The Secret Place

[Gerry]

Shroove beach for a walk seemed like a good idea that summer day. The Victorian lighthouse stands proud on the outcrop of ragged rocks on one side of the tiny beach like a sentry on guard. I parked up and started to walk onto the beach but stopped when I seen the two school buses pulling into park.

Solitude I didn’t think so.

I started up the hill lined by white washed cottages with picture perfect flower beds and vegetable gardens. At the first corner I noticed a small gate swinging free inside the semi circle cage. Perfect for walkers and keeping cattle in their fields. There was a line of trampled grass running down the border of the field towards the waves crashing on the rocks far below. As I walked down the meadow the variety of grasses and flowers still swaying in the field at this time of year surprised me.

The bottom of the hill seen the path run along the rock lined beach and seemed to be a path to nowhere. But Toby was off and running arcs in front of me like a sapper hunting mines. At the corner of the field I noticed that the crushed grass pathway now changed to what we call a goat’s path. A few inches wide mark on the hardened ground moved west along the base of the near vertical basalt cliffs dotted with spots of colour.

I was wary of the closeness of the waves on one side and the sheerness of the rocks on the other. But Toby doesn’t have the brains to be afraid and was skipping over the rocks with the footwork of a mountain goat. Then he was gone.

I kept on the narrow ledge looking between every boulder expecting to find him wedged and unable to cry for help but no. This was looking bad as the vertical cliff was now coming out in front of me and closing off my advance. I took another few desperate steps and there before me opened a hole worn into the cliff face and there was the wee scamp sitting, panting safe and well. I looked into the cave and could see light on the other side so off we went and I hunched down to squeeze though a gap not made for guys of my size.

The steps through that few feet of rock where chillingly cold . No sunlight had ever penetrated that space. On reaching the other side I was greeted with the fizz of a wave as it died on a shingle beach. I looked inside and found a cove no more than thirty feet across and surrounded on three sides by vertical rock with greenery on only the first few feet above the high water line. The fourth side of the cove was lined by the cold Atlantic waves rolling regularly to their deaths. The sounds were cathedral, booming, fizzing and then silence.

I’ve found a very special place. Whatever you do don’t let the tourists board know about this or somebody will fix that goat track and the tunnel will be drilled out as the height restriction does not comply with health and safety conditions.

It’s our secret.

On my way home I stopped to speak to an old guy at one of the cottages. He had a face weathered by countless years of living by the wild Atlantic. I told him what I had "found" and he laughed so much he started to cough and splutter.

He told me I had discovered Port a Doris. Well that's what it sounded like. The harbour with a door he translated it as. He told me that cove had seen men washed ashore from the Spanish Armada wreck Valencia.

By Gerry Temple