Gerald said I should knock on his door, but I don’t have his address. I emailed from Bangor suggesting he might look out of his window about tea time, but I’d got the hours and miles all wrong anyhow.

Are the rocks really so red? The coast was all storm light and silver, I camped just south of the stacks. The clouds were stone angels, and I watched them as long as I could.

All round Holyhead Irishmen are parked up in cars facing the sea, waiting for the boat. The one at South Stacks wants to know how far it is across the sea and where I’m walking to. He says I’m braver than him, camping in the dark. He’s going to Limerick to find his family, it used to be the city of stabs but it’s all AK47s now. We wish each other luck.

I walk over the donkey path. The sea is silk and the bracken is brown, curling over the heather and making the hills red too. There are the Skerries. Interesting word, yacht. Gerald’s story walks along with me, and this wild lovely coast is richer for it.

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