Category: Places

Cheddar Gorge, October ’19

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After a sedentary couple of weeks due to the complicated removal of two awkward wisdom teeth, I was twitchy-restless. The weather looked grim so we decided to have a gentle weekend away and travelled the shortish distance to Cheddar Gorge, part of Somerset’s Mendip Hills AONB, on Friday evening.

We found a perfect roadside camping spot between the high walls of the gorge and graced a couple of lovely little pubs with our presence: the Gardeners Arms, a cosy old bar, and the White Hart, which did really good food at really, really good prices.

It rained heavily overnight but was okay by the time we were awake, caffeinated and stocked up with painkillers for my still-chubby cheeks. After a brief wander round Cheddar we set off on a 4-mile hike around the gorge. Starting from the town, we walked up a steep, muddy wooded section to gain the high north edge, then through rugged goat fields along the West Mendip Way.

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I laughed at Ryan when he saw a “budgie” fly up from the forest across the gorge, which I suspected was some pale brown bird lit up by the sun but later turned out to be (maybe, I’m 50/50 convinced) a yellowhammer. We descended into a wood crammed with hazelnuts, crossed the road at Black Rock and climbed up the steep wood to the gorge’s long, scrubby, mushroom-scattered south edge.

The vertical limestone faces on this side are without doubt the most impressive part of the gorge, towering over the tiny road that winds through the middle. We wandered onto the huge grass-covered fingers of rock jutting into the shadowy valley, regretting that it was too wet to climb – nice looking, partly bolted rock stretches down for several pitches. There’s something exhilarating and unsettling about how the suddenly the ground drops away here, and I was fixated by the ant-like cars snaking along the pass hundreds of feet below.

This south edge offers the best view of the gorge, which abounds in three things – lush vegetation, rocky outcrops and goats. Funny little coarse-haired faces pop up all over the place, from high up sheer rock faces to roads down in the town. Looking across the valley over the crevasse-like edge, the north bank slopes comparatively gently and is carpeted with scrubby, hardy grass, punctuated by smaller rock faces and wind-beaten bushes. A mixed forest thrives at the shallower top end of the gorge until its arrest on the south side by the huge grey rock faces, too sheer to be penetrated by roots.

The landscape around the gorge is strikingly flat in comparison. Miles of green fields stretch out in all directions, lined by straight hedges and interspersed with clusters of reddish rooves. The perfectly round Cheddar Reservoir and Brent Knoll stand out from the otherwise uninterrupted flatness, and the rough, rugged edges of Cheddar Gorge contrast starkly with its cultivated, inhabited, carefully constructed surroundings.

We climbed down the steps of Jacob’s ladder back to Cheddar town and spent the afternoon/evening buying cheese, drinking cider and playing pub games. Cheddar has a decent variety of shops and (more importantly) drinking establishments – we went from a sports bar to a wild west style saloon to a traditional, cosy pub. Choosing to bypass the hairdressers-by-day, nightclub-by-night, we stumbled back clutching kebabs and chasing goats.

Come Sunday the weather was less agreeable and my chubby, partly toothless face was hurting, so we loitered in the Costa tucked into the side of the gorge before heading to Wells, England’s smallest city. I was keen to see the cathedral and wasn’t disappointed – it’s a vast, beautifully detailed and satisfyingly symmetrical building situated in lovely grounds next to a moated bishop’s palace. There was a food festival thing on so the town was swarming with people, but otherwise it looked old and very pretty. We found a quirky old gaolhouse pub, rehydrated and headed reluctantly home.

NB: we didn’t do any caving due to very wet weather (so much so that some of the commercial caves were shut), one sore face and less disposable income than we’d like, but it’s definitely on the to do list for next time.

Brecon Beacons, September ’19

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Usk Valley camping

One of my favourite camping spots is halfway up the Sugar Loaf side of the Usk Valley, accessible only by narrow, winding roads often blocked by sheep. We arrived about 9pm and spent the rest of the evening doing my favourite kind of relaxing – under a starry sky, cider in hand, van door open, Dire Straits playing and overlooking the streetlight-spangled valley.

