Llangrannog Beach (Pic Heavy)

Driver Jatt

Here I met a guy.

It was one of those conversations that starts with a nod. We were passing the place on the long drive home to Birmingham, and I’d pulled in to break the journey. He was on the beach, getting his fishing gear ready. I was just mooching, stretching my legs.

He told me he lost his house years ago. Due to an accident. Didn’t say what kind. He said it was a beautiful house. Paid forty-two thousand for it back then, and spent a fortune more making it a home. Then lost it. Just like that. He said it plain, like he was stating the weather. The kind of loss that’s so big it wears itself smooth from being handled in your mind too often.

The Sea’s Price
He was going fishing. He pointed out to the rocks and told me how, not long back, a couple of local fishermen were washed off one. They drowned. He described how their hands were cut to ribbons from trying to grip the rocks they’d slipped from. He said it not for drama, just as a fact of the place. The human desperation to survive, written in scratches on stone. It hung in the air between us, a dark truth about this pretty cove.

A Guide and an Invitation
Then he softened. This guy told me all about the place. The history. He pointed up to the statue of the monk on the hill, who built a church nearby centuries ago. He knew his stuff. As we parted, he invited me home to share his catch, if he got any. I politely declined but thanked him. He was genuine, too. Not just making talk. The kind of offer that comes from having less to guard.

Caves and an Early Retreat
I explored the beach after that, and some of the caves and caverns carved by that same relentless sea. The light faded fast inside, the floor getting rocky and uneven. I wasn’t brave enough to get to the end. It was too dark, too rocky, too unknown. I think I’m getting older. I stood at the mouth for a minute, then backed out. The views and rock formations from the outside were still magnificent.

I took a brief walk around the village after. It was quiet. The whole place felt different after that chat. Brighter colours, sharper shadows.

Why I Do It
Enjoy the pics. They show the beauty. They don’t show the conversation, the history, or the weight of the stories that sit on the rocks.

This is why I love what I do. It’s not just about the driving. It’s that the driving puts you there, on a beach in Wales on the way home, when a stranger decides to tell you about the house he lost and the fishermen the sea took. You get the postcard view and the real story underneath it, all in one unscheduled stop. Then you get back in the van for the last leg home. But you’re carrying a different kind of load for a while.