Month: September 2021

Snowdonia, Sep 21: Climbing Little & Big Tryfan (Pinnacle Rib Route)

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What a week. We’ve just returned from an incredible trip to Snowdonia and the mountain blues have hit us like a steam train. Hiking, scrambling, climbing, mountain biking, an island road trip, a smidgeon of wild swimming and several pubs – the last few days have had everything I could have asked for and more.

Friday 17th September

We drove up on Thursday night and stayed in a layby just before Betws y Coed. After a good night’s sleep and eggs on toast for brekkie, we drove west along the A5 through the picturesque valley that cuts through the lush, green Gwydir Forest. Past the trees, the landscape opened out to wild country, where mountains sprawl lazily for miles across rugged land untainted by concrete or tarmac.

Little Tryfan

After a 20 minute drive we parked in the long layby on the A5 just after Gwern Gof Uchaf campsite, nestled in the Ogwen Valley. We fancied a gentle introduction to what we (rightly) anticipated would be a full-on week, so we started with some easy trad climbing on Little Tryfan, where I’d climbed with army cadets a decade ago and Ryan had climbed a couple of years ago. We tramped past Gwern Gof Uchaf and a short distance up the south side of the valley to the huge, slanting rock face, whose gentle angle and solid, grippy rock make it the perfect destination for new or casual climbers.

Most of the wall was being used by a big army group so we walked past them to the far end and climbed “Mossy Slab”, an easy two-pitch route graded HVD. I led the first pitch and Ryan led the second. Some of the gear was good but I found that several of the crack constrictions were “wrong” in that they were V-shaped and didn’t allow nut placements to correspond with the direction of fall, but the climbing was so easy that I was comfortable with running the gear out. At the top we paused to appreciate the stunning view of the Ogwen Valley, then walked down the rightward descent scramble.

We felt that Little Tryfan was one of those “if you’ve climbed one route, you’ve climbed them all” crags, so at the bottom I put forward a case for climbing “big” Tryfan. My arguments were:

  1. the weather was drier and clearer than forecast,
  2. we were part way there anyway,
  3. we’d packed enough equipment to not have to return to the car, and
  4. we’d already discussed climbing it via a certain route called First Pinnacle Rib.

Ryan put up precisely no resistance and insisted that he’d be fine in his battered old Nike skate shoes. It was one of those off-the-cuff decisions that lead to the best days out, and the verdict was unanimous. Off we went.

Tryfan: to Heather Terrace

The first bit involved a steep walk/scramble up to Heather Terrace, the path that runs roughly north-south along Tryfan’s east face and is characterised by uneven rock, unavoidable grey boulders, resolute purple heather and lovely high views over the valley of Cwm Tryfan. Heather Terrace is probably the gentlest and flattest route up Tryfan, a mountain whose summit requires at least a scramble regardless of which way you go.

Once we were in roughly the right place along the path, we searched the rock for the start of the climbing route. We’d eyed up First Pinnacle Rib (also called Overlapping Ridge Route), a classic VDiff multi-pitch that featured in both our new Rockfax book and Kev’s (Ryan’s dad) 1990 Constable guide, which Kev had climbed years before. We couldn’t easily tell exactly where the routes were as the rock to our right was high, steep and looked very much the same, and the photos in the guidebooks were taken from further back – we’d have fallen off the side of the mountain if we stepped back to gain the same vantage point.

After a frustrating 20 minutes or so I spotted “FPR” vaguely etched into a slab. Kev had told us that “1PR” was scratched at the bottom of the route, so we assumed that the “1” had been turned into an “F” at some point and didn’t investigate further. A few days later we spotted in the Rockfax book that FPR actually and misleadingly denotes the start of Pinnacle Rib Route, fortunately another classic VDiff which is next to First Pinnacle Rib, so that’s what we set out on.

Tryfan: Pinnacle Rib Route, the nice bit

We shoed, harnessed, helmeted, geared and roped up and I led the first pitch, an easy line up a big groove with good gear and solid holds. Ryan followed me up and led the second pitch up a rib, again with good gear and holds. I came up and led the third; we weren’t exactly following Rockfax’s instructions as to where to climb/belay, but just doing what looked good and felt right. I paused a couple of times to snack on some wild bilberries that grow on scrubby bushes all over the mountain.

