The salt marsh sheep seem happy on their high tide islands, and cormorants wait on a rock. It takes three hours of train and bus to get back to where I stopped walking and I watch the coast go by – that’s where I cooked breakfast in the dunes, and those are the car park crimson berries. Here’s Port Meirion where we spent last weekend at the festival and poets read from pocket crumpled paper. The male voice choir sang with old gold light on their kind faces, and the red marquee pulsed like a wild heart.

It’s sandwich bright and newspaper busy in the carriage, and patient dogs are shuffled under feet. Outside Welsh Blacks share fields with seagulls by tumble stone walls, and quiet rivers slip into crashing soup waves. There are wet rocks and bramble thickets threaded with berries and ghost bags, and whitebeams flicker silver leaves in a clean wind. Cashmere clouds gentle the hills.

I’m watching the seasons change through the window – while the seaside hydrangeas turn blowsy brown, teasels scrub the wind and rosehips rock the coast.

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