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sit on my bag, my back pressed into the hard rock, to wait.
     
    When morning comes, I realise I must have slept; snatches of exhaustion broken by the crash of waves as they move up the shore. I stretch painful, frozen limbs and stand to watch the vivid orange blush spread across the skyline. Despite the light there’s no warmth in the sun, and I’m shivering. This has not been a well-thought-out plan.
    The narrow path is easier to negotiate in daylight, and I see now that the cliffs are not – as I had thought – deserted. A low building sits half a mile away, squat and utilitarian, next to neat rows of static caravans. It’s as good a place to start as any other.
     
    ‘Good morning,’ I say, and my voice sounds small and high in the relative warmth of the caravan park shop. ‘I’m looking for somewhere to stay.’
    ‘Here on holiday, are you?’ The woman’s ample bosom is resting on a copy of Take a Break magazine. ‘Funny time of year for it.’ A smile takes the sting out of her words, and I try to smile back, but my face doesn’t respond.
    ‘I’m hoping to move here,’ I manage. I realise I must look wild: unwashed and unkempt. My teeth are chattering and I begin to shake violently, the cold seeming to reach deep into my bones.
    ‘Ah, well then,’ the woman says cheerily, seemingly unperturbed by my appearance, ‘you’ll be looking for somewhere to rent, then? Only we’re closed till the end of the season, see? Just the shop open till March. So it’s Iestyn Jones you want – him with the cottage along the way. I’ll ring him, shall I? How about a nice cup of tea first? It’s bitter out, and you look half-frozen.’
    She shepherds me on to a stool behind the counter, and disappears into the next room, continuing a stream of chatter above the sound of a boiling kettle.
    ‘I’m Bethan Morgan,’ she says. ‘I run this place – that’s Penfach Caravan Park – and my husband Glynn keeps the farm going.’ She pops her head round the door and smiles at me. ‘Well, that’s the idea, anyway, although farming’s no easy business nowadays, I can tell you. Oh! I was going to ring Iestyn, wasn’t I?’
    Bethan doesn’t pause for an answer, vanishing for a few minutes while I chew at my bottom lip. I try to think of responses to the questions she will ask, once we’re sitting here with our mugs of tea, and the balloon in my chest grows bigger and tighter.
    But when Bethan returns, she doesn’t ask me anything. Not when did I arrive, or what made me choose Penfach, or even where have I come from. She simply passes me a chipped mug full of sweet tea, then wedges herself into her own chair. She wears so many different clothes it’s impossible to see what shape she is, but the arms of her chair dig into soft flesh in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable. She is in her forties, I guess, with a smooth, round face which makes her look younger, and long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. She wears lace-up boots beneath a long black skirt and several T-shirts, over which she has pulled an ankle-length cardigan that trails on the dusty floor as she sits. Behind her, a burnt-out incense stick has left a line of ash on the windowsill, and a lingering smell of sweet spice in the air. There is tinsel taped to the old-fashioned till on the counter.
    ‘Iestyn’s on his way up,’ she says. She has placed a third mug of tea on the counter next to her, so I assume Iestyn – whoever he is – is only a few minutes away.
    ‘Who is Iestyn?’ I ask. I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, coming here where everybody knows everybody. I should have headed for a city, somewhere more anonymous.
    ‘He owns a farm down the road,’ Bethan says. ‘It’s the other side of Penfach, but he’s got goats up on the hillside here, and along the coastal path.’ She waves an arm in the direction of the sea. ‘We’ll be neighbours, you and I, if you take his place – but it’s no palace.’ Bethan laughs, and I