I found another batch of leaflets today during a sort-out, and will post some of them in the coming weeks in case they are of interest. I’ve never seen the submerged forest at Borth, which needs a very low tide to see it properly, but it’s now firmly on my radar. As well as previewing the leaflet in the images below, you can download it as a PDF by clicking here: Submerged forest leaflet
Well the news today is first that in Wales we are going back into lockdown for a 17-day “firebreak” period from Friday 23rd October until Monday 9th November. Second, according to the NHS Covid app loaded on my phone, the LL35 postcode (Aberdovey) is now a High Risk area for Covid. Not terribly surprising, though, after the summer influx. Hey ho.
After a tedious few hours doing paperwork and filing I had to go to the Post Office this afternoon, so even though it was grey and dull, I took in a brief stroll along the golf course, sand dunes and walked back along the beach.
On the golf course I was hoping for some wild mushrooms, and just as I had given up, and was about to walk over the dunes to the beach, I spotted a single parasol (Macrolepiota procera) in the tall grass where the sand dunes meet the golf course. A beauty, and a real result. It was so perfect that it was almost a shame to eat it, but eat it I did.
Normally I would just have it in butter, garlic and parsley, but I had already planned a Hungarian chicken and mushroom dish for the evening, Paprikás Csirke (paprika chicken), so instead of shop-bought field mushrooms the parasol was deployed. There are many different ways of doing Paprikás Csirke, but I simply do it the way my Mum did it, which is a very simple, quick recipe that produces a super meal that is full of flavour.
In the recipe, button mushrooms are added to the sauce as described below. In the picture, however, what look like two pieces of steak are the two halves of my parasol mushroom top, served on the side of the chicken in the paprika and sour cream sauce, alongside griddled courgette discs.
First, depending on how many people you are feeding, use a a whole chicken that has been jointed, one or more chicken joints, breasts or thighs. Whatever you choose, this is poached with a bay leaf, sliced onion, lemon zest and peppercorns. I also added the stalk of the parasol, because although it has flavour, it is too woody to eat. The poaching stock is reserved, because it is used to make the sauce.
The mushrooms are tossed in butter before setting on one side. The sauce is made by adding flour and paprika (and optional cayenne pepper) to the mushroom juices – add some more butter if necessary to soak of the flour. Slowly add the required amount of strained poaching liquid, stirring constantly, to make a light velouté. Keep stirring until it is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. The chicken and button mushrooms and some lemon zest are then added to the sauce (mine differed because instead of many smaller mushrooms I divided my one large mushroom into two and served them on the side), and everything is simmered til warmed through. Sour cream is then added and stirred in and heated through for a minute or so with a good handful of chopped parsley. If you cannot get hold of sour cream, any cream will do as a substitute although the slight sharpness of crème fraîche or Greek yoghurt are a good match.
To serve, place a dollop of the cream on top of each serving, give it a good grind of black pepper and sea salt. I also like a good squeeze of lemon juice over the whole. It is good accompanied with plain white rice, noodles or your preferred veg. Ribbon or griddled courgettes go very well with this dish, and I opted for the latter. Optional additions to make it go further are cooked baby new potatoes and/or small, butter-fried shallots thrown into the sauce before the cream is added.
A nice walk over the hill and down the other side on the 25th September, through the Gywddgwion farm on the footpath, dropping down into a (mostly) dry stream bed that doubles up as a footpath in the summer, to collect some blackberries, emerging at Dyffryn Glyn Cul farm. We strolled down the single track lane to the coast road, crossed over and headed towards the dunes, and from there down on to the beach. This is my favourite bunch of beach photos to date. There were a couple of nice days after this, but it was the last of my walking for the time being, as I had to get down to some work. Adding the photos to this post rather belatedly on October 4th, the difference between those divine last days of September and the onset of October wind and rain is truly amazing.
