Back to Nature

          Seagulls have lately been congregating, noisily, on top of a building in the city centre – which is fifty miles inland. Could it be that they were driven here by some calamitous change to their coastal environment? It is, of course, possible that they might just have lost their way, but I am now so convinced that eco-disaster is upon us that I cannot help but take the more pessimistic view.

          The Bank Holiday weekend approached and, with it, the city’s annual LGBT Pride festival. My partner had committed to spreading the message of Extinction Rebellion among the Pride revellers, while I, still hovering on the XR sidelines, was determined to follow our customary routine of escape from the impending three-day party on our doorstep. We agreed to differ, and I fled solo in the campervan to the west coast, which I imagined to be populated by seagulls moping around looking for something to eat other than plastic litter. I am pleased to report, however, that of the many seagulls I did observe, none looked bereft and very few squawked, leading me to conclude that they were relatively content. Mind you, it could be that they were all feasting on chips and ice cream, since the rare conjunction of a Bank Holiday with a heatwave had brought millions of us humans to their habitat. If I had thought to find solitude from the city streets thronged with revellers, I had landed in the middle of another kind of party – one which binged on sun, sea, sand and watersports. I drove to Abersoch, intending to sip a beer at the picturesque harbour, but there was nowhere to park. I drove on to Aberdaron, where the story was the same.

          In the end, I found a different kind of picturesque haven for peaceful contemplation (though I had to forego the beer). I had come across Plas yn Rhiw, a modest but charming old dwelling set in generous grounds high above the sparkling sea. It is now in the care of the National Trust but, in 1938, it was saved from ruin by three spinsters from Nottingham, the Keating sisters (aided by the architect, Sir Clough Williams-Ellis). The sisters lived quietly creative lives, gardening, painting, reading and campaigning for rural conservation. They were fulfilled, apparently, though their child-sized single beds upstairs spoke of a deep solitude – different from the kind of quiet I was seeking.

          It is not difficult to avoid seaside crowds: just hop onto the coastal path and, anywhere more than half a mile from a car park, you are pretty much alone. On a stretch of the Llyn Peninsula there is – again, thanks to the National Trust – a tenanted farm that is run on conservational principles designed to encourage biodiversity. I found myself alone there, nodding approvingly at the information panels that describe the work being done. The farm makes the case for rolling back the ill-effects of monoculture and gives a glimpse of the past – and possible future – of farmland. Afterwards, back on the cliff path, I shook my head disapprovingly at the sight and sound of high-powered, gas-guzzling boats and ‘boatercycles’ charging across the formerly placid sea in a fury of pointless, fossil-fuel burning.

          Early next morning, before the motorboats had been refuelled and dragged into the sea, I walked the cliff tops in near silence and with only butterflies accompanying me. In the distance, I saw another walker, peering through binoculars and, as I approached, decided to greet him. “All quiet on the Western Front,” I said, cheerily. He looked at me, uncomprehending. “Have you spotted anything interesting?” I continued. Then, as he reeled off a list – curlews, seals, a gannet – I noticed his foreign accent. It turned out that he was German. If he had picked up on the reference to the Great War that I had just unthinkingly made, he was gracious enough not to let on. We talked politely about how pleasing it was to see more than just seagulls, then set off in opposite directions in search of more biodiversity.