Even by recent standards, the strength of the wind is extraordinary, roaring in from the west and building short, sharp waves on the estuary of the Afon Dyfi. I almost didn’t get here, as on the way a fir tree had shed a heavy, dead branch on to the path much closer to me than I would have liked, giving me a new sense of privilege as I look out over the water. The hills beyond the river seem to fade in and out as they merge with sky and shore in a grey blur of squally rain, and across the marshes the few visible groups of ducks shelter in the narrow creeks defined by the falling tide. Further along the estuary towards Aberdyfi, a sandbar curves around a bend in the river. Slightly sheltered by a steep bluff of rock and some taller trees, it provides a temporary sanctuary for a large flock of oystercatchers. They stand in close formation, facing into the wind, stoically waiting for conditions to improve. I take a photograph, and later attempt to count the number in the group – I give up at 200. Other birds seem in short supply though, apart from the lone jackdaw which seems worryingly keen to share my snack. The mouth of the Dyfi is guarded by a bar of thunderous, tumbling surf where a questionable channel lurks between arrays of sand dunes. By happy chance, I reach it just as the clouds to the west begin to break. Light streams across the beach, saturating the scene with colour and contrast, driving the grey murk inland as a darkening band the colour of a bruise. But the gale persists, tearing sand from the foreshore to form a pale, hissing cloud that hugs the ground, leaving pebbles perched on narrow stacks of substrate. The sunshine doesn’t last long, and a new chill drives through my coat as the sky darkens again. I break my boots free from the miniature sand dunes building against them and look around for shelter and a bag of chips. Despite the patchy weather, the days are finally beginning, minute by precious minute, to lengthen, and the balance between gloom and daylight starts to turn back in our favour.