As usual I’m way behind on the blog, but thought – perhaps to transport myself back to the mountains and glens – that I may as well make a start on this year’s winter trip while I grieve our return. For the first time, Ryan and I had a full 14 days roaming Scotland in our van, which remains largely unconverted (although necessarily insulated). Now that we’re home it feels as if we’ve been rudely and abruptly awakened from a wonderful dream.
Saturday 3 February
We arrived at our first overnight stop in Galloway Forest Park, southeast Scotland, at 3am. The 300-mile, 9 hour drive up – punctuated by a single stop at the spectacular Tebay Services – went remarkably smoothly, save for some inevitable traffic near Birmingham, and gave me the opportunity to decide on our first destination based on the abysmal weather further north. We slept soundly and woke at the leisurely time of 10:30.
It felt so good to recommence my morning van routine: jetboil coffee, get dressed, eat cereal, make sandwiches, brush teeth, pack a rucksack and tell Ryan about the hiking plan I’d already connived. Thankfully I met no resistance – he was just as excited as I was to return to the hills. We’d never explored Galloway Forest Park before, and were keen to kick the trip off with a worthwhile reintroduction to Scotland. We were to hike up Merrick (843m), the highest summit in the southern uplands.
We had a lazy morning packing bags, chatting on the phone to Adam (Ryan’s brother, who was on his way back from a week in the Cairngorms) and enjoying the freedom of having no obligations and very few amenities in the back of the van, which contained a mattress, an awful lot of outdoor kit and no permanent fixtures. The hike looked easy, so there was no rush.
Back in Scotland: Bruce’s Stone
We’d stayed in Bruce’s Stone car park, so before we headed uphill we wandered over to see what the large, raised boulder overlooking Loch Trool was all about. Its inscription provides a summary:
In loyal remembrance of Robert the Bruce, King of Scots, whose victory in this glen over an English force in March 1307, opened the campaign of independence which he brought to a decisive close at Bannockburn on 24th June 1314.
This memorial reminded me of the utterly immersive atmosphere that seems to envelop Scotland. The rugged glens, dark lochs and unforgiving hills make its dramatic, bloody history so tangible that it sometimes feels as if a battle-waging clan of tartan-clad warriors could round a corner at any minute, rightfully raring to defend their wild lands against our English encroachment. Yet I can’t stay away – I’m completely besotted with the harsh, beautiful wilderness. As I looked down over the opaque water of Loch Trool, backed by rough hillsides and surrounded by pockets of mixed forest, I felt – even though I’d never visited this part of Scotland before – as if I’d come home.
Hike up Merrick
We tore ourselves away from the view and headed north up a narrow, rocky footpath at the end of the car park. It was a later start than usual – 1pm – but we weren’t concerned, as we had headtorches and the route looked straightforward. Merrick was signposted, so we didn’t have to do much navigation anyway.
Section 1: Buchan Burn to Culsharg Bothy
The first mile followed the rushing Buchan Burn up a steady gradient along a rocky, muddy path which required some careful foot placements to avoid the boggiest sections. We didn’t care – we were thrilled to plunge into the rugged landscape. It was difficult to believe that 24 hours beforehand I’d been sat at my desk in the south of England, which now seemed mind-numbingly dull. Perhaps that’s why the colours were so vivid, the textures so varied and the river so resounding in the otherwise absolute silence. The hillsides were a seemingly random blend of rough, golden grass, coppery bracken and clumpy, purple-brown heather, punctuated by lilac birches, deep green spruces and skeletal broadleaves. Thick mosses had beaten the grass to little hummocks along the path, and Buchan Waterfall sent white water cascading between lichen-spangled boulders down broad, narrow steps. I was at peace.
After half an hour we reached Culsharg bothy, a small building on the edge of a tall evergreen forest, which looked both cosy and desolate. It had stone walls, a neat slate roof, a central chimney, a flat, grassy area that looked like a little front garden, and two broken, ominously black windows. Inside were two rooms, each with a fireplace and chipboard ceiling, a rudimentary wooden bench and a heavily graffitied door. Overlooking the gentle valley of Buchan Burn, it would have made a lovely cottage.