The Big Four horseshoe hike

After cooked breakfast and admin (feat. both hobs and a gas burner), we drove to Blaen-y-Glyn and parked at a jaunty angle on a bank. We planned to do the Big Four horseshoe hike, an 8-mile loop which includes the summits of Fan y Big, Cribyn, Pen y Fan and Corn Du.

After an accidental detour into a forest, we set off past a waterfall and up an alarmingly long, steep hill. The path was rocky but well-kept and the view became increasingly impressive as we climbed, with the sweeping ridges stretching in long layers out to the horizon, carpeted by that hardy kind of grass that lives stubbornly on bleak, rugged hills. Eventually the ground levelled out and we followed the path around three sheer sides of a rectangular plateau which forms the easternmost edge of the four horseshoe-shaped ridges.

We walked along the curved ridge of the first horseshoe to Fan y Big (heehee) and decided to skip a photo on the diving board shaped slab of rock. People were congregating with sandwiches and elaborate camera setups, and ain’t nobody got time for queuing when post-hike pub plans have been made. I stopped to tend to a potential blister, then we descended the steep ridge to the base of the ominously steep first section of Cribyn.

We pushed on up the slope, heads down and toes jamming into the soily steps kicked into the hillside by hundreds of stubborn, stampey walkers. I hate stopping for breaks on tough, steep sections, so I ignored my protesting legs and let the pull of a promised pint power me up. The gradient eased as we followed the curve of the second horseshoe to the summit, then plummeted down as we turned towards the distinctive twin tabletop peaks of Pen y Fan and Corn Du.

The section between Cribyn and Pen y Fan is distinctly V-shaped, with a boggy bit in the middle and a long set of steps up to the summit. As expected this was swarming with people and there was a cringe-ily British queue for the 886m sign, which we pointedly ignored. The wind had got up since Cribyn and we hurried along the short, busy ridge to the cairn at the top of Corn Du, past the throng from the Storey Arms “donkey track”, and wasted no time in moving south along the long, straight ridge that runs parallel to the curved ridges of Cribyn and Fan y Big.

The long valley created by the smooth, curved sides of the two parallel ridges contains the now drained Neuadd reservoirs, walled on one side by an imposing, slate-grey gothic dam and encircled by trees. To the south, dark pine forests cover vast sections of the hillsides like creeping shadows. After a long stretch along the Graig Fan Ddu path, we bore left down the steep slope into the belly of the valley, came to the lower Neuadd reservoir, and followed the works diversion across the Taf Fechan river to the edge of Taf Fechan forest.

The path curved round along the edge of the dark treeline, which now revealed an abundant variety of evergreens, conifers, shrubs and flowers. Sheep bumbled around scrubby fields, and although pleasant (-ly flat) the last section along dirt track and road dragged a little – we were well into pub o’clock.

4hours 45mins and 8 miles later, we got back to the van, changed and rushed off to the pretty town of Brecon, where we found a spot to stay overnight. Somehow we ended up in Wetherspoons* and spent the evening quelling hunger and sobriety.

*somehow = £3.60 a pint

MTBing, Forest of Dean

It was too wet to climb on Sunday, so after a quick detour to the National Park visitor centre and a walk round the quaint village of Crickhowell, we headed to the Forest of Dean for a spin on the mountain bikes.

We managed to get lost before we even started and ended up joining the Verderer’s trail (graded blue, intermediate), a 7 mile cross country loop, a few waymarkers past the start. It was mostly well-kept singletrack, with mainly sustained uphill sections to begin with and flowing downhill runs towards the end. It wasn’t too technical, but on a downhill bit with an “adverse” camber my fairly bald front tyre slid out and sent me flying down the bank. I was more concerned for my bike than my scraped left shoulder, arm and leg, but it was fine.

I wasn’t going to mention Ryan’s achey legs but I will, purely for the fact that he was being a fanny and – once we reached the car park where we should have started – decided that he was too tired to complete the loop and ride the couple of hundred metres to where we actually started. Sorry not sorry – the map on my Garmin app has a gap in. But we agreed to come back for longer and complete it next time, along with the Freeminers trail (graded red, experienced), so he was forgiven.