The first slightly sketchy section came at what I thought was “Yellow Slab”, an infamous polished wall. With hindsight and research I don’t think it was Yellow Slab, but I found myself on a flat, vertical face covered in thin yellowish lichen, few holds and fewer gear placements, just past a flat ledge and out of Ryan’s view. I felt strong and confident so I pulled myself up, managed to place a small blue nut which subsequently popped out shortly after I climbed above it, and belayed from just above it – fortunately it was quite short.

We were enjoying the climbing hugely and flying up quickly until Ryan finished the fourth pitch and belayed me up. The sky was starting to cloud over and at one point I was climbing above a rainbow, which was cool. However, Ryan had gone slightly off-piste by climbing in whichever direction he liked the look of, and we weren’t entirely sure where we were. We read something in the book about walking rightwards for 20m and belaying, so we tramped right up some awkward wet, heathery ground and stopped at a slightly ominous-looking corner crack.

Tryfan: Pinnacle Rib Route? The ordeal

For reasons that will become clear, I don’t have any photos of this section. The weather had closed in, the stunning views had gone, we were starting to get damp and Type 1 fun was rapidly turning into Type 2. Looking a little reluctantly at the wet corner, I started up it and quickly realised that opportunities to place gear were scarce. It followed a crack up a corner between two fairly bare slabs which tilted towards each other at a shallow angle, not enough to properly bridge, meaning that I had to trust my shoes to grip the damp rock on tiny or next-to-no holds while I made some awkward upper body moves. The crack itself was slimy and mossy and the gear placements just got worse.

I climbed quite slowly, constantly weighing up whether to carry on or come down. The gear became so run-out that if I slipped it’d have been a ground fall onto the ledge where Ryan was belaying (very supportively and encouragingly despite his soaking wet shoes, to his credit), a fact of which I was painfully conscious. When I was climbing my head was calm, clear and acutely aware of everything, but when I paused to look for a much-needed gear placement I felt genuine fear. I’m not used to that feeling – there’s a difference between the adrenaline-inducing thrill of climbing above a bolt at a crag, flying down a steep mountain bike trail or scrambling along an exposed ridge, or even worrying a little that we’d get back later than planned after a big day out, and real, spine-chilling, one-wrong-move-means-hello-mountain-rescue fear.

Eventually I reached a good handhold where I placed two nuts. I didn’t allow relief to wash through me because the next few metres looked as bare as the previous few. I convinced myself to carry on, then proceeded to put myself through the same torment as before, with a long, run-out, balancey few moves up slippery rock until eventually (another potential ground fall later) I reached a horn of rock, which I threw a sling over, clipped into and fully exhaled for the first time in a good few minutes. From there I clambered up onto another horn, which I straddled tightly and belayed Ryan up from, genuinely relieved to be unscathed.

Ryan followed me up and congratulated me on being alive and unbroken, then led the next pitch up an awkward channel which luckily had plenty of gear placements. I followed him, a bit shaky from my belaying position, and met him at his belay. I was a bit disheartened not to see Adam and Eve, the two adjacent pillars that mark the summit, but after a slightly awkward scramble up a column of rock they emerged through the clag to our immense relief.

Tryfan: summit, descent

Ryan clambered up first and did the famous leap between the pillars to gain the “freedom of Tryfan”. I followed, still a little shaken from that hellish pitch, and jumped across before I could ponder the sheer drop to the left, the wide gap between the rocks or the slippery-looking, uneven surfaces on the tops. Ryan thought it funny to tell me I had to do it again as he’d missed the photo; I did not find it funny. Fortunately (for him) he’d captured it perfectly.

We swapped climbing shoes for Scarpa approach shoes / Nike pumps (joking that Ryan was now “that person” we hate to see up mountains), munched a cheese salad sandwich and walked down the steep south side of the mountain until we branched left and rejoined Heather Terrace. The terrain was awkward, uneven and very rocky, and our knees took a battering all the way down. The clag lifted as we descended, the landscape-defining artery of Nant Gwern y Gof appeared way below us to the right, and eventually the views over the long Ogwen Valley returned.