Section 2: Benyellary
We hiked a short distance through the tall trees behind the bothy and emerged onto a track that led us up the steepening hillside. Dozens of clean-cut stumps either side of us suggested the recent felling of a large swathe of forest, now reminiscent of a forlorn, quiet graveyard, and the moss that had covered the floor beneath the trees had given way to short, green grass. The sun emerged, casting a soft glow over the textured landscape, and we crossed a deer fence to the relatively featureless southwest slope of the first summit, Benyellary. Its shapeless, moor-like flanks, carpeted by rough grass and heather, shone gold and red in the afternoon light and rippled in the strengthening breeze.
We continued upwards, neither of us admitting at the time that the combination of gradient and pace felt quite taxing despite the untechnical terrain. The path cut through the moor, then steepened and followed a drystone wall to the summit of Benyellary. As we climbed (feeling quite out of condition), we realised that the forecast hadn’t erred in predicting wind – it had just been buffeted away from the approach path by the surrounding hills, which no longer offered any protection. Thankfully it didn’t feel as strong as the forecast 30-40mph but was certainly noticeable. The top was marked by a cairn and the base of the cloud, which scuppered the view and just about warranted waterproof jackets, which we hastily pulled on – in between mouthfuls of cereal bar – while sheltering from the wind on the steep east side of the summit.
Section 3: Merrick
We descended the gently sloping north side of Benyellary and followed a drystone wall along the romantically named “Neive of the Spit”, which is presumably the un-dramatic col between the hills, whose summits are 2km apart. The map showed that the ground on our right dropped steeply away to the “Scars of Benyellary”, but we couldn’t see thanks to the cloud that we now occupied. After the col we began the gradual climb up foggy, boggy Merrick. Our view was divided horizontally into two halves, which dissolved into each other in the poor visibility: swathes of sandy, tufty grass and the dull grey interior of enveloping cloud.
Nevertheless, we remained delighted to be back in the hills. The dirt path to the summit was easy to follow, and after half an hour Merrick’s blurry trig point emerged into view. We took the obligatory summit photos, “rescued” a bamboo thermos that had been abandoned in a low stone shelter, decided against my half-formed plan of making the route circular – the return would have involved an inevitably boggy trek past several small lochs and across potentially uncrossable burns – and headed back the way we came.
Section 4: Return
Just as we began the descent, the rain came in. We debated whether the initially innocuous mizzle would turn into anything and agreed, from hard-won experience, that it was worth donning waterproof jackets. That was the correct decision, as minutes later we were drenched and slogging through an un-forecast, cold, wind-driven onslaught, grinning ear to ear. “At least we get to test our new kit”, we rationalised, which – thanks to Christmas and a work bonus – comprised Ryan’s boots, my waterproof jacket and both our rucksacks. We embraced the Scottish weather – there’s no point trying to resist it.
The hike continued in this way until we had retraced our steps back over Benyellary and down its moor-like western flank. There the wind abated, the rain eased and the colourful landscape came back into view, seeming even brighter and more contrasting beneath a bank of thick cloud. We wound down the hillside, past the stump graveyard, through the tall forest and along the vegetated, boggy, rocky Buchan Burn path, barely drying at all in the damp air and intermittent drizzle.
We got back to the van at 4:30pm just as a narrow band of glowing, deep orange light emerged beneath the now-lilac cloud above Loch Trool, marking the last of the daylight. It was as if the sun were teasing us, reminding us that it had been there all along. It was a lovely moment, and – looking over the vivid colours of the hill-backed, forest-ringed loch, soaking wet and starting to get cold – we felt truly re-initiated back into Scotland.
Evening
We spread our wet kit out in the front of the van as best we could, using a length of paracord to make a washing line between the two side windows, and settled in the back for the evening. Dry clothes felt amazing and the hot chocolate I made tasted out of this world. Ryan cooked a lovely pasta carbonara for dinner and we snuggled into the sleeping bag, making plans to head north the following day and – given the miserable forecast all over Scotland – visit the Hunterian museum in Glasgow on our way up to the Cairngorms.
As if repentant for the previous day’s soaking, the weather looked to be dry and sunny – perfect for a day scrambling in the Ogwen Valley. After rushing back and forth to collect my gear from various locations around Capel Tanrallt, I bundled into Graeme’s van and spent the 45 minute journey interrogating him about a trip he’d taken to Greenland.
The route became very scenic as we entered the sweeping Nant Ffrