There’s a wonderful magic that transforms and heals and it takes place in an old fisherman’s cottage on the Cambrian cliffs near that famous bridge in Barmouth.

It comes from watching the ever changing, ever absorbing landscape of Cader’s Ordovician rocks; and the Mawddach’s sand art that tantalizes at every ebb and flow.

Or from the wind rushing through the tops of oaks, or when an Argentine moon climbs above Tyrau Mawr; or when you hear the chit chat of oyster catchers on night patrol.

It comes from the dotted quavered rhythms of rolling stock on rusted metal or the polite signal of acknowledgement given to hands that wave.  It comes from the sound of steps on floorboards and the contented well-stuffed laughter of old friends on the deck and the Clock House chime that says time for one more glass.