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.
By David Selzer