Verdict: 9.5/10, great weekend (-0.5 for the incomplete bike trail)

Climbing in the Pass of Ballater

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Every place looks better in the sun but especially Aberdeen. Dubbed “granite city”, dark grey buildings against a dark grey sky make it seem very dull. Against a blue sky, however, the granite blocks glitter, accentuating every other colour and making the tree-lined streets look surreally bright.

I appreciated the sunny sky as we wandered into town and enjoyed a chilled Saturday morning before heading out to the Cairngorms. It’s about an hour’s drive from Aberdeen, through vast, open countryside. The cattle and sheep fields sprawl out over the long, low hills as if the land goes on forever, buildings are few and far between, and there’s a general sense of spaciousness that makes the countryside of southern England seem very cramped.

The plateau of the Cairngorms rose up from the horizon, giving a dramatic, snow-capped backdrop to the wide, lush valley with its shallow salmon rivers and dark patches of forest. We drove into the national park and found the Pass of Ballater car park after a quick look at the UKC crag map. It’s a beautifully self-contained valley with steep sides made of scrambley forest sections and climbable rock faces, and we scrabbled our ungainly way up the steep northern bank to a vertical slab.

We lacked a guidebook so finding a [doable] climb was a stab in the dark. Luckily we soon came across chalk marks on what turned out to be (thanks to another group’s book) an HVS 5a called Original Route. I led it with some difficulty – getting off the ground was tough and protection at the awkward top section was sparse – and was relieved to find a nice tree belay at the top.

It was one of those days where “we” felt a bit fluffy, so we were happy to spend the rest of the afternoon messing around – chatting to other climbers, bouldering and staring transfixed over the magnificent forest on the opposite side of the pass, which was alive with an incredible mix of trees. I’ve never seen so many shades of green, and the branches seemed to whisper to each other as they brushed together in the breeze. The snow-capped peak of Lochnagar rose in the distance at one end of the pass, and the open valley swept across the landscape at the other end. Perfect, humanless tranquillity.

We tore ourselves away in time to nip into Ballater and grab a Balmoral loaf from Chalmers bakery as recommended by another climber. Set nestled among mountains and forests, Ballater has a timeless, fairytale-like feel, with its pretty buildings, grassy square and clean, colourful, tree-lined streets.

Carb-loaded and content, we headed back to Aberdeen in time to catch the rugby and spent the evening testing a few pubs. I can’t share the detail as I don’t know it, but the next morning we were fragile enough that we woke up late and had to cut three munros out of our planned hiking route…

Lochnagar, May ’19

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Last time I went up Lochnagar I couldn’t see a thing for blinding snow, cloud and ice. No crampons, broken compass, zero visibility, precipitous ridge, 10/10 could have died. During a visit to the Cairngorms in May I went up again to see what it looks like.

We started at the Spittal of Glenmuick and went up the same route as last time, following a straightforward gravel track which goes through a greener-than-green wood and up a long, gentle incline. It cuts through a few sweeping miles of high, heather-covered moorland, then becomes a less gentle incline and turns into a slabby path. It gets steeper still and the slabs disappear, leaving hikers to carve their own routes up the scrambley, bouldery rocks. As we climbed snow appeared, thickened, and soon covered everything.

We hiked/scrambled our way along the long, icy, rocky ridge which curves in a C-shape around a bleak, high tarn. The ridge drops precipitously down to the still, black water, exposing an intimidatingly sheer, dark granite face, and as we followed it round I was struck by the distance around the top to the summit. I realised that it was quite a feat to have climbed this munro in the middle of winter with zero visibility and minimal gear.

Eventually we reached the trig point, which stands proudly on a high outcrop, and stopped to gaze dramatically into the distance. We watched the mountains’ reddish-brown heather carpets fade to hazy blues and lilacs as they stretched out to touch the 360degree horizons, interrupted only by snowy peaks, and we could see for tens of miles all round.

I can’t think of a comparable landscape – at least not one that I’ve seen. Mountains often seem to envelop everything, standing high and imposing, shouldering each other as if competing for space. This place is different; equally dramatic, but in an open, rolling, panoramic way. If Glencoe in the Highlands or the Southern Fells of the Lake District are great white sharks, the Cairngorns are blue whales. Majestically vast, gentle and quiet. On a clear day.

