walking and wandering

The wide, pinkish-orange horizon over the quiet sea.

Moving back up onto the clifftop track, there is a distinct, completely unhurried rhythm to a 6:00 AM stroll when you’re entirely on your own. There is no one to keep pace with, no conversation to maintain, and absolutely no schedule to stick to. You can’t exactly rush the pace anyway, mostly because the terrain demands a fair bit of respect. If you take your eyes off the uneven limestone shelves for even a split second, you’ll inevitably end up face-first in a cold rock pool.

As I picked my way carefully back up onto the clifftop track, the heavy overcast tones of dawn suddenly relented, revealing a remarkably delicate, pastel band of sunrise pink and soft orange stretching right across the distant horizon. It was a beautiful transition, completely changing the mood of the coast in the space of about two minutes. I stopped dead in my tracks, shoved my hands as deep into my pockets as they would physically go, and simply stood there watching the sky do its thing over a view that felt entirely mine.

Light changes and weather

The soft sand, barnacle-covered rocks, and the distant tide.

By the time I scrambled further along the limestone rock shelves, the morning had completely shifted gears again. The fleeting pastel pinks were entirely gone, and the sun was properly up. It caught the wet, dark stone perfectly, lifting the whole coastline out of the shadows and casting a clean, pale warmth over the rock pools.

The water down below was still churning away like soapy dishwater against the ledges, but under the proper morning light, everything looked crisp, sharp, and newly minted. I’ve looked out at this exact stretch of coastline in every conceivable weather condition over the years, but there’s an immense satisfaction in watching the details of the rock shelves sharpen up as the sun takes over.

Repetition and rhythm

The flat, misty cliffs and movement of the water.

These frames weren’t captured in a single, lucky morning; they were gathered during quiet walks over three weeks in May. It’s a lovely thing, returning to the exact same square of limestone to watch how the spring light shifts day by day.

Just as I turned back towards the car park to head for home on this particular visit, the sky decided to throw one final, highly dramatic tantrum. The weather here doesn't like to settle for long. A mass of moody, bruised purple clouds rolled in, hanging low over the headland and looking thoroughly miserable. But right as I thought it was going to pack it in and rain, these theatrical shafts of golden morning light began piercing through the gaps, cutting straight down onto the surface of the Bristol Channel like spotlights on an empty stage. It was the parting shot of the morning—vast, slightly unforgiving, but thoroughly dependable in its ability to surprise you.

A quiet ending

The heavy coastal dampness was just starting to settle into a proper, thick sea mist over the top of the headland by the time I finally made it back to the safety of the car. The cliffs behind me were already starting to dissolve into the white soup. I climbed inside, turned the key, and sat there idling for a good five minutes, just waiting for the blast of the heater to finally conquer the foggy windscreen and thaw out my fingers.

As the glass cleared, I felt thoroughly satisfied that I’d put in a highly respectable, proper shift for a pre-breakfast stroll. There is something immensely satisfying about having an adventure before the rest of the neighbourhood has even thought about turning over in bed.

Ten minutes of careful driving later, I was walking back through my own front door just as the kitchen kettle hit a loud, triumphant roll. I was more than ready for a substantial mountain of buttered toast, a quiet kitchen, and a second, much less active, entirely stationary cup of tea. Though the quiet didn't last long—the moment I sat down, Toby launched himself entirely over the back of the sofa, thoroughly frantic about where on earth I’d been for the last two hours, and very nearly sent the entire mug of tea flying across the rug.

These photograghs were taken over three weeks in May.