A sign says Preifat – No Parking Dawn to Dusk. We park away from the deep puddles and VW campervans and make our way between the dunes down a steep flight of steps pegged in the sand. Sand blasts us, stinging our cheeks. Creamy foam drifts and bobs on the stiff on-shore wind. A handful of surfers paddle manically, but they make little progress getting beyond the swell. The waves are getting bigger, funnelled tight between the headland. They crash and suck at the wet, steeply shelving sand and pound the rocks like distant artillery. Up on the headland a sign marks out Barclodiad Y Gawres – a Neolithic tomb. Cable Bay itself gets its name from the fact that telegraph cables which spanned the Atlantic and Irish Sea came ashore here.
We duck behind rocks but the on-shore gale always finds us. The sea is slate-grey. The creamy, off-white foam grows like mutant frogspawn, whipping and frothing up the beach. The last but one of the surfers gives up and shudders, shivering, before striding off in search of coffee. We jump in the car and the slamming of doors creates a vacuum. We sip coffee and stare at the waves. The sea has a way of making you feel small and insignificant.