We indulged in a picnic of olives, houmous, pitta and other posh bits (I didn’t even have porridge) and a cup of tea at the summit, then headed down the path which rolls over the hump-like southeast side of the ridge and lies parallel to our route up. We headed in the right general direction, then followed the path down along a crystal clear river. The snow retreated as we descended past lush, green vegetation and rushing waterfalls, and we found ourselves in a wood carpeted and roofed with unbelievably bright green foliage on the edge of Loch Muick.

The walk back was long and pleasant, along the flat, birch-lined north bank of Loch Muick. The rich trills of birdsong and the crunch of our gravelly footsteps emphasised the absence of background noise, and if I didn’t have a flight to catch I’d have been lured in for a swim by the still, dark water. We saw a herd of red deer in the open moorland beyond the loch and failed to identify several birds before returning to the pine wood by the car park, de-kitting and driving off [very, very] reluctantly.

With equal reluctance I caught my flight back to Manchester, lungs longing for more mountain air but chest otherwise empty as, once again, I’d left my heart in Scotland.

Aberdeen

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May 2019

I missed Scotland and as I was working up north anyway, I took advantage of cheap flights from Manchester to Aberdeen. I fell in love with the country a couple of years ago and as a climbing friend recently moved there, I hoped to squeeze a climb in.

I spent Friday exploring all the corners of Aberdeen on foot, running (a very slow) 20km round the city. The buildings are made of dark grey granite blocks, which make everything seem very dull on a cloudy day but glisten prettily in the sun. Shiny new cars sit outside rows of houses lining the leafy streets, which have a clean, homely feel, and regular shops and eateries give the place a pleasant, quiet bustle.

One long, wide street seems to form the heart of the city, lined with everything from posh Thai restaurants to Wetherspoons to high street stores to haberdashers. Four lanes of cars and a constant stream of pedestrians give it a buzzing atmosphere, livelier than that of the suburbs, but somehow it doesn’t really feel like a city. Grand old buildings shoulder smart, modern ones, there are lots of churches, and I was never worryingly far from a pub.

Just a few minutes from the centre are the docks, boasting a rich history and filled with all sorts of boats. A long (extremely long if you’re running) sandy beach stretches along the east coast, punctuated by groynes, seabirds and the occasional surfer. I stopped at an estuary nature reserve at the northern end in the hope of seeing gannets or skuas, then headed back via Old Aberdeen through the pretty, cobbled streets of the university.

I ran back through the bustling streets looking the most Scottish I’ve ever looked – wearing black, white and blue, with a box of oats (staple snack) from Aldi tucked under one arm. Aberdeen successfully explored, I ended that day rigorously assessing a selection of the city’s pubs (variable types, would recommend most), making pub friends and as far as I can remember, having a lovely time.

Favourite fact: “Aberdeen” comes from the Gaelic “Aber”, meaning river confluence, and an amalgamation of “Dee” and “Don”, the two rivers that meet the sea there. Thanks to my geeky habit of reading all the info boards.

Verdict on Aberdeen: 9/10. Would have been 10/10 if I’d seen gannets and skuas.

Great Gable, Lake District

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I had one three-quarter day left in the Lakes and wanted to climb Great Gable or Bowfell. I decided on Great Gable as I could start at Seathwaite; I’d never approached these fells from the north, and as lovely as Wasdale is I wanted to see somewhere new.

I drove from Coniston and parked along the road just down from Seathwaite. I fell in love with the little cottages and farmyard feel of the hamlet, with its roaming chickens, stone walls and sleepy dogs. It sits nestled quietly in a valley carpeted by lush, green fields beneath wild, rocky ridges, alive with the sound of whispering rivers and rushing waterfalls, and feels a bit “F-you society”. Perfect.

I took the Gillercomb route as I’d read something that recommended it. I climbed the steep path which goes up the east side of the valley, through fields, over rocks and past a waterfall, and found myself on a gently ascending moorland plateau covered in the sandy-yellow grass that only grows in wild places. It rained but I didn’t mind; it meant I had the mountain (almost) to myself.