The Perfect Ending: pub, curry, van

We passed behind Little Tryfan, through Gwen Gof Uchaf and returned to the van around 5.30pm, pleased to see the bikes hadn’t been stolen and slightly amused that we’d only travelled just over 4 miles (2,000ft elevation aside). We threw our stuff in and drove the short distance down the A5 back to Tyn-y-Coed, a nice, welcoming pub Ryan had frequented on a previous trip with his brother. I was revived by a cider and an Irish coffee, then Ryan drove us back along the A5 to a car park by Llyn Ogwen, a wild, peaceful mountain lake overlooked by Tryfan.

Several vans were already parked up and there were no signs so we decided to settle for the evening. I cooked a Thai green chicken curry which was admittedly pretty good, especially after the day we’d had, and with hindsight, we could (almost) laugh about the strange route we’d taken up the mountain. We slept very well.

Cornwall, May 2021

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May bank holiday meant a free three-day opportunity to get away in the van, our first proper trip post-lockdown easing (excepting a quick foray in the South Downs). We left on Friday evening and found an excellent, out the way overnight spot on Bodmin Moor, the car park at Crowdy Reservoir, and spent the night under a jet black sky full of stars.

Saturday 1st May

I was up at 6am to go down to the water and watch the sunrise over the reservoir, which was very tranquil in the morning mist. After a lovely little walk I went back and badgered Ryan to get up, then we ate breakfast (a Subway salad we didn’t eat the night before, not even sorry) and drove along tiny, twisty roads to the discrete parking spot for the Devil’s Jump crag just west of Bodmin Moor, near Helstone.

Climbing at Bodmin Moor

We followed the instructions in the Rockfax guide to get to the crag, which took us uphill along a path and through a farm, over a wall (in slightly the wrong place, but we worked it out) and over open moorland past a bunch of cows. We approached the crag from above and saw what looked like a nest of crows on the left hand side of the rocky outcrop. We got a bit closer, realised to my excitement that it was actually a raven’s nest, and scrambled down the steep, overgrown bank to reach the bottom of the rock face.

While gearing up at the bottom we felt a few drips and realised that we’d been pooed on by a raven, which – if anything – added to the experience. We climbed the two-pitch, 24m VDiff South East Climb, the only route in the Rockfax guide. Ryan led the first pitch up the solid granite and I led the second. It was straightforward trad climbing up an obvious crack, as far as I can remember (I’m writing this three months late), which was a good thing as we were a bit out of practice post-lockdown. I belayed Ryan up to the top of the slabby face while enjoying stunning views over a long, wooded valley. At the top we jumped across a disconcertingly wide gap, clambered down the back side of the outcrop and scrabbled back down the bank to retrieve our stuff.

Porthcurno beach

We stopped at Asda in Bodmin to do a supermarket shop, then headed south west to Porthcurno. We’d considered stopping for an explore in Penzance and Mousehole, but the former was too busy and the latter was too awkward to park in. The car park at Porthcurno is set just above the beach, which is narrow and quite deep, nestled in between two  rocky, grassy headlands. The water was Mediterranean blue, the sand glowed in the sun, and we’d found a new favourite place. We sat against the rocks on the right side of the beach and I pottered around the rockpools, considered a dip in the sea (but got no further), people watched – although it wasn’t too busy – and played Ryan at beach chess.

After a while we walked up the steep, grassy cliff on the other side of the beach and sat admiring the view on an old wartime pillbox. The bay in front of us was dream-like, with the deep blue water on the horizon fading gradually to clear azure as it stretched in to touch the yellow-grey rocks and nearly white sands of the small beaches. Having been in some form of lockdown for what felt like an age, we were so pleased to taste freedom again. With evening approaching, we walked back to the van and drove to Lands End.

