The top of the hour, and the front-page next day

of the regional news, featured the traffic

jammed from the car park near the beach, along

the forest road, past the site of the royal court

exiled by the English invaders,

past the public toilets, then into

the village of Newborough itself

(named and founded by the invaders);

and many miles either side of the village

on the only main road in that part

of the island of Ynys Môn (‘Anglesey’

in the language of the occupiers).

 

Influencers on TikTok and Instagram

had videoed themselves extolling

the solitary beauty of Traeth Llandwyn

(Newborough Beach), and so, that August day,

legions had come seeking something special – but saw

only somebody else’s exhaust fumes.

I felt a brief spasm of schadenfreude

remembering another August day.

 

Then there was no sign on the main road

or in Newborough village for the beach,

and the road through the forest was a track

among sand hills planted with pine saplings.

Except for us the beach was deserted,

a secret only lovers had discovered.

Its sands – edged landward by high dunes sprouting

marram grass – extended for miles, were littered

with sea wrack and oyster shells, with razor clams

and bleached driftwood. Seaward a flock of gulls

was slowly, silently crossing the still bay.

On the distant shore a range of mountains

stretched to the horizon.