In what seems like an impulse, I drive to Llyn. It has been over 25 years since last I was there. As I speed along the Gwibffordd Gogledd Cymru, my thoughts turn to the old days. I do a lot of that these days.

I follow my SatNav towards Llyn where the A roads are B, and the B roads are gravel tracks. It is still only March. I have it all to myself. What would this be in a few weeks from now? SUVs and Motorhomes, nose to tail and blocking all routes to the beach. Everyone entitled to their place on the roads and demanding their right to be here for Easter and the school holidays. Scrapes, clipped mirrors, road rage.

The air is calm and warm under the blue sky as I reach Morfa Nefyn. The car park almost empty. Always a good sign. Another good sign: Traeth. I follow the arrow to the Beach. The path cuts through the crumbling and unstable cliff edge. Hardly a soul.

I look out to sea and along the shoreline. I can still see him, encountering jellyfish and chasing his blue ball along the surf. Happier times. I walk along the water’s edge letting the waves lap my boots. Lost in thought.

Making my way towards Porthdinllaen, above the sounds of the sea, I can hear voices. Children are laughing. A baby cries. Dogs bark. Day-trippers and locals are gathered at the Ty Coch Inn, the bar already open. I walk past. The coastal path rises up off the beach and winds its way along the cliff towards the lifeboat station.

I climb the path around the crumbling cliff, around the headland and onto the golf club track. I once saw seals from here, bobbing in the surf between the rocks below. A lifetime ago. The man in the observation tower paints the ceiling. I stop for lunch.

Moving on from Morfa Nefyn, I make my way south to Porthor. Whistling Sands, they call it. I don’t hear anything. Another narrow cliff edge path. Disappearing around the headland, I soon realise I am not on the path at all. Below me, the sparkling blue-green sea rises and falls amongst the black rocks. How easily I could vanish here. One slip and I’m in. Dead on the rocks. Lost at sea. No one would ever know.

No network to check my position, I take a gamble. Assuming the path to be above me, I scramble my way up a steep slope of dry grass. It’s higher than it looks. Steeper too. Don’t stop. Don’t look up. Don’t look down. My heart is racing. My muscles weak. Hands bleeding. The vision of my smashed body on the rocks below fills my mind. My blood washed from the rocks. No clues. No witnesses.

At last, the top! I drag myself through the yellow grass, ignoring the dried rabbit shit, and onto the wide gravel path. I lay there for a while, breath-catching.

Calm now, I sit up and look out to sea. There’s a pod of dolphins, a dozen or so, calmly going about their watery business. That alone made my near-death experience worthwhile. Crossing farmland, I make my way back to my car, observed by suspicious sheep.

Though time is short and my little adventures have taken longer than expected, I decide to press on to Aberdaron. I wonder if this is a good idea. I won’t be able to avoid looking back. Painful nostalgia. Never mind. It’s all in the past and no longer important. Even so, I just can’t help taking a peep at the cottage. Move on, Kurt. That was all so long ago.

Aberdaron is exactly as I left it. It is as if not only have I gone back to the village, but that I have gone back in time. Enough! That is another ghost exorcised. It was a good day. I did the right thing coming here. I had put it off for far too long. Now I know I will not be coming back. There is no need. It’s time to go home.