Lands End

We parked on the grassy area towards the back of the large, mostly empty car park and after chatting to some other van people who’d decided to stay overnight, walked through the tourist complex to see the heathery cliffs of the UK’s most southwesterly point.. It was a very attractive place and I liked the whitewashed First & Last House sat alone against the wide sea and wild moorland, but in my opinion it was slightly spoilt by the visitor attractions, which include a Shaun the Sheep and Arthur’s Quest experience, eateries and gift shops. We took an obligatory signpost photo and went back to the van for stir fry. A bit later on we went back to watch the sunset over the sea, which was beautiful.

Sunday 2nd May

Climbing at Sennen Cove

In the morning we drove the short distance along the coast to the pretty village of Sennen, set overlooking the long stretch of white sand that is Sennen Beach. We parked in the harbour car park, grabbed our climbing gear and walked up the hill to an old coastguard lookout. The descent down to the climbing area was a steep, rocky scramble, and at the bottom we followed the large ledge around to the easy-looking climbs of Golva area on the right.

We spent the day ticking off some very easy grade climbs, including the Diff grades Junior’s Route, Senior’s Route and Staircase. We alternated leading, seconding and scrambling back down to go again. The rock was solid and the lines we took were up wide cracks – it was good to get back into the swing of trad climbing after so long, but we felt quite out of practice. Just being there was lovely after lockdown, and for a few hours the world was reduced to a high, grey-brown rock face, the deep blue sea stretched across the horizon and just us sandwiched in the middle under a clear blue sky.

Sennen Cove beach

The crag started to get busy by early afternoon, so we topped out and walked back down the hill to the van. We had lunch then walked along to Sennen Beach via a roundhouse gallery where I bought a map, and a tourist-type convenience shop where Ryan the child bought a couple of snorkels and a stunt kite.

The whitish sand sweeps across the curve of the bay in a long stretch between gentle green cliffs, and towards the back of the beach is a boulderfield made from large, sea-smoothed rocks. I spent a while collecting plastic from crevices between the rocks, mostly old rope and fishing line, and was amazed (and saddened) by how much there was.

We went back to the van, had a gin and decided to squeeze an evening climb in – I think it was the mod grade Sinner’s Route. We were pleased that the crag had emptied and glad for the late sun. Back at the van we spent the night talking, cooking (or watching Ryan cook, on my part) stir fry and playing chess. The harbour car park allowed overnight stays, so we tucked the van in a corner and slept peacefully by the sea.

Monday 3rd May

We’d hoped to go snorkelling but the sea was grey and choppy, so we thought better of it. After a good explore of the rock pools just below the harbour car park at Sennen, we started making our way slowly home.

Padstow

First we stopped at Padstow, a very pretty old fishing village on the north Cornish coast. Annoyingly but not surprisingly as it was bank holiday Monday, it was heaving with people. We parked by the lobster hatchery (sadly closed at the time) and walked the short distance to the small harbour, which is surrounded on three sides by quaint pubs, cafes and shops selling fish, chips, coffee, boaty-type clothes and a hundred million varieties of pasty. We walked round to the far side to look at the fishing boats, then headed up the narrow, bustling streets to look in some of the surf-type shops. This time Ryan the child bought a skateboard, which we’ve both since fallen off quite spectacularly.

Port Isaac

Feeling a bit peopled out, we left Padstow and drove north east along little roads to Port Isaac, where Doc Martin was filmed. We parked at the top of the hill and walked down the steep slope into the village, the majority of which sits in a tight little bowl connected to the sea by a narrow opening in the harbour wall. It was another very pretty, quaint and cosy place, with steep, narrow streets lined with a mix of quirky stone, whitewashed, painted and slated cottages.

We walked up the hill on the other side of the harbour to Doc Martin’s house (just to send a photo to Ryan’s mum) and poked around some back streets to find “squeezy belly alley”, which was once recorded as the world’s narrowest thoroughfare. Charmed by the timeless little streets, we grabbed a drink from an outdoor bar on the harbour, sat and watched the seagulls and reluctantly traipsed back up the hill to the van (via the Co-op for road snacks to dampen the back-to-work-tomorrow feeling) and headed home, refreshed in equal measures by the sea air and the taste of freedom.

