On Sker Beach

07

Sep

2011

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I’ve always loved Sker Beach. Loved its mysteries, its legends. The unkempt rugged shoreline, shaped by the elements. The windswept sand flats that meet the tempestuous, foaming waves of the roiling sea; bulging, gorse covered dunes that roll up and away from the coast, small peaks and valleys concealing centuries old secrets. fence_blogtwig_blog

As a child I’d explore this portion of South Wales coast, heading across from the golden expanse at Rest Bay, along uneven paths around the headland to Sker, or as we’d call it then, Scare Beach. Looking up, through the creaky fence and barbed wire to the imposing ruinous walls of Scare (Sker) House; its bleak demeanour alone in the wild conjuring frightening fantasies of ghostly beings and spectral forces. Worrying tales of troubled souls inhabiting the old Tudor home; of St Phillip Evans, executed for his faith, or mythical tales of The Maid of Sker and her haunted life of unrequited love.

A house restored to former glory, still imposing itself on the barren land, stark against a heavy sky.
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Returning as an adult the sensations remain, now tinged with nostalgia of lost youth. Symbolised in the old shoes, well worn and weathered, lost among the seaweed and pebbles of a deserted beach.childrenhsoe_blog

Footsteps in paths once trodden, now forgotten and lost. Old memories scratching in the brain, waiting to be recovered and recalled. Every shoe concealing a story untold. At first I wanted to take them, remove them from the beach to scan and shoot. But the beach was their home, settled into the environment, to move as nature moves them.

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Sker Beach. Natural land of light and dark; of soft earth among the rough, weathered terrain. Where land meets sea, sea meets sky.

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