We got to know our countryside better for all the wrong reasons. Every sodden footprint. We scrutinised ditches and bracken, found new paths, old swamps, strange views. Our eyes ached, our heads throbbed.

Still now on Anglesey, our minds race with angst. Did we come away too soon, is there something we haven’t remembered, somewhere we’ve forgotten to look? It will take time not to flinch at the sound of a helicopter, or view flattened grass without suspicion.

I watched the oyster catchers rise and swoop, pipe-calling up the Menai. The Snowdonia mountains are blue, fringed by crimson fireweed. In one pebble cove are hundreds of popcorn yellow periwinkles, another is scattered with razors. And washed up in a salty inlet of Newborough sands, are dozens of little pink shells.

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