The gales had lasted two days, the rain for rather longer. When the wind finally began to moderate, the last leaves had fallen from the oak and beech trees beside the lane – swept into arcs and ridges by water from the overflowing stream. Rain was still falling from the grey sky, but there was a hint of brightness to the west. Following it like a beacon, I walked down the hill towards the sea, taking the coastal path south towards the long pebble ridge of Tanybwlch beach.
The harbour mouth marks the confluence of the rivers Rheidol and Ystwyth, the combined outflow sluicing past beds of seaweed exposed by the falling tide. Gulls searched for morsels at the water’s edge, occasionally squabbling over some apparent trophy. Beyond the jetty and its mint-striped lighthouse, the great sweep of the beach was outlined in white by the storm surf breaking on the cobble bank. The wind rose again, the coastline towards Aberaeron sliding in and out of focus as heavy rain and hail churned across it.
Sunset was due just after four, close to its earliest time and almost as far south on the horizon as it gets before moving north again towards spring. With the chance of a more impressive skyscape as dusk approached, I decided to wait and observe it. The cloud started to break a little and an arresting set of crepuscular rays began to build over Cardigan Bay.
Slowly at first, then more rapidly, the shafts of light – “God rays”, some call these dramatically spreading beams – cut across the surface of the water, adding colour to the dull vegetation and wet rock of the clifftops and brightening the low cloud above.
Then, just as suddenly, the rays faded, leaving the largely monochrome landscape even bleaker than before. With still half an hour to go until sunset, I hunched on a boulder at the back of the beach, in case the spectacle returned. It didn’t, and when the sun fully passed from view I gave up, hoping to get back to shelter before the approaching line of squalls reached me.
