I clamber down the rough rock face and stop for a minute to thrill at the cold Irish sea licking the rock edge far below. I’m just about there. A few minutes more of careful climbing on this slippery rock, and I bend my twelve-year-old body almost double to squirm through a narrow entrance into a small, wave-dampened cave.

The incoming tide fetches cold seawater to the bottom of the small shelter. Spidery, wet fingers reach towards me. I shiver from their damp touch and move to the back of the small cave. I sit on a small rock shelf, although the granite leaches warmth from my soft skin.

It’s so dark, that rock, almost black. The rock of Merlin, striated with Welsh legends. Time laid bare on a craggy face.

I draw my legs up almost to my chest and fold my arms around them. From my tiny stronghold on this wild Welsh coast, I stare at the restless sea surrounding my island home and imagine its exploring fingers reaching all the way west to America.

I know how this water can fool the unwary, appearing soft and caressing and carrying the heady scent of yellow gorse flowers across its blue smoothness. Yet, like a child, it can instantly change its mood. It’s doing it now. This is why I’ve come out here, waiting for the drama, the story.

The sea trembles with its need to be wild, scattering colours like a broken mirror and tossing white ragged manes into the air. A rogue wave tests the sky and tastes the wind, temperamentally deciding which mood to choose.

Will it give in to its awful strength, create a playing field for gales to churn wildly, and invite the clouds to cry cold, grey tears?

Decision made, the sea stirs, heavy with power. The clouds echo its growing restlessness, gathering ever deeper. The seagulls cry their raucous alarms to those who will heed them.

The wind joyously collaborates with the boisterous sea. It heaves the salty water to strike the rock below me with sharp, liquid fingers, making insidious inroads and hissing a warning of the coming storm.

Strips of ragged, torn clouds rush across the sky, striping the pale sun. What daylight is left takes on the grey colour of wet slate. The black rocks glimmer, and a passing seagull’s white wing flashes in the approaching gloom. The molten quicksilver sea reflects the pewter sky.

Then, a stillness; the air holds its breath, waiting.

A plop. A second, heavier drop. With a rush, the weighted rain bursts joyously out of the laden clouds. The wind follows, dragging the wet entrails of the sodden clouds along its tattered path.

The sea, always eager to play, joyfully gives rein to its lashing depths, abandoning itself to the wild, uncontrolled panic of the storm.

Wild nature, unleashed in freedom. It’s an elemental circus of power that sucks up sound and light and whirls around in incredible power.

Afterwards comes the quiet.

The sea’s fury is temporarily spent, and it’s ready to lull the unwary again. The sky dresses in blue, and the sun-spun sea belies its hidden power.

The seagull screams at the departing wind, and the clouds rush to another encounter.

Curled in my rocky haven, satiated with the drama, I sleep.