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

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A 200 metre grey and green granite lump.

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

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

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

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Look back.

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Peer down on Tremadog.

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As the sun dips behind the true mountains of Snowdonia.

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

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And the long summer grass shivers in the dying light.

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