I’m in Penbryn, Cardigan Bay and all the animals are at it: midges, ponies, birds that come in pairs, even the slugs. Swallows are back from their adventures. I came here once before, ‘tippled and toppled down the hill to the beach’ according to my mum. But it’s another discovery for me now. It’s a new pocket where the rocks are black – heaped and shattered in waves and strata that curl up to make dark looming cliffs. Where squalls have hurled themselves in briny tempests and broken up the windy shore line. And the forests are bright green and humming with the bees nosying in to the wildflowers. Kestrels hover as if hung by string above their prey. My caravan is parked in a grassy place ‘where you can lie on your back and look at the stars if you want to! No light pollution here.’ The cows are heavy with udder and calf and the hedgerows are singing. The birds even do jazz with drum wing-beats and trumpet-voices.
“Wales is a small coat made of deep pockets.” Horatio Clare