It’s a mile from Criccieth promenade to Craig Ddu, the black crag that rears up before the beach of Morfa Bychan. This walk was one of my little terrier Phoebe’s favourites, where she could chase sticks and brandish them vigorously before digging them into the sand. She breathed her last peacefully on my lap a week before Christmas, and is buried now in a small, neat grave marked out by quartz pebbles and violets in my garden. I came back here to remember her, who delighted me through so many years; and also, because from the top of Craig Ddu you can observe one of the great natural sights around the Welsh coasts.
I headed in that direction, the wash of surf into the pebbled shore sounding in my ears; climbed to the summit without Phoebe’s brisk example to spur me on; took out my flask, mounted an optic on its tripod, made a seat of my rucksack, and scanned the sea, anxious to set eyes on a rare, wonderful winter presence that distinguishes this corner of Porthmadog Bay.
There they were, in their thousands – a huge raft of common scoter scattered a few hundred metres offshore, its size only slowly becoming apparent as separate groups undulated in and out of sight among the roll of the waves, while others fed, dipping with a small leap into the water, surfacing yards away. WH Hudson, a century ago, commented on how a scoter’s “blackness is relieved, and its handsomeness brought out, by a touch of bright orange on the upper mandible” – something I saw clearly through my glass even at this distance.
Their numbers are a winter rarity this far north. As a British breeding species, scoter are on Birdlife International’s red list, a few pairs remaining in Perthshire. Which makes these winter visitors all the more heartening a sight. Already they seem restless, flying in long lines low over the water. But for a few weeks yet, before they head back to the cold north, you can see them here, marvel at their multitudes and the mystery of migration, and be glad that our beleaguered planet still has such richness.