It got steeper and at the top of a ridge I made the mistake that I’ve made too many times before – to assume. This time I decided that the thick, green footpath on the map must be the obvious, well-trodden footpath on the ground at the top of the slope I’d just climbed, and that I was at spot x. I turned left, and it turns out I’d been a short distance from spot x at spot y, as I found myself inadvertently summiting a different hill – Base Brown.

Exasperated, I backtracked along the ridge and tramped up Great Gable’s little sister, Green Gable. After a quick detour to the fog-shrouded summit cairn, I descended the path south west and reached “windy gap”, a narrow gulley between the steep shoulders of the two Gables. It couldn’t be more aptly named – it was like all the wind in Cumbria was concentrated into that little gap, where it rushed and howled relentlessly as if it were trying to turn me into a squawking little human kite.

I escaped the noise and wind-beating by scrabbling round the side of Great Gable, which loomed ominously over me like a steep, rocky monster, shrouded in thick cloud. Then the all-too-common near-summit occurrence reared its smug, ugly head: the path became indistinguishable from the rock-strewn, scrambley mountainside. Footing was quite poor; steep, wet and loose, and I narrowly avoided a rockfall which, although small, would have knocked me a long, bone-breakingly hard way down the near-sheer edge.

I decided to stop searching for the path and climb directly upwards. Perilous but the right decision, as I realised when a tall cairn suddenly appeared through the fog. Relieved, I followed a series of just-visible cairns to the summit, which is marked only by a mountaineers’ memorial.

I descended back to windy gap via the proper path, then turned right to head back down Stye Head. I love a circular hike. This path is more well-trodden than Gillercomb, passes an attractive tarn and runs parallel to a crystal clear river down a long, gentle valley into Seathwaite. I arrived back at the van wet, triumphant and sad that I had to leave the Lakes.

Then I drove to Manchester for work the following day, which is not worth writing about in itself… But after a few days in the mountains a hotel shower felt indulgent!

The Old Man of Coniston (Lake District)

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This was possibly the most heroic day of my life. It was an emotional rollercoaster that took me from 4am surrounded by wedding-drunk friends in a Blackpool kebab shop to three hours’ sleep in a hotel car park to 4pm alone at the top of a mountain.

Given the previous night’s antics, I never really expected to bag any summits that day. I left the wedding place around midday and headed to the Lakes, lonely and a little worse for wear. I had half-formed ideas about climbing the Old Man of Coniston and/or Great Gable before heading up to Scotland, so I found a quiet parking spot in Coniston and submitted to the pull of the mountain. Despite the dwindling day, hangover and rain, I couldn’t resist.

I chose a straightforward up-and-down route along the old miner’s track from Coniston, recommended by the internet. It started in an incredibly scenic valley; on my left was a hillside covered by a sea of bluebells which led steeply down to a stream flanked by bright, almost luminescent green oaks and birches. The water ran between rushing, white waterfalls and clear blue pools, and on another day I’d have jumped in like a graceful nymph gollum.

I crossed a bridge and continued along the valley, which opened up to form a wide U-shape backed by low, homely-looking ridges. An odd description but it fits – a few whitewashed miner’s cottages are nestled cosily in the low, flat plain in the middle, fronted by a wide, shallow, rocky river, and the peaks aren’t jagged or intimidating like some of the high fells. Because of this and its proximity to Coniston, this place feels wild without being isolated.

The track continued along the left bank of the valley, then got steeper, rockier and twistier as it curved around the side of a hill. Old machinery has been abandoned along the route, and the stone ruins of mining buildings remain overlooking the scrubby, heathery, rocky landscape in front of Coniston. It didn’t really feel like a proper mountain until I got to the tarn north of the summit, which the steep, long ridge loomed ominously over. From there the path got a bit more serious and it finally felt like I was climbing a mountain.

