Though all the lanes leading to Hell’s Mouth are lined
with parked cars nevertheless we find a place
in the official park between a van
hiring out surfing gear and one selling
ice cream. The path to the beach is crammed with folk,
and the strand itself littered with bodies
and surf boards, almost obscuring the breakers
from the distant North Atlantic everyone
has come to see or ride. We retreat,
noting the orderly, overgrown ruins
of the RAF air gunnery range.
Some mobile phones here will roam to Ireland.
The world, at certain latitudes, has become
a small, crowded space. The popular place name,
it is claimed, was bestowed by English sailors
fearing the hell of the surf, its deceiving
misty spray, the desert of the hinterland,
and the ship-wrecking maw of the bay
with jagged cliffs at either end like molars.
The Welsh name – Porth Neigwl – may be translated,
‘Gateway of Clouds’.
By David Selzer