I tread ancient paths, sending up clouds of insects feasting on the nectar of dewberry flowers. Aromas, sweet but indefinable, rise from sandy hillocks and in front of me, haughty in her Witches Hat, the dune grows closer, her smile etched into sandy cliffs from where wisps float on a warm, dawn brezze.

The sun, a half golden orb, creeps up above the brow of Ogmore, glittering its rays on placid water where dots of gulls bob and, below, in rock pools, seaweeds swish in gentle motion like a brown carpet.

Skylarks soar upwards, away from their nests hidden amongst clumps of coarse grass that spreads feathery heads, thigh high. A grass snake slumbers, curled on a path of moss waiting for the sun to warm its blood into motion.

Reaching the base of Witches Hat, clambering up its smiling face, I get to the top and, looking down, see stunted trees in hollows. Then sudden movement flashes and a glimpse of an archaic shadow, skimming low over reeds that shield fresh water springs and their bounty of cress, heads towards the esturary.

As the heron disappears, I wonder if I sit, listen and watch, could I conjure up in my mind's eye, the many generations that now lie deep beneath my feet under the weight of this sandy mountain. Generations of Beaker, Bronze and Iron Age people that lived, toiled in what was once a lush, flat landscape.

Long dead, the echoes of their toil, the cutting down of trees and vegetation seems to reach my ears and through, half closed eyes, I can see gale force winds whipping up wild seas taking advantage of Nature's natural protection; a protection withdrawn from the people who created those settlements.

But oblvious to the sand encroaching further inland, they continued to clear the land, losing the advantage Nature had provided for them.