The steep, rocky outcrop on the southern side of the path is running with a sheet of water from the recent heavy rains, entraining fallen leaves and swirling around colonies of moss and grass held by fissures in the stone. From the north, the first truly cold wind of the autumn comes tearing across the open marshland, carving complex patterns in the surface of the water and scything into the tattered, fading bands of foliage at the water’s edge. It is close to high tide and the Afon Mawddach, further engorged by the intense precipitation over the hills further inland, is within a few feet of the top of the bank.

In this exposed spot, both people and wildlife seem to have mostly taken shelter. In midstream, a small, solitary diving bird repeatedly dips out of sight to emerge some distance away. Eventually it bobs up closer to me, and I tentatively identify it as a dabchick – our smallest grebe. Far across the water, beyond a wooded promontory, four – then six – geese form a small raft of uneasy companionship, turning this way and that in an apparent search for sheltered water. Overhead, a terse mewing call mixes with the sound of the moving trees, as a buzzard beats methodically across the margins of the wood.

I pull my hat further over my ears and gaze at the banks of cloud roiling towards me over the northern hills. As the clouds break, the speed of change in the colour of the landscape is remarkable, with narrow bursts of sunshine giving intensely saturated autumn shades to the vegetation – only to have the colour flattened seconds later as the next cloud rolls across. A misty grey blur starts to defocus details from the view, and a brief, faint arch of rainbow teases against the hills opposite.

The hiss of squall and rainfall on the water is inevitable but still impressive, and the impact of the soaking leads me to seek refuge under a tree. Cold starts to creep through my layers, and it is clear that the rain is not going to pass quickly. I decide that it is time to take the hint, and beat a retreat.