Dorset Adventures, August Bank Holiday 2021

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Friday 27th August: The Square & Compass

We drove down in the evening and met our friend Gus in the car park near the Square and Compass pub at Worth Matravers. This pub is something special – I’ve mentioned it before but on reflection it deserves its own post, so I won’t go into detail. We turned up, ordered three Kiss me Kate ciders and drank in the garden, enjoying the mild summer air and sea views.

Once we were a pint or so in and approaching the giggly stage, a Spanish band started playing from a small gazebo next to us. We didn’t understand a word but appreciated some post-covid, impromptu live music, especially when the keyboardist came out with an impressive solo and the singer donned some bright yellow, horizontal-barred sunglasses with flashing rims which had no business being designed, manufactured or worn, but somehow added to the slightly trippy atmosphere.

My hazy memory suggests that we chatted to the singer and came away with some random band stickers, listened to a mind-numbingly repetitive encore song which had approximately two chords and precisely two lyrics – te and amo – , stayed until (and a bit beyond) last orders, got unintentionally drunk and (on my part) threw up outside the van. I’m not proud, so I’ll move onto the next day.

Saturday 28th August: Paddleboarding Winspit to Swanage, 6.5 miles

Gus slept in the pop-top roof of the van and reported that it was surprisingly comfy, although I suspect he’s too polite to say anything less. We had bacon and sausage sandwiches for breakfast, packed a day’s worth of paddleboarding stuff and walked the mile-or-so down the beautifully green, wild valley to the sea-level ledge at Winspit. After some exertion, the three paddleboards were pumped up and launched.

Section 1: Winspit to Dancing Ledge

We paddled away from the shore and looked back on the sheer limestone cliffs that dominate the long Purbeck coastline, topped by rolling green fields under a blue sky punctuated by fluffy, harmless-looking white clouds. The weather was dry and the sea was fairly calm, but an annoying north-easterly headwind hampered our progress and disturbed the water enough to make travelling in a straight line very difficult for me, as I’d borrowed Tom’s short-finned river/lake paddleboard.

A kayaker passed us and asked if everything was okay, which we perhaps should have taken as a warning. I told him we were fine and enjoying our trip from Winspit to Swanage and he looked at me as if I was positively mad.

After a frustrating half hour Ryan and I swapped, realised to my amusement that he was heavy enough to submerge the board, then both jumped on the family-sized board that Gus had lent us. We paddled along happier, towing the other board, speaker blaring one of my questionable Spotify playlists. Gus flew ahead at an impressive speed on his racing board, which cut through the water like soft butter.

We passed some big caves, resisting the temptation to take a closer look as we realised that reaching Swanage might be an ambitious task. Hedbury Quarry seemed to take forever to pass, and eventually we reached a very busy Dancing Ledge after about an hour and a half.

Section 2: Dancing Ledge to Durlston Lighthouse

Lunch at Dancing Ledge was a good idea as it broke up the journey, lifted our spirits and gave the tens of people sitting and swimming there a chuckle as we attempted to beach and re-launch the boards over the sharp-barnacled, uneven rock ledges. Ryan’s homemade Scotch eggs went down a treat – I think he’s finally found his calling.

The wind seemed to die down along this section, which was by far the most pleasant. We paddled happily along the calm surface as the sun warmed our skin, and even when it clouded over the air was still mild. “You’re Beautiful” came on the speaker and Gus fell in the water, presumably due to James Blunt-induced overexcitement, and we watched a handful of climbers making their way up the blocky limestone cliffs. It was interesting to see the areas we usually climb from this angle because the abseil-in trad climbing at Swanage tends to feel quite lonely, as if there’s noone else on the rock, but there were quite a few people fairly close together who wouldn’t have been able to see each other.

Section 3: Durlston Lighthouse to Peveril Point (AKA Peril Point)

After another hour along the long, straight section of cliffs we reached Anvil Point and Durlston Lighthouse, which had taunted us for so long by not appearing to get any closer. This stretch changed our course from due east to north-east, so the land no longer sheltered from the chilly northeasterly wind.

