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If we take it as read that the better the view, the worse the cooking, then by rights south Wales’s Gower peninsula should be a culinary desert. The first time I visited almost 15 years ago, I was unprepared for its loveliness – back in 1956, Gower (never the Gower, as locals were quick to correct me) was the first place in the UK to be designated an area of outstanding natural beauty, and though the peninsula abuts the country’s second city, Swansea, it still feels profoundly rural. Crisscrossed by narrow lanes flanked by towering hedges and ancient churches, it’s a great place to cycle, to drive, and above all to walk up an appetite.
Indeed, it’s been a long-held ambition of mine to hike the 43 miles of the Welsh Coast Path from Mumbles to Loughor. Sadly, it remains just that because on this latest trip I spent considerably more time chomping than yomping … though in fairness I was on a research mission for a walking trip with a friend here later in the summer, because as a food writer and semi-professional glutton, I never like to head anywhere unprepared.
With this in mind, and another friend on hand as a chauffeur, Wilf the dog and I began our investigations in Mumbles, where Swansea thins into a pretty seaside village of colourful Victorian villas culminating in a magnificent, privately owned pier. (A few years ago, a visiting Prince William observed to owner Bert Bollom, the third generation of his family to run it, that this was an unusual career choice. Bert shrugged that he’d inherited the job from his dad. “Tell me about it,” he recalls the prince sighing.)
Though the pier is undergoing restoration work, there’s a good view of the “crown of the Bristol Channel” from another Bollom enterprise, On the Rocks, a steak restaurant with a terrace jutting over the foreshore that’s no doubt a terrific place for a sundowner. But, I tell myself sternly, when you’re starting a walk you need to put one foot in front of the other, not sit around drinking, especially as the friend I plan to come back with later in the summer is happily, if rather inconveniently, pregnant.
There’s thus not much point in returning to the Gower Brewery Taproom, despite the warm welcome and dog biscuits we receive on this occasion – I’ll probably suggest we stop instead at Joe’s, the local cult masquerading as an ice-cream parlour. (Vanilla, freshly churned in-house daily, is the only move here. Unless you’re under the age of 10, do not waste your time on other flavours.) Thankfully, the expectant one is past the nauseous stage, so I can also steer her in the direction of the crab sandwiches (local sourdough and deliciously salty Shirgar butter) at the Gower Seafood Hut with a clear conscience – depending on the time of day, it might also feel appropriate to fortify ourselves with a helping of fried whitebait or cockle popcorn before joining the coast path, particularly as Chris Price, who mans the stoves, has, according to co-owner Sarah Kift, already walked much of it himself.
That said, I reckon I’ve got the fuelling part of the route covered; for a start, there’s another ice-cream parlour, Fortes, just round the headland in Limeslade Bay. From the neat beach huts of Langland to the golden sands of Three Cliffs Bay, however, the sites are more prehistoric than edible (tasty as the Bacon Hole cave sounds, the nearest it gets to cured meat is its hoard of ancient narrow-nosed rhinoceros and straight-tusked elephant bones, now 200 miles away in the British Museum). Take a brief detour into the village of Southgate though, and you’ll happen upon a brilliant Greek cafe – I didn’t anticipate tucking into a sugar-dusted bougatsa custard pie and a punchy little coffee in The Gower Deli, but this place is full of surprises.
Sometimes they come too thick and fast even for my boundless appetite: just 20 minutes inland from Three Cliffs, if you follow the lazy meandering waters of the Pennard Pill past the ruins of a Norman castle, sits the Gower Heritage Centre. Clustered around a 12th-century water mill, it boasts a cider press, organic community agriculture project, sauerkraut producer, jewellery designer and bike shop plus – and the jewel in its crown as far as I’m concerned – the superb Little Valley bakery, whose traditional Gower loaf is produced using the mill’s barley flour. They also make ridiculously flaky pasties, focaccia sandwiches, huge cookies and excellent viennoiserie – in short, a rambler’s dream.
From Three Cliffs, it’s about another five miles along the coast to Oxwich. If you make one reservation for your Gower trip, make it at the Beach House there. Admittedly, given its Michelin star, one might not want to wander in directly from the path in quick-dry hiking sandals, but our welcome couldn’t be warmer, despite Wilf’s rather over-effusive manner (the terrace is dog-friendly, as is one table inside, which you can bet your boots I will be booking well in advance).
From our seats, we can see the two boats that supply the restaurant with lobster. “They belong to Paul and Jim,” says chef Hywel Griffith. “Every morning, I text them what we need that day.” The lamb is from the North Gower salt marsh; the seaweed in the laverbread rolls (a clever play on the traditional puree) from Selwyn’s in Pen-clawdd; and the dessert, a malted mousse with wood sorrel and fermented pine syrup, is the single most delicious thing I’ve eaten since Sarah Kift’s crab sandwich.
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Five more miles brings us to Port Eynon, whose chief attraction on this visit is the tiny, genuinely artisan Gower Gin Company – having enjoyed one solo guided tasting with my designated driver and the teetotal terrier, I’ll pass on another with a reluctant abstainer. It’s six more miles to Rhossili, once, somewhat absurdly, declared the “ninth best beach in the world” by TripAdvisor. What’s not up for debate is that it’s 3 miles long and stunning.
Thanks to the National Trust, it’s also untouched by the grubby hand of commercialism, so should you be peckish, pause at the aptly named View cafe before you descend the cliff. Offering colourful vegan “power bowls” (popular with the surfing crowd apparently) and homemade falafel alongside the rarebit and bara brith, the only packaged food in sight is a bag of locally produced dog treats I’m bullied into buying for my elderly companion who, despite a brisk trot down to the Worms Head Coastwatch station beforehand, is in no mood to obey the house rule that “shouting is not permitted”.
Turn the corner on to the north coast, and you’re faced with Whiteford Sands, yet another broad expanse of golden gorgeousness with great cooking attached in the form of the Britannia Inn in Llanmadoc, where the salt marsh lamb croquettes at the bar drive the tiny diner under the table to distraction.
Fortunately, I don’t have to test Wilf’s restraint on the living, bleating thing on this occasion, as the remaining seven miles of the route – through the marshes to Pen-clawdd, – will have to wait till next month. When we finally get there, however, I will insist on stopping at the Gower Brewery to toast our achievement. I’ve even road-tested their Zero beer in preparation. As I said, I like to plan ahead.
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