Colin Gibson, who wrote the much-loved weekly nature diary for The Courier between 1954 and 1998, adored the Arbroath cliffs, which were often featured  in his columns.

He wrote: “Carlingheaugh Bay and Castlesea Bay – what wonderful places for wildflowers are the sea meadows of these sheltered havens near Auchmithie!”. He was similarly intrigued by the caves, headlands and other striking rock formations: “Brandy Cave, Rum Ness, the Forbidden Cave, Dickmont’s Den, Cove Ha’en – the very names ‘smell of smugglers!”

The coastal wildflowers are especially enchanting, and on a recent visit it was hard to break into a regular stride because I kept stopping to marvel at their unbridled beauty. Thrift – or sea-pink as often known – abounded in hazy drifts along the clifftops, swaying hypnotically in the perennial sea breeze.

Whilst most commonly deep pink in colour, the cushion-like blooms can show great variation, ranging from lilac to creamy white and every tint in-between. In local Scots, it is sometimes known as ‘heugh daisy’, from ‘heugh’, meaning a cliff or ravine.

Sea campion was similarly abundant, growing in thick carpets on the clifftops, their sprawling spread ideally suited to cope with the constant wind. Sea campion is also known as ‘dead man’s bells’, ‘witches thimbles’ and ‘Devil’s hatties’. According to folklore, this plant should not be picked as it is said to bring death. Why such a beautiful flower should be so associated with doom and evil is a mystery. Perhaps it reflects upon our dangerous rocky coastlines and the numerous shipwrecks from the past.

Also shining out were the yellow flowers of bird’s-foot trefoil and the pink-frilled petals of red campion. Bird’s-foot trefoil is much sought after by pollinators such as bees and is an important food plant for several caterpillar species, including that of the common blue butterfly. A member of the pea family, bird’s-foot trefoil is a king amongst plants when it comes to overall ecological importance. An old name for the plant is ‘granny’s toenails’ which denotes a rather unsavoury interpretation of the shape and form of the long, claw-like seed pods.

I ventured down to the water’s edge at Carlingheugh Bay and guddled around in the rockpools for a while, before returning to the upper shore where the song of a sedge warbler from a bramble thicket lured me in. Soon, I spotted the warbler, scuttling like a mouse in the undergrowth before popping up every so often to rip forth his grating song, the deep orange gape continually flashing like a beacon as he swivelled his head.

I gazed out across the bay once more. Somewhere nearby on the coast lay Driftwood Cave, which Colin Gibson noted as living up to its name, with piles of driftwood accumulating at its inner end. On one occasion, a man told him he had found ‘a cartload of old potatoes’ in the cave.  Gibson observed: “No doubt they had been tipped over the cliff edge, and stowed away here (in smuggler fashion) by the omnivorous sea.”