We ran through the dunes breathless, ducking from the lashing wind and blasting of sand. The marram grass was sharp and spiky, pricking ankles and knees through socks and even denim. Beyond the highest ridge – a rippling, gently tumbling bank of dry sand that could have featured in a Fry’s Turkish Delight ad – we came across a forest of brittle trees. The trunks and branches, many of them broken, appeared bleached and white, ghost-like against the black backdrop of the forest. The scene could have been lifted from a horror movie.
You’d run and run breathless across the sands. Suddenly the landscape would change and you’d tumble down the dune. The air would be suddenly silent and still, like a vacuum after the roaring sea and lashing wind. The blood would pulse in your ears. The pistol would roll away and there would be no time. You’d scramble into the brittle forest taking your chances with the broken earth, slippery roots and jagging branches. Newborough Warren has plenty of secrets and a landscape made for film.