It took us a painfully long time to get past some people fishing at Tilly Whim caves, then along to Durlston Head. We stoicly rejected the offer of a tow from a jetski, paddled hard as the strange little turrets of Durlston Castle on our left barely moved at all, and fought the frighteningly strong currents around the corner between Durlston Bay and the open sea.

Eventually, after some soul-destroyingly slow progress, we made it around the headland and into the less-windy-but-still-quite-choppy Durlston Bay. This was tough news to swallow as I’d forgotten that this bay lies between Durlston Head and Swanage, so had expected to turn the corner and see the finish line. Exasperated but kind of bemused, we pushed northwards along the wild, empty bay using land reference points to check that we were actually moving, watched enviously as Gus made the whole thing look easy, and regrouped just before Peveril Point to agree how to approach the treacherous-looking thin, rocky spit.

Section 4: Peveril Point to Swanage beach

Acutely aware of the lookout station directly to our left and the numerous people observing our plight, probably with a mixture of concern and amusement, we adopted a plan to paddle aggressively past the rocky finger as if striding confidently into battle. Gus went first and again made it look easy, although he later confessed that his life had flashed before his eyes and he thought the end was nigh.

Ryan and I reached the choppy water, which looked as if a frenzy of sharks were feeding just below the surface, and paddled hard. I thought things were under control until I glanced left at the rocks and realised that we were making absolutely no progress whatsoever. I irritably expressed my concern when Ryan decided to point out (using his paddle, which at that moment should have been being used as a paddle) how mesmerising the calm water ahead of us was. Recoiling at the telling-off, he returned to paddling and we made it past the choppy section, thinking we were in the clear.

As it turned out, I was right to be suspicious about the rolling, mesmerisingly calm water that appeared abruptly beyond the choppy bit. We quickly realised that the flattest sea was in fact the worst, where the currents are strongest, and I watched hopelessly as the water pulled us effortlessly back. Ryan said something along the lines of “let’s go as hard as we can”, I refrained from sarcastically replying “you reckon”, and we paddled our sorry little shoulders off to get out of the current. The paddleboard we were towing was pulling us back and it took nearly everything we had to paddle fast and hard enough to escape, but by some miracle we eventually made it out before muscle fatigue set in.

From there it was plain sailing through the gentle water of Swanage Bay. We paddled triumphantly past the people watching us near the lookout station, between the moored up boats, under the pier and onto the southern end of the busy beach. Relieved to feel solid land beneath our feet, we checked in with Gus to make sure he struggled with Peveril (later named Peril) Point too – he reassured us that he did – and we packed up our stuff.

A few celebratory drinks

We traipsed through the busy streets of Swanage and quickly found ourselves in the tucked-away garden of the White Swan with a cold pint each. The customary post-adventure, post-near-death-experience debrief ensued and we laughed about how – with hindsight – oddly enjoyable the journey had been, and how – even with hindsight – it wasn’t quite all enjoyable. A combination of all day sun, exposure to the elements, hunger, fatigue, relief and on my part lightweightedness meant that the alcohol got to us quite quickly.

We caught the bus from Swanage to Acton with our big paddleboard bags and walked a mile across a field and along a quiet road back to the van. To the others’ delight I managed to flick a big dollop of wet sheep poo up the back of my legs, thanks to my April to October flip-flop policy. We met Tom and Cam (Tom’s girlfriend) in the car park, had a discrete barbecue as we watched the sun set, then returned to the Square and Compass to while the night away. After last orders we came back to the van to talk more rubbish and play card games, but I don’t remember much of that.

Sunday 29th August: Snorkelling and climbing at Winspit

Sunday was comparatively relaxed. After breakfast the five of us walked down to the sea-level ledge at Winspit and had a dip in the sea, with varying levels of reluctance. On jumping in I dropped my snorkel mask, which was thankfully retrieved by Ryan. The others messed around while I snorkelled over colourful rocks covered in all kinds of barnacles, anemones, plants and algae, underwater forests of long, gently swaying seaweed and fish, including large, tropical-looking red, yellow, blue and green wrasse.