After a brief half-scramble I reached the plateau at the top and headed for a stone igloo-shaped thing. Then the Lake District repeated what it did when I summitted Helvellyn last year – caught me off guard and took my breath away. Layers of hazy blue mountains emerged from the horizon,  basking in the sultry glow coming from the moody, grey-gold sky. The view was panoramic, from the flat, glassy sea beyond wide salt plains to the west, through the rich, green pastures to the south to the mysterious, inviting mountains to the north east. The sheep were my only company and in that moment I was in heaven. The hangover was a distant memory.

After enjoying the lonely summit long enough to feel the cold, I defaulted to the Black Bull at Coniston. I flew back down the mountain, exhilarated to have defied the odds and made it up there, got the bed ready and wandered round the town before treating myself to a drink in the pub. I got funny looks from the locals but I’m used to that, and I set about planning the next day’s hike up Great Gable… Next post coming soon!

Endnote – I love all mountains but for some reason I particularly enjoyed this one. It could have been the fact that I had no expectations as I hadn’t expected to hike that day, the interesting and visible mining history, the variety of scenery, the fact I didn’t beast myself (for once) or the solitude, but I’d recommend this route to anyone and everyone – it’s beautiful, good fun and very do-able.

Ingleborough and Malham Tarn (Yorkshire Dales)

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Monday 6th May 2019

Ingleborough

Blencathra and Skiddaw had whetted my appetite for mountains (not that it ever needs whetting), so we were up earlyish to climb Ingleborough in the Yorkshire Dales. We’d done the highest Dales summit, Whernside, a few years ago but I subsequently read that Ingleborough is more of a “must-do”. I didn’t do much research and we had a wedding near Blackpool to attend that evening, so we settled for what I’d call the “donkey track” that starts near the Old Hill Inn north of the mountain.

It was a very straightforward path that took us through sheep fields strewn with odd, low limestone walls, then over tufty, heathery ground to the base of the hill. Ingleborough is a long, steep-sided, yellow-green-grey lump whose distinctive lion’s back/loaf of bread shape dominates the valley. The climb up the steep north side was short and sharp; a few minutes of thigh-burning rocky ascent showed me that my legs had registered the previous day’s exploits, and I was puffing like a magic dragon towards the top.

From there, the summit was just a short walk west along the gently inclining plateau. We sat in the shelter thing at the top so I could marvel once again at the speed at which my jetboil makes me a cup of tea, took an obligatory trig point photo and headed back down a grassy path that runs parallel to the one we came up, taking in the rolling, yellow-green dales and quiet valleys. At the bottom of the steep bit we guessed our way back through fields of sheep and rocks and got back to the van early afternoon.

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Malham Tarn

I wanted to see Malham Tarn for no better reason than I’d heard of it. We drove across the dales past rolling hills, drystone walls and escaped sheep, parked up and wandered over to the tarn. It was a pretty spot and fairly busy, but I’m not sure why I’d heard of it before as I wouldn’t call it spectacular. However, I did spot a climbable-looking rock face and plenty of camping spots so it may be worth more consideration.

We walked around the tufty moorland before hurrying back to get to the wedding reception, via a shop and a friend’s hotel shower. It was great fun (feat. tequila, spacehoppers, a caricaturist and an inflatable kangaroo), and that day (night) ended majestically at 4am in a Blackpool kebab shop. I’ll spare any more detail.

2 Mountains, 1 Day: Blencathra and Skiddaw (Lake District)

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Sunday 5th May 2019

Woke up in the Lake District expecting to do one mountain, fell asleep after two and a pint (or two). *Borat voice* Great success!

Blencathra circuit via Sharp Edge

We parked at the White Horse Inn at Scales and set off up Blencathra. The start was quite steep and we had de-layered in a few minutes, laughing about our frailty. The gradient eased and we followed the curve of the hill round to Sharp Edge, a rocky arête that flanks the north side of the smooth, black Scales Tarn. The scramble was quite easy, apart from the odd bit of slippery rock, and we were soon on the “spine” of Blencathra which we followed round to the summit.

