Lady Of The Isle
By Terry Baldwin
It was a normal day on the coast of Gower. One of those hot, windless days of mid- summer. My wife and I were camping with our daughter, son-in-law and their four children. We were staying at Llangenydd and decided to walk across the beach to the rocky headland that only becomes accessible an hour or so after high tide.
The ‘Island’, as we call it, is not large so it doesn’t take long to walk round it. We clambered up the low, rocky cliff and followed the path. The first thing of interest is the ditch and dyke or embankment. I explained it was only required on the lower section of the flat, sloping top since the top section was protected by razor-sharp teeth and a high, vertical rock face.
On the far side we crossed the ditch and dyke again. Soon after I pointed out the remains of a group of ancient cottages. Little was left except a few tumbled walls standing as sentinels in a tangle of bracken and bramble. It was as we approached what remained of the junction of two, stone walls of one of these cottages I heard the voice.
"There’s a boat coming in."
I heard a woman say those words. She was speaking from my right. I looked round but there was no one there. I turned to my granddaughter who was two metres behind me. "Did you hear anyone speak Angharad?" I asked.
"No," she said giving me one of her looks. I couldn’t blame her because I am always pulling her leg.
"Are you sure?" I asked again. But she hadn’t heard anything. When I told the others I was accused of making it up, another of my stories.
"You must have heard a fisherman," my wife said with a laugh. "Or it could have been the wind."
But I knew what I had heard. Besides there were no boats of any description in sight. So, even if there had been anyone around, why would they have said there’s a boat coming in when there wasn’t one to be seen? "It must have been the Lady of the Isle," I said making it up as I went along. I went over to a corner of the old cottage. It stood no more than a metre from the edge of a ten-metre fall to the rocks below. "Come over here," I said. When they were gathered round I pointed at the rocks below. And then I told them a story.
A long time ago, when these cottages were lived in, there was a terrible storm. The lady who lived in this cottage was worried about her husband. He was a fisherman and had taken his boat out before the storm started. The waves were huge and pounded the cliffs of the island sending spray high over the slated roof of her cottage.
The Lady of the Isle was looking for a fishing boat to return, as were all the women of this small community. Suddenly someone shouted, "There’s a boat coming in." The Lady of the Isle peered into the wind blown rain and spray. At first she could see nothing. Then an outline pierced the curtain of water. "It is him," she whispered. "Please let him be safe."
All the cottages had lamps burning in their windows. But on this dreadful day those beacons of safety could not be seen. The fishing boat was being blown unmercifully towards the jagged rocks of the island. The Lady of the Isle could do little but watch as the fragile craft was tossed onto the rocks directly below her cottage.
Without a thought for her own life she clambered down those silent, waiting, rocky teeth. Her only concern was to help her husband. But it wasn’t to be. She was picked up by the waves like a discarded rag doll and disappeared in the violent, broiling surf.
They found her later where the storm had left her. She was tangled within the rigging of her husband’s boat. They buried the Lady of the Isle near her cottage but they never found the body of her husband. She is still waiting for him to return. That is why she is occasionally seen and heard.
A year later I found out that there really was a woman haunting the island. Or so the local residents told me. Perhaps she was telling her story through me! However, there is one thing I do know. I heard these words ‘There’s a boat coming in’. I leave you to make up your own mind and perhaps listen more carefully next time you visit ‘The Island’.
After that strange affair I experienced a state of loneliness… a loneliness of the soul. I carried on my everyday duties but I found myself thinking of that chunk of isolated rock that became an island at the most ridiculous times. I was in the middle of a lecture on electricity when I could have sworn I heard the waves crashing onto its rocks. In the middle of dinner I suddenly stopped what I was saying and said I must save him as I saw a boat heading towards the rocky shore.
What was it about this Island, this Burry Holms, situated at the western end of Rhosilli beach that was causing me so much torment. Something was definitely drawing me towards that isolated spot of the Gower Peninsular. From what I had seen I had assumed there had once been a cluster of cottages there. And there had obviously been a ditch and dyke enclosed community area many centuries before that. People had obviously lived there over a long period of time.
I decided to find out all I could about this ancient headland. I started with the ancient past. I was surprised to discover that the Island had been the site of a hermitage set up in the sixth century.
"Well I’m blowed," I muttered. "So they are the remains of a church, monastic cells, kitchen and outbuildings." I soon discovered other interesting facts but none of which explained the presence of the Lady of the Isle.
The limestone outcrop was thought to be a site of ancient pilgrimage and the scene of a major Viking invasion led by King Regner, one of the greatest of the Viking warriors. They destroyed the Priory at Llangennith and slaughtered many of the villagers. Records indicate that the villagers of Rhosilli attacked and set fire to the Viking Dragon Ships on the beach. With no means of retreating the Vikings were eventually defeated and it is believed the King was buried on Rhosilli Downs.
All that did not help me in my quest. There could have been a serving woman at the hermitage but it was very unlikely. But in the mid eighteenth century the buildings were still intact and a small Flemish community settled there for a number of years. Once they had gained acceptance by the local community they moved to a more secure spot on the main peninsular. From eighteen fifty on I became aware of a recurring name. Cenydd, Cenith, Kenith, Kenidd, Kenneth, my own name, was in the church records and on many gravestones. And, as far as I could ascertain, they were all part of the same family tree. I became convinced I was a part of that same tree.
I came to believe… No. That is not the correct term to describe my mental demeanour. I knew if I spent the night on the Isle on the anniversary of the worst maritime disaster to occur at that time… January 22nd 1868, the events of that catastrophic event would unfold before me.