We sat talking, eating, drinking and people/dog watching on the flat, rocky ledge, enjoying the sun. Around mid-afternoon we persuaded a reluctant Gus to try rock climbing, so we walked up the bank to Winspit west Quarry and Ryan led Bread Knife, a grade 4 sport climb up a corner crack with a couple of tricky-ish moves for the grade. I belayed while Gus trembled his way up (in Vans as Ryan’s shoes didn’t fit him, poor boy), until he reached a difficult section and decided that the most sensible option was to come down. He did a good job of putting on a brave face – we only realised his genuine terror once he was back on the ground.

I toproped the climb, came down, then toproped again to clean it once we realised Gus wasn’t getting back on the wall. Having successfully managed to put him off climbing, we walked back up the valley to Worth Matravers, all jumped in Tom and Cam’s van and went down the road to the Scott Arms at Kingston for dinner.

We were pleased to find that their outdoor Jamaican shack was open and serving food for the first time since we’d been there, so we found a table in the busy garden overlooking Corfe Castle and ordered various jerk dishes. We were all starving and the food seemed to take an age to come, but it was so worth it once it did – I’ve never had proper Jamaican food before and it was lovely – sweet, spicy and incredibly satisfying. We enjoyed the evening sun and the lovely view (but not so much the occasional sewage smell coming from a drain in the garden) over a couple of drinks, then Tom and Cam went home ready to work the following day.

The remaining three of us walked 3 miles back to Worth Matravers as the sun was setting, through a cattlefield and along a wild, narrow, steep-sided wooded valley on a path filled with slugs and stinging nettles. I’m glad I took a headtorch because it was absolutely pitch black when I turned it off. We emerged in a field at the back of Worth and walked to the Square and Compass via the cobbled village. The rest of the evening involved mead, jelly snakes, deep conversations, admiring the mustard walls and eclectic décor and a visit to the pub’s fossil museum.

Monday 30th August: Mountain biking at Puddletown Forest

We got up, packed up, had a classic van breakfast of eggs in purgatory and headed about half an hour west to Puddletown Forest, where Gus knew some mountain bike trails.

Puddletown Forest is a large area of Forestry Commission leased woodland interspersed by bridleways, firebreaks and footpaths. It’s quite hilly and after a climb up a sandy, gravelly track, we emerged from the trees onto a high, heathery ridge. Mountain bikers have carved natural trails through the heather and the first section we did was very narrow, overgrown and scratchy, which woke us up and started the adrenaline pump.

From there we went to find a couple of bombhole-type bits with flowy jumps and steep drop-ins. I’m confident downhill but very much in the learning stage of jumping a bike, so I messed about on my own while the other two flew around all over the place. Some of the jumps looked crazy – way too ambitious for any of us – and I wonder how on earth people manage them. The ground was nice, compact dirt, but the tree roots were a bit annoying as they threatened to throw wheels off course at the most inconvenient moments.

We spent the rest of the afternoon riding around looking for more trails, which cropped up either side of the bridleways and provided some lovely singletrack riding. Some of it was quite committing (mainly because of the loose ground, roots, steepness and drop-offs) but we made it round fine. The trails have been named but the location feature of Gus’s Trail Forks app was playing up, so we had no idea where we were or how to get to each one; instead we ended up riding along until we saw something that looked good. One trail in particular had a lovely section of flowing, S-shaped berms, and another had some fun, technical rooty downhill.

I felt quite sluggish after a long weekend of exertion, drinking and a less-than-ideal amount of sleep, but I really enjoyed the riding and I’ll definitely come back. It’s the kind of place where you have to spend time to work out how to get around, but I’m sure that once you do it’s easier to link the trails together and cut down on the firebreak/gravel track riding.

Tired and hungry, we accepted that the weekend had to finish at some point and made the unanimous decision to soften this blow with a team McDonalds. We packed the bikes up after 3 hours of riding and met at Ferndown Maccies, where we ate naughty food and agreed that we can’t leave it too long until the next adventure… and so concluded a pretty epic weekend.