There’s an Ordnance Survey Trigonometrical Station at the top, a big concrete doughnut which – according to some fell runners – replaced the previous doughnut, which got stolen. Annoying but a solid beer trophy. The summit overlooks a lush, cultivated valley to the south and a sandy-yellow moor to the north. Rolling hills spread to the horizon in the east and layers of jagged, hazy blue mountains loom over Derwentwater to the west. It’s pretty.59885520_412628992908174_6610435511607623680_n

We walked along the saddleback and descended down the steep path to the flat farmland at the base of the ridge. The walk back was very tranquil; we stopped for a picnic on a rock, petted a couple of curious cows, scrambled over Blease Gill, Gate Gill, Doddick Gill and Scaley Beck and enjoyed the sound of nothing but running water, birds  and silence.

We popped into the White Horse for an early afternoon drink while I persuaded Bertie that we should do Skiddaw via Longside Edge/Ullock Pike, supposedly the “best” approach. Persuasion successful, we drove the short distance and parked by the Ravenstone Manor Hotel, near Bassenthwaite Lake.

Skiddaw via Longside Edge

The first half hour or so was a killer. A relentless, steep incline, first through woods then over heathery moor. It eased a little as we made our way along the long, undulating Longside Edge, covered in rocks and heather, and I could see why Wainwright recommended this way.

The landscape opened up ahead and on our right hand side, stretching from dark Bassenthwaite Lake and Derwentwater out over open, green fields to the great blue fells towering over each other on the horizon. On our left was Skiddaw, a great, grey lump that looked intimidatingly steep and distant as it loomed over the coarse, scrubby valley cradled by Longside Edge. Behind us the ridge sloped down to a flat, open expanse of farmland that stretched out to the calm shores of the north west coast, and it must have been the south west tip of Scotland that emerged invitingly through the sea haze.

We followed the curve of the Edge round and eventually reached Skiddaw. The climb was long, steep and loose, untouched by vegetation and surfaced by loose plates of slatey mudstone that made it feel like some desolate, alien planet. We pushed on up (Bert managed despite bad hips, knees, ankles etc, poor old thing), basked in the glorious air that surrounds every trig point, and half walked, half skidded down the steep slope and back the same way we came.

Unusually (but perhaps unsurprisingly, given the distance/altitude covered and hunger/thirst worked up) Longside Edge seemed longer on the way back. Fortunately it was still stunning. Eventually we made it back to the van, somehow without killing each other, peeled off the sweaty layers and made our desperate way to some unknown Keswick pub.

Pub

True to form, classy old me resorted to Wetherspoons for cheap, greasy food and cheap, alcoholey drink. It was so busy that we couldn’t get a table, so we stumbled into the cosy, unpretentious, also-busy Golden Lion on the high street and indulged in the tastiest average pizzas I’ve ever come across. I was drunk after half a cider but I had two anyway, so Bertie drove us across to the Yorkshire Dales in preparation for day two’s mountain – Ingleborough. More to follow…

Snowdonia, Feb ’19: Llangollen, Tryfan and the Glyders

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Sat 2nd Feb – Llangollen56664564_2300276663626783_9008059420726263808_n

I woke in the snow-coated Shropshire Hills and slipped out of the van in time to catch a beautiful sunrise over Shrewsbury. We got to Go Outdoors for when it opened, spent way more money than intended and enjoyed a sunny drive across the Welsh border into Llangollen, where we met our friend Mike.

Llangollen didn’t look anything special as we approached it, but it grew on me after a walk around and a stop in a quirky little coffee shop. My favourite part was the [over-photographed] river Dee seen from Llangollen Bridge; the channel is wide and fast-flowing, and it took half a short conversation with Mike for me to add white water kayaking to my “priorities” list.

Then we went to Mike’s cottage, which is a country mile from phone signal and nestled deep in an ancient woodland whose silence is broken only by the rushing of the stream that runs past the front door. It’s even more idyllic than it sounds. We walked around the wood, which seemed suspended in time with its frost-covered moss, fern, hazel and oak, and breathed in the crisp air of the Llangollen Valley.

It was the first day of the Six Nations, so we reluctantly left Mike’s and not-so-reluctantly went to a Betwys-y-Coed pub in time to see England destroy Ireland. We practically reached across the Irish Sea and capsized the whole country. As a natural consequence I got drunk and friendly (Bertie drove), and by the time I was kicked out I’d befriended (to Bert’s eye-rolling exasperation/bemusement, and to the point of exchanging numbers) a pair of West Midlanders and a group of Bristolians.

