Many years before Christ was born and even before the Great Flood, when Britain was still attached to Europe, a young man lived and hunted the barren moors and deep valleys in the wilds of Paviland, a place that would one day be known as the Gower Coast in South Wales.

     He fished in the river that would one day become the Bristol Channel and lived in a cave, surviving on roots, berries and reindeer.  And although he died in his early twenties, this seemingly ordinary young man would hold the interest of the world in his hands for evermore.  You see, someone found him, buried in a shallow grave, some 33,000 years later.

       Not far from our home for waifs and strays, is this famous cave, known as Paviland,  which is easily recognized from the sea but extremely difficult to get to by foot. However, in 1823, long before my kind and unassuming husband and I were born, the Reverend William Buckland, a paleontologist, found the remains of the young man in the cave, behind the skull of a large mammoth, during an archaeological dig.

       As daylight poured down the chimney, some 20metres above the chamber where the young man lay, the Reverend made a discovery that would become one of the World’s most important archaeological finds.  

       The Reverend also noted the red staining of the bones, made by the natural earth pigment, (red ochre) which was sprinkled on the young man at his burial. He also saw the small pile of perforated seashell necklaces and immediately assumed the skeleton to be a woman. Probably a witch, he thought, or a Roman prostitute. So the misidentification led to the young man being called, ‘The Red Lady of Paviland’ which remains today.

     There has been much debate regarding the young man’s final resting place, as at present, he is resting at a university in Oxford. I for one, think he should return to his spiritual home in Wales. Perhaps not the magical shamanic site where he was found but certainly let him rest in the area where he was well respected and respect should still remain.

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Time and tide indeed, waits for no man, that is true! And if did, then many a ship would have been saved, not floundered off the rocky coast of Wales. Many of these ships came to grief off Mumbles head, on the South Gower Coast, not far from our home for waifs and strays.

      Beneath the waves that swirl around the two islands off Mumbles head in Gower, South Wales, lies the mixon shoal sandbank and the underwater reef, known as the cherrystone rock. Between them, they have claimed the lives of many a man and his ship. You see, it is true what they say, that time and tide waits for no man!

      ‘You must always have respect for the sea,’ my father used to tell me, ‘and never underestimate its strenth or dramatize your own!’ And he made sure that I could swim from a very young age.

       And so it was, a lighthouse was built on the outerhead island in 1794 and a lighthouse keeper was paid 18 shillings a week for stocking up the two open coal fires and making his home on the island. But in 1798 the fires were replaced by oil powered lamps and in 1936, the lighthouse keeper himself, was replaced by electricity.

         I once lived in the village of Mumbles and heard many seamans tales. One that sticks in my memory is about two sisters, daughters of the lighthouse keeper, Jennie and Margaret, who saved the lives of two lifeboatmen. The men were on a rescue mission when they were thrown from the lifeboat into the sea so the girls tied their shawls together and risked their lives by wading into the trecherous water to rescue them. I’ve included a poem, by Clement Scott, called The Women of Mumbles Head

Bring novelists your notebook. Bring Dramatists your Pen:
And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.
It's only the tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead,
Of a terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head.
Maybe you have travelled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south:
Maybe you have friends with the 'natives' that dwell at Oystermouth.
It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way.
And have sailed your yacht in summer, in the blue of Swansea Bay.

Well, it isn't like that in winter when the lighthouse stands alone,
In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone:
It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew and the story-bell tolled, or when
There was news of a wreck, and lifeboat launch'd, and a desperate cry for men.
When in the world did the coxswain shirk? A brave old Salt was he!
Proud to the bone of as four strong lads, as ever had tasted the sea.
Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about the coast twas said,
Had saved some hundred lives apiece - at a shilling or so a head!

So the father launched the lifeboat in the teeth of the tempest's roar,
And he stood like a man at the rudder, with any eye on his boys at the oar.
Out to the wreck went the father! Out to the wreck went the sons!
Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns;
Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors loved,
Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!
Do you murmur a prayer, my brother, when cosy and safe in bed,
For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?

It didn't go well with the lifeboat.  'Twas a terrible storm that blew!
And it snapped a rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;
And then the anchor parted - 'twas a tussle to keep afloat!
But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat.
Then at last on the poor doom'd lifeboat a wave broke mountains high!
'God help us now! ' said the father. 'It's over my lads, good-bye!'
Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,
But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.