The closest marina was at Llanelli. I could be there in two hours. I checked the time of high tide and arrived there three hours before. I was on the sea more than two hours before high tide was due. My father had been a shipwright and well known in the area. He had taught me everything there was to know about small crafts and the local vagrancies of the current.
As I chugged out of the marina I found a swell of some four feet and a steady northeast wind nothing more than a breeze. I was pleased about this as it would always tend to drive my craft away from the dangerous rocks of the Island outcrop. After twenty minutes I had rounded Whitford Point and was standing off the northern tip of the Island. I was surprised to see the waves already throwing themselves at the towering rocks and sending fountains of spray high into the air. Thumps and crashes assailed my ears as the energy of the waves was dissipated in its urgency to regain lost ground.
I kept the boat idling against the wind blowing me out to sea and the tide driving me towards the rocks. I gazed at those jagged rocks as I allowed my craft to drift slowly towards them. I tried to imagine what it would have been like. It would have been a terrible sight seeing the heavy seas smashing into them and knowing you had no way of preventing your ship from being driven onto them. Even taking to the water would have been just as hazardous for the best of swimmers.
I was staring at the Island in a world of my own you could say, holding the tiller lightly when, without warning, a strong gust of wind from the northwest struck my boat. I was taken completely unawares, thrown forward and crashed onto the boards knocking the breath from my body. For a moment I just lay there disorientated as the boat began to pitch and toss wildly. I struggled to my feet and the strength of the wind made itself apparent. I clawed my way towards the stern, bent over at an extreme angle, only to find the engine had stalled.
A wave broke over the boat and sent me sliding and splashing into the prow. Its ferocity awoke a terror from deep within me. I scrambled to my feet once more, drenched to the skin, salt stinging my eyes and clutching at the gunnels. The roar of the wind and the crashing waves was awesome and terrifying. I stared towards the Island, wiping seawater out of my eyes, to find the cliffs looming high and black and much closer than they should have been.
The boat was pitching and rolling dangerously and taking in water as wave after wave crashed over its sides. The sky was no longer blue but an angry black as thick thunder clouds chased each other in the screaming wind.
I forced myself to crawl to the stern as terror flooded my heart and mind. I held onto the engine cowling and reached down to press the started button.
Nothing.
I couldn’t even hear if the engine had tried to turn above the howls and shrieks of the wind and the devastating noise of angry seas against rock. With fear racing through every nerve of my body I looked towards the Island. Its black, merciless barricade was alarmingly close. For the first time I thought I was not going to make it. This was my time. I would never see my wife and family again. I must admit it almost completely overwhelmed me.
I pressed the starter button again but I knew it was useless.
I looked at the towering walls of death rock. My ears ached and I was deafened by the crashing of the waves and the triumphant howling and shrieking of the wind. They had no doubt who was going to win this contest. I grasped the tiller tightly until my knuckles stood out white but I knew there was nothing I could do. I was at the mercy of the wild elements. My mouth became dry and I forced back the bitter bile that had raced up from my stomach.
With death imminent my mind suddenly cleared. What I had to do gave me a chance. A slim… very slim chance but it was the only one I had. With the wall of rock only metres away I abandoned the boat and dived into the raging, broiling sea. A wave picked me up as though I was a clump of seaweed and threw me forward.
It took all my strength to keep my head above water.
I gasped for air and swallowed a mouthful of salty seawater.
Gagging and gasping I was thrown against the rock.
I felt my left arm snap on impact and a searing pain erupted from my left leg but it did not seem to have been broken. I was sucked away from the rock face and then violently thrown towards it again. I twisted so that my left side was protected against another blow.
I was lucky. I only just made contact with the rock and I managed to jamb my fingers into a fissure running diagonally down the timeless sea-worn rocky battlements, my feet scrabbling to find a foothold. I could feel my strength failing and my fingers beginning to loose their hold. "I’m sorry my darling. I love you always," I cried as my fingers gave up their tentative anchorage.
The water closed over my head. The light dimmed and a blackness descended on me as a feeling of lethargy took over my mind.
I was sinking into oblivion when a hand, warm and soft but strangely strong, grasped my limp and floating arm. I was pulled upwards, broke the wild, salt-frothy surface and sucked in huge gulps of air. Then I was pulled upwards again until I lay on a wide, spray splattered ledge. The image before me released my arm and I could only stare as the Lady of the Isle dissipated into the mist of spray.
OR
Gagging and gasping I was thrown against the side of the boat. I felt my left arm snap on impact and a searing pain erupted from my left leg but it did not seem to have been broken. I was sucked away from the boat and then violently thrown towards it again. I twisted so that my left side was protected against another blow.
I was lucky. I only just made contact with it and I managed to jamb my fingers over the side of the timbers. I could feel my strength failing and my fingers began to loose their hold. "I’m sorry my darling. I love you always," I cried as my fingers gave up their tentative anchorage. The water closed over my head. The light dimmed and a blackness descended on me as a feeling of lethargy took over my mind.
I was sinking into oblivion when a hand, warm and strangely strong, grasped my limp and floating arm. I was pulled upwards, broke the wild, salt-frothy surface and sucked in huge gulps of air as the image before me dissipated into the mist.
Then I saw a face. At first I thought it was another vision but as it came into focus I recognised my wife. "How?" I gasped.
"I followed you. Slipped aboard while you were in the Wharf-master’s office. Waited for my opportunity. You should have paid more attention to the living."
"Help me," I said in little more than a gasping whisper as I swallowed more seawater.
"I will," she replied but there was a strange look in her eyes. "I will have no more need of excuses to go out… to meet Peter," she added as she pushed my head under the waves. The image of her face faded and dissipated into blackness.
How good are you at keeping secrets? Some secrets, if not told, have strange consequences.