The plan was to spend a few months walking around the edge of Wales – except for weeks like now when I come back for visitors or the like. Rob was to join me at weekends for romantic trysts at temples of public transport. But after just 120 miles I miss him enough to contemplate abandoning the quest.

Yet it was a raw beautiful week in the mad sun. I left home with my rucksack, up the fireweed forest track to the coast – a silver glimpse of the river, and hot descent to the beach. I slept in the dunes, the lilac night was cold and moony.

Rob met me at Llwyngwril and we followed a belly barrelled cow over the cloud hills. In a salt white mist we boiled eggs on Harlech sands, and walked a beat blue afternoon round the salt marsh with all Snowdonia spread out in pastel.

Early Monday morning, he had to go. I crossed the toll rusty bridge where the pylons march up the valley and an old broken road has become a nature reserve. Four days more round the rabbit thump Lleyn, buffeted by a bright wind which bounced the heather and gorse. Red admirals danced on the headlands and turnstones and curlews scrimble the shore.

There’s lichen black rocks in strong light, purple hills and white sand. I cook noodles on my will-o-the-wisp stove among the seaweed, with aching feet and a little hiraeth in my heart.

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