Up at the lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,
And saw in the boiling breakers a figure - a fighting form,
It might be a grey-haired father, then the women held their breath,
It might be a fair-haired brother who was having a round with death;
It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips
Of the women whose love is life of the men going down to the sea in ships.
They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had heard the worst and more,
Then, kissing each other these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to the shore.

There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,
Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land.
'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,
But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?
What are a couple of women?  Well, more than three craven men
Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir - and then
Off went the women's shawls, sir: in a second they're torn and rent,
Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!

'Come back!' cried the lighthouse keeper, 'For God's sake, girls, come back!'
As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack.
'Come back!' moaned the grey-haired mother as she stood by the angry sea,
'If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me.'
'Come back!' said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale,
'You will drown if you face the breakers!  You will fall if you brave the gale!'
'Come back' said the girls, 'we will not!  Go tell it to all the town,
We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!'

'Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess!  Give one strong clutch of your hand!
Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll drag him safe to land!
Wait for the next wave, darling!  Only a minute more,
And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him safe to shore.'
Up to their arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,
They caught and saved a brother alive! God bless us! you know the rest—
Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,
And many a glass was toss'd right off to the' Women of Mumbles Head!'

When I was a little girl I often ran barefoot across the sandy cliff tops to play in a real castle where fairies and ghosts kept me company. People used to tell my father it wrong to let me play there, as it was cursed by some evil witch. But the warning fell on deaf ears and consequently my imagination became as wild as the child it encompassed.  

      Since the 12^th century, Pennard castle has stood on top of steep cliffs overlooking a valley where a river winds its way through the grooves towards the sea. The natural beauty which surrounds it is home to an abundance of wildlife and if you have the time, it is a magical place to visit.

       And so once more, I trekked across the sand dunes to discover that the magic is still there, within the old stone walls that remain. And so are the fairies and the ghosts, especially during the golden hour of day.  

Believing that a tidal island on the Gower Coast was a sleeping dragon, the Vikings, during their invasion, named it Wurm.These days, this famously photographed island, shaped like a giant sea-serpent, is known as Worm’s Head, and it is another place I love to roam about on.

     My kind and unassuming husband and I can often be seen crossing the rocky causeway that connects the island to the mainland. However, one has to be extremely careful of the tide as many people and animals have drowned here.

     This incredible piece of land, a mile long with a height of 150 feet in parts, is home to the grey seal, peregrine falcons, choughs, razorbills and guillemots, kittiwakes and gulls, shags and cormorants. Fulmars can be seen gliding like angels over the waves and on occasions, we have seen puffins off the end of the island. In late summer you might be lucky enough to see scoters, an all black duck and so much more.

     So despite the harsh conditions during winter months, this incredible island has something quite unique, in order to attract such an abundance of wildlife.

      Dylan Thomas often visited the island and once made the mistake of falling asleep and was cut off by the tide. These are a few of the words he wrote about his adventure:

I stayed on that Worm from dusk to midnight, sitting on that top grass, frightened to go further in because of the rats and because of things I am ashamed to be frightened of. Then the tips of the reef began to poke out of the water and, perilously, I climbed along them to the shore.     

      This dragon of an island has pleased many people with its beauty and strangeness. For me though, it always reminds me of my father. As a little girl, he took me to the island in search of crabs. I made such a fuss when he found one, he never took me again. We did, however, go home with a bucket full of shells and tiny stones made shiny by the sea.

Let me tell you a little secret. It’s about a place where I love to go whenever I feel the need to escape the world!

     Burry Holms is a small tidal island and is mentioned in an adventure book I have almost completed, for children. And it is here I go for inspiration, as well as the peacefulness. You see, it is situated at the far end of the Gower Peninsular and not too far from our home for waifs and strays.

      This small island covered in Thrift and Sea Campion, during spring and summer months, was once inhabited by nomadic Mesolithic hunters, where they set up seasonal camps. During the Iron Age, a hill fort was built on the island and in medieval times, a Monastery. And so you see, this tiny island has a spiritual feel which is evident, each time I pay it a visit.

       I have often sat at the far end of the island and watched the common gulls, razorbills, kittiwakes and the guillemots, as well as the many seals and occasional dolphin.  Many of them will brave the wild storms that often hit the island during the winter months.  

       And on my journey back across the island, I always stop and take time to sit amongst the ruins of an old stone church. I take out my flask of sweet tea and imagine life as it was, many hundreds of years ago and the life that is now and the one that stretches out before us.