There’s a man in a hi-vis jacket the colour of lemon-rind with mother-of-pearl strips on the sleeves and he’s flapping his arms and shouting at the people gathered beside the sea-wall. They can’t hear him. The roaring wind and the waves pounding the breakwater are the only things anybody can hear.

Halfway down

Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!

These words, from Shakespeare’s play King Lear, are spoken by Edgar as he peers over the edge of the cliffs at Dover.

Kenfig is plagued by ghosts.  Things have reached epidemic proportions. Ghosts in the fields, in the pubs, on the beach, in the houses, in the machines. Shrieking in the slacks, knocking on the windows, whispering in the walls.  Indeed, Kenfig could even be said to be haunted by the ghost of itself.