Even by recent standards, the strength of the wind is extraordinary, roaring in from the west and building short, sharp waves on the estuary of the Afon Dyfi. I almost didn’t get here, as on the way a fir tree had shed a heavy, dead branch on to the path much closer to me than I would have liked, giving me a new sense of privilege as I look out over the water.
The hills beyond the river seem to fade in and out as they merge with sky and shore in a grey blur of squally rain, and across the marshes the few visible groups of ducks shelter in the narrow creeks defined by the falling tide.