Sun 3rd Feb – Tryfan, Glyder Fach, Glyder Fawr

I woke a little “dehydrated” in a car park by Llyn Ogwen. We set off bright and early, all kitted up and super keen to summit Tryfan before seeing the Mordor-like rocks at Glyder Fawr and Glyder Fach.

It was suspiciously clear and dry. We headed east towards Tryfan, and it was obvious from the beginning that the “footpath” was actually more of a “foot, hand, knee and elbow-path”. We hauled our cumbersome selves up the rocks, laden with rucksacks, layers, ice axes (thanks Mike) and cheap crampons.

The path was next to impossible to follow, so as the snow thickened we followed the crampon tracks in roughly the right direction (up). The scrambling got more extreme – we had to de-bag and take it in turns, pulling off some technical-ish climbing moves as we jammed and hauled ourselves up the rock. As the more confident (not necessarily competent) climber I ended up carrying two backpacks, and I pretty much forced Bertie onwards (upwards) when he threatened to turn around; he knew I’d have carried on anyway.

We finally got to Adam and Eve, the two rocks that stand at the summit. It was windy, foggy and sub-freezing by this point, and we indulged in a (butterless, stale, sad) jam sandwich before half scrambling, half sliding down the south side of the mountain towards the Glyders.

We argued about which way to go and ended up tramping grumpily down, along and up a snowy, wet valley. There were hikers dotted about for a while, then – as we got higher – there weren’t hikers. We followed the curving ridge up to the right as visibility worsened, until the gradient (eventually) became slightly less steep. Which was still quite steep.

As the ground levelled out a little more we knew we were on the right track – the Glyder ridge. That felt like possibly the longest stretch of my life, save for the ultramarathon and maybe Lochnagar. My trousers and boots were soaked through but luckily my top half only reached “damp” status thanks to my lovely [men’s] Mammut Kento waterproof.

This ridge took more mental strength than physical. It was a very lonely place; the wind whipped every inch of bare skin and made it impossible to talk, and all I could see for a long, long time was thick cloud, jagged rock and my own eyelashes as I squinted against the cold, hard sleet. I remember thinking about how people sometimes say “I don’t know how you can do things like that” [eg. scrambling/hiking for miles in horrible mountain conditions]. To answer – I throw myself into various silly/uncomfortable/dangerous situations, which is easy to do, then realise that my only choice is to push through and finish the job or curl up in a ball and die there. It’s literally that simple. I also remember thinking “why am I like this”, “do I even like doing this”, “is there something wrong with me”… etc.

Glyder Fawr and Glyder Fach were ominously, toweringly impressive as they loomed jaggedly out of the fog – I could have been in Mordor. Usually I’d get super excited about the cool rock formations, but I was busy thinking of pubs and warm fires; I’d love to go back in better weather.

Eventually we “completed” the ridge and headed down. Even with crampons on I managed to end up off my feet and accelerating down the mega steep, icy slope – imagine a seal on a waterslide – before somehow executing an ice axe arrest and coming to an undignified stop.

The next problem was the unpredictable terrain. One step would be on solid ice, the next into ankle-deep mud concealed by knee-deep snow. Wet, grumpy and tired (but secretly kind of exhilarated), we were relieved to see the curved sides and rugged terrain of the beautiful Ogwen valley emerge from under the cloud, and we lumbered eagerly down towards the still, black waters of Llyn Idwal.

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The snow cleared, crampons came off and we were suddenly on the clear, slabby path along the east bank of Llyn Idwal. Wellie-wearing, handbag-clutching humans appeared, and the thought of turning round and heading back up the ridge crossed my mind. But I didn’t, and we made it back to the van after a long, squelchy plod. Most of the gear we took stayed at least damp for the rest of the trip, and it took a long time to thaw our saturated bodies. I still don’t think I’ve dried properly.

Anyone who knows me knows what happened next. Ty Gwyn just outside Betws-y-Coed is a lovely firelit, wood-beamed, wonky-floored pub. I was drunk as soon as I breathed in the air.