There’s a hill at Porthmadog behind the Black Rock Sands, a moel, Moel-y-gest.

A 200 metre grey and green granite lump.

Paths weave through the lower slopes, past the grazing sheep and dairy cows.

Converging, often merging into the heather and bracken, meandering through the rocky plug of the peak.

Where you can finally stop for a rest on the iron age fort, above the estuary of the Afon Glaslyn.

Look back.

Peer down on Tremadog.

As the sun dips behind the true mountains of Snowdonia.

And the evening clouds roll over the rippling ridge of Lleyn Peninsula and disperse out over the Irish Sea.

And the long summer grass shivers in the dying light.

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