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’.