We'd eaten our barbecue of oddly enjoyable charred veggie burgers, washed down with warm lager, under a clear blue sky. I'd watched Dave fly his kite on Rhosneigr beach as the sunset. Now I was lying in bed, wondering whether going to try and sleep in the car would mean the tent blowing away.

At some point in the night, the demented flapping of the tent had been joined by rain. Dave had manfully been out to repeg the guyropes, in an attempt to make us storm-proof.  Finally, having dozed off around 7.20am, I awoke with a start to realise that me, my sleeping bag, my sleeping bag and all my possessions in the tent were getting wet.  I thought ruefully about the windbreaks that every other camper seemed to be sporting, and crawled out to try and return our little dome to a dome-like shape.  No luck! We called abandon ship, and with only one minor disagreement about tent-striking etiquette (if you take out all the pegs and don't hold onto it, it'll blow away) we chucked everything into the car and escaped.

With my wing mirror flapping in the stiff breeze, we drove to the edge of the island at Holyhead, winding our way through Postman Pat lanes to South Stack.  The rain lashed and the car bucked in the wind as we gazed out of the steamed up windows at the lighthouse, deciding to abandon our pretensions to adventure and stay warm and dry.  The queue of bedraggled campers joining us in Morrison's cafe from breakfast showed we weren't alone. 

Having been beaten by the weather, we turned our Sunday into a touring holiday, diverting off the A55 to cross the Menai Straights over the Menai bridge, crossing Bangor before straightlining it to a house with solid walls and roof, warm comfortable beds and hot showers.  Anglesey certainly provided something of an odyssey; I'm still hooked on a place which enables you to sit on a warm sandy beach, looking out over a turquoise bay to the hills of Snowdonia.