Nearly every walk I’ve done around Aberdovey has been a riotous success, but on Saturday it all went slightly wrong in spite of the stunning sunshine. I was trying to scope out a route to another hillfort. I had already made the mistake of crossing a footpath through a field that turned out to be very boggy, so ended up with soggy socks and damp jeans, before turning onto a single track road for a couple of kilometers. Its hedges were so high that I couldn’t see much of the scenery and when I turned onto the footpath it was so overgrown with brambles that it was a struggle to get anywhere. There were a few nice flowers, including toadflax, lots of honeysuckle and a few late foxgloves, and a couple of damselflies and dragonflies, but otherwise it was just a fight against the increasingly vigorous thorny tendrils so eventually, when they were knee-high and seriously impeding progress, I gave up. Fortunately I was in jeans rather than my usual shorts, which saved my legs, but it was disappointing. There’s another approach that I’ll try on another day. I decided to return home, stopping first at the beach outside the crush in Aberdovey itself, parking up opposite the cemetery.
As I crossed the dunes and walked across the grey pebbles down onto the beach, the sight was rather bizarre – facing towards Aberdovey it looked as though several lines of humans in the distance, in silhouette, were moving in slow motion towards me. It was slightly eerie, shades of zombie invasion movies. Fortunately, they were just out to enjoy the sunshine, like me. There was a vintage RAF propeller plane overhead. Many thanks to Hugh Tyrrell for responding to my request for information about it. He says that it is a restored Avro Anson from Sleap airfield in Shropshire, painted in D Day colours. It is owned by a aviation enthusiast who takes passengers for local trips. This time he was further away from home and was probably flying back after visiting Llanbedr. It was a really marvellous sight, with a very distinctive engine sound. An elegant visitor and a contrast to the super-fast jets that we often have roaring overhead around here, also rather fascinating in their own particular way.
After a walk along the Dysynni last week, I did a three point turn by the footbridge and drove back along the line of the railway. Instead of turning left to head back towards Tywyn I decided to turn right over the level crossing and park up to see if I could reproduce the picture from the Cardigan Bay Visitor that I posted last week. Unfortunately for that plan I had reckoned without the addition of a caravan park since the original illustration was drawn, and both the railway track and the village were completely hidden behind it. On the other hand, the beach at low tide was a complete revelation.
This part of Tywyn is apparently called Sandilands, but is something of a misnomer. There is certainly sand on the beach, but mostly it is a mixture of fine and coarse gravel, surprisingly harsh on the feet, with some swathes of pebbles around, all divided by wooden breakers. I had never seen it at low tide, and was amazed to see that the sloping beach ended in huge green-topped rocks and lovely weed-filled rock pools with sand between them, with an enormous stretch of wide open sea on the other side. The sea was splendid, with lovely white-topped waves chasing each other in, crashing on the rocks and pebbles and sounding just what a seaside should sound like.
There were quite a few people around, most large family/friend groups, but not so many that social distancing was a problem, and it was all terribly civilized. I had really enjoyed having the Tonfanau beach all to myself, but it was also splendid to see people of all ages launching themselves into the waves and having a really great time. The caravan park overlooking the beach takes the edge off the beauty of the place, but keep your eyes facing seawards and there is nothing to disappoint.
I was intrigued by what looked like huge boulders made of coral. When I stooped to touch one, it was clear that these rock-like structures were made of sand, and consisted of fine walls dividing thousands of tiny tunnels. The beach is full of them, and they are really very lovely. After a rumble round the web I found that they are Honeycomb worm (Sabellaria alveolata) colonies. The reef structures resemble honeycomb. The colonies form on hard substrates and they need sand and shell fragments for tube-building activities. They manufacture the tubes from mucus to glue the tiny pieces together. When the tide is out the worms retreat deep into the tunnels, but when the tide covers their reefs their heads protrude and they feed on micro-organisms in the water, including plankton.
Because there are rock pools, it is possible to see various seaweeds in their natural habitat floating freely in the clear water, a lovely kaleidoscope of colour. In the pools themselves there were lots of tiny fish, which can be seen in the video. On the actual rocks (rather than the honecomb worm reefs) there were limpets, barnacles and various sea snails, none of which we have in Aberdovey due to the lack of rocks. Of course there are none of the shells that Aberdovey’s beach has in such profusion, because they get broken up on the rocks and pebbles but, together with the pebble beach at Tonfanau, it’s super that there are three such contrasting beaches such a short distance apart.
I had a lovely long paddle, and would have loved to have had a swim, but even if I had gone in with my denim shorts and t-shirt, I had no way of drying myself off. Next time for sure, and I’ll start to keep a towel in the car!
Looking to the north, beyond the caravan park and the breakers, the beach was quite, quite empty. That too is a walk for another day, but it must be a really peaceful way of walking up to the Dysynni.
