Low Season

It's raining, but we're not surprised. It's Wales, after all; a country estate in the far northwest of Anglesey. It's low season, and our abode of choice for the week is a rudimentary stone cottage.

It looks as though it sprouted from the land. One wall is the hillside itself, another forms part of the kitchen gardens, its secret betrayed by a tantalising old gate. The rest barely wears its ivy and creeper, while the scarlet front door announces itself from the stone.

Inside is a dark but warm kitchen. There's a hint of kerosene, and we identify the culprit as the ancient range cooker in the far corner, sighing as it struggles up to temperature. A bottle of wine and a vase of flowers grace the tiny kitchen table, and we both appreciate the thought, although for different reasons. Freshly painted cupboards support deep slate worktops and a butler's sink, while a rainbow of rag rugs lies askew across the red quarry-tiled floor.

A door to the right leads to a double bedroom. We laugh at the bed. It's cosy for an average-sized couple, but I estimate he will hang off the end from the knees. He observes that at least there is no footboard, and rues leaving his fleecy slippers at home, while I accept there will be a tug of war later.

Slim double doors disguise a primitive bathroom. We lay bets on the likely inadequacy of the shower but remain grateful there is one, and marvel at the fact that the toilet cistern is considerably bigger than the shower space. A test flush reveals that the ancient plumbing is in working order. Indeed, it serenades the remainder of our tour.

Steep, ladder-like stairs bisect the ground floor and lead to an airy, beamed room above. Deep windows on three sides — one revealing the secret garden — and roof windows at the back fill it with light; even in the throes of a storm, it feels sunny. An open fireplace with a supply of logs, sprawling saggy sofas, generous blankets, and plentiful cushions complete our home for the week.

We're happy here.

We don't fall in with the island quite so readily.

A short, desperate summer still lingers in the wings, reluctant to admit that its time has passed. Tourists traipse the tired tat shops and chip shops, while hungry gulls haunt the vacant piers and squabble over stingy scraps and litter bins. Derelict churches and ancient monuments retreat into the mellowing landscape, and the dank castles seem to shelve their stories for another year.

The estate becomes a familiar friend among the jaded remnants of the season, and we explore it to its limits. The creeper-clad manor gives way to manicured lawn and then a gloss-green lake. A pontoon blurs the boundary between earth and water, while modernist sculptures sit among the trees on the far bank.

We sit beneath an ancient beech for a while, then beneath a sturdy oak. Around us, the great forest trees lean away from the wind, still clinging to the tatty remains of summer. A red squirrel chatters along a branch and we almost miss him, his quivering tail momentarily indistinguishable from another colourful leaf twitching among the turning trees.

From here we seek the wilderness.

The weather obliges from the outset. High winds penalise the landscape while high waves punish the shoreline. The scattered beaches are deserted and desolate. Rolling dunes, like obnoxious camels hunkered down in the marram grass, spit eye-stinging sand, while the sea slaps seaweed and spume onto the shore with every beach-thumping roll.

On a cloudless day the high cliffs give way to wonder. Humanity seems very small from up here, the distant lighthouse little more than a speck on its rocky promontory. Marsh harriers, peregrine falcons and a kestrel join the myriad gulls wheeling around our heads as we climb into the blue towards the pinnacle of Holy Mountain.

Later we brave the breakwater in blustery weather, thrilled by the boom and throb of monstrous waves deep below and the great eruptions of spray as the water strikes the walls and engulfs the walkway. Seaweed is strewn across the structure, turning the mile and a half ahead into a minefield for the not-so-sure of step. We pick our way carefully, dodging waves and weed as we move deeper into the heavy fret.

Eventually a lighthouse floats into sight like a spectre at the end of the causeway, its beacon offering fair warning to sailors and some comfort to two increasingly vulnerable walkers.

On the return journey, the wind gathers the sea into its embrace and hurls it into our faces. The shoreline disappears. Buoyed by thoughts of dry clothes, a warm cottage and hot chocolate, we march in silence, lost in the full chorus of wind and sea.

And then the week is over.

We return home refreshed, but reluctant. I had thought we couldn't quite grasp the little island that became our home for the week.

In the end, I think it was the other way around.

It grasped us, picked us up, blew away the cobwebs and washed away the grief.