The video below captures some of the contrasts of the beach – people swimming and enjoying the waves, lovely coloured seaweeds in rock pools, sections of empty sea with waves chasing each other onto the beach, and that fascinating honeycomb reef.
I was looking, as usual, for something else entirely when I stumbled across this advert on the Welsh Newsapers online website, in The Cardigan Bay Visitor. It dates to June 30th 1894. It picks up on an 1892 story in another publication and repeats it with what feels like a distinctly self-satisfied air. There’s nothing much to add to it, I just thought that people might like to see it. You can click on the text to enlarge it to a readable size, but the text is also copied out in full below the image.
“ABERDOVEY AS A WINTER RESORT. We have just heard of Aberdovey as being a splendid winter resort, and it is considered by eminent medical authorities to be a friendly rival to Torquay. Aber- dovey faces full south, and the high hills behind completely shelter it from the cold and boisterous North-east, North, and North-west winds. Now we have all heated of the “Bells of Aberdovey,” and almost every school girl who has “spanked on the grand pianner” has learnt to play Brinley Richards’—or was it some other musicians ?—composition on the much-tortured instrument which is supposed to simulate the harmonious tinkling of those famous Welsh Bells. But have we all heard Happy Valley, about two miles from Aberdovey ? Have we taken those walks to the legendary Bearded Lake and Arthur’s Hoof? Then the long, long miles of the sands of Aberdovey, so rich in shells and pebbles, what a splendid promenade they make. Now all you non-fashionable people whose purses are not sufficiently long for Bath, Bournemouth, and Torquay, hie you to Aberdovey for the winter, if you shrink from the idea of the Continent on account of the recent cholera out- breaks. You will find plenty to interest you; and the golf ground is said to be one of the best in the United Kingdom. Hotels are not extravagant in their prices, and apartments may be obtained at very moderate terms. SELF AND PARTNER, in Sala’s Journal, November 19th, 1892.”
You can check out the original page at
After walking up Tonfanau to see the Iron Age hillfort I went along the road to Tonfanau station, crossed the tracks and passed part of the old military camp to go down to the pebble beach. It is an excellent place for watching the oyster catchers, and I was lucky to find some pottering around at the water’s edge, amongst the small rocks. Oystercatchers are lovely to look at. Their bright orange beak and pink legs make them stand out from any background, whilst their black and white plumage is particularly distinctive when the birds are in flight. They make a piercing peeping sound, which can be heard here on the British Birdsongs website. Oystercatchers feed on molluscs that the find on rocky shorelines, which they open by stabbing the sharp beak through linking muscles, and then hitting on stones and rocks to break them up, sometimes audibly. The video below shows a pair of them on the beach at Tonfanau. Duration: 1 minute, 33 seconds.
Due to the difficulty of walking on pebbles and the discomfort of lying on them, together with the rocky approach to the sea that challenges bare feet, there are rarely many other people there. Whilst Aberdovey was simply packed, there were only a handful of people along that stretch of the sea, two of them fishing in waders, quite a long way out. Walking back to the Tonfanau bridge over the Dysynni as it opens out into the sea, the path is flanked either side with verges full of wild flowers at the moment.
So much for my plans for another long walk today. Had a late swim in the sea last night after most of the beach-dwellers had gone home for the evening, and it was still very warm when I returned to the house. I had been planning another hill walk today, but the weather forecast wasn’t promising, and it’s just as well I didn’t venture out early because by mid-morning thunder was rumbling and there were flashes of lightning and by the afternoon the sky had turned charcoal, and when the rain came it wasn’t messing around! Even so, the view was amazingly striking. Aberdovey and Ynyslas still look fabulous even under looming blue-black clouds! The photos below show the sequence, over 16 minutes from 1502 this afternoon, from mildly intimidating to fully apocalyptic 🙂
On the next one, see if you can spot the bandstand on Pen Y Bryn!
Often when I walk on the beach in the summer, looking north to Tywyn there is a big blue sky with little fluffy white clouds and when I turn round to look back at Cerdigion it looks like the coming of Armageddon, with dark clouds gathering in an unbroken, uncompromising line. It was just like that yesterday, and it made for some dramatic colour and light contrasts.
I came down Gwelfor Road, emerging on the coast road by the Post Office, thereby bypassing what I always think of as the family section of the beach, the stretch leading away from the lifeboat station, handily close to all the facilities. It tends to be fairly jam-packed at this time of year. I usually like to wend my way through the melee to enjoy people having fun, but given the ongoing risks I thought I’d give it a miss. I headed straight into the sand dunes, which were only being used by others as a thoroughfare to cross from the road to the beach.
There was a stiff and slightly chilly breeze that occasionally developed into a fairly strong wind. Although most people were in shorts, as I was myself, most also wore jackets and fleeces, and on the beach there were a lot of colourful windbreaks erected.
A giant inflatable pink swim-ring making its way apparently under its own steam across the dunes, one of the more surreal things that have caught my eye this year. Eventually the owner became visible as he and his swim-ring, still held aloft, proceeded down the beach towards the water’s edge. I assume that a child was following on somewhere behind.
There wasn’t much in the way of wild flowers and I eventually walked down to the beach and along the water’s edge. The sea was fairly turbulent for the time of the year, and the combination of a good wind and waves seemed to be ideal for some watersports.
Watching one sailborder wading with his kit into the sea, it seemed to me that one needed a fairly impressive amount of strength just to get it out beyond the shallows, never mind to climb on board, stay on board and direct the thing. Very skillful, and so much more rewarding than thundering around on a jet ski.
When I reached the Second World War pillbox (about which I have previously written here), I crossed the dunes to take photos of the Trefeddian Hotel for yesterday’s post about the hotel’s architectural changes. It was looking quite dramatic in the full sunshine against the dark hillside.
There were a few people using the golf course, but not very many, so I wandered back along one of the water courses that wend their way through the course. I know nothing about golf, but in spite of the blatant artifice I have always found the undulating landscape and the manicured greens of a golf course rather soothing. Or at least, when not at risk of being hit in the head by a golf ball. The water courses are thriving ecosystems in their own right, with incredibly clear water and a remarkable variety of plant life. They appear from and disappear into underground conduits. There must be a direction of flow, but no current was visible today. Most of the plant life likes shallow, slow-moving water, like the great swathes of water cress, and full sunshine, like the patches of duck weed and blanket weed. There were several red damsel flies darting around, only occasionally settling.
Amphibious bistort, above and below (Persicaria amphibium). Sorry about the fuzzy image of the flower above – it was seriously windy and it simply wouldn’t sit still for long enough for me to get a clear shot. It did, however, show the leaves clearly. Between that and the one below, which shows the flower a little more clearly, but not much of the leaves, I think you can get the idea. It’s a perennial and flowers in slow-moving water from June to September.
Nearby in a hedge, was a curtain of purple, which turned out to be tufted vetch (Vicia cracca).
Patches of Ccommon centaury (Centaruium erythraea) were on the edges of the sand dunes and the golf course. Centaury is named for the centaur Chiron who used it to cure wounds inflicted by the multi-headed Greek Hydra, but it has been used as an improbable cure-all for all sorts of diverse conditions.
Walking back along the golf course, I was lucky enough to find both a puffball and, the absolute highlight of my nascent foraging activities, two enormous parasol toadstools! They were both about 10 inches tall and around 6 inches across. Absolute beauties. The nearby fennel has now gone to seed, but I picked some of that too, as it makes a great base for a stock.
Wild fennel. A few weeks ago it was covered with feathery green leaves, but now it has gone to seed. The stems and seeds are still wonderful in stock, and the seeds can be dried out and ground into and over all sorts of things, imparting a delicious, slightly aniseed flavour. Where I group up in Spain it was known locally simply as “anis.”
And here is one of the parasol tops sitting on a handy diffuser, ready for the frying pan. The stalks are too tough to eat, but I put it in a bag in the freezer for making a stock for a beef dish on another day.
I had the puffball sliced and fried in a little butter with a sprinkling of parsley on a side dish as a starter. I saved one of the parasol mushrooms for my father and served the other fried almost the same way in butter, parsley and a little garlic, with streaky bacon and a poached egg on top. It looks a bit like very flat burger in the picture, but that’s just the colouring from the butter and bacon. Dividing the two mushrooms into two dishes allowed each one to be appreciated for its own particular virtues. Wonderful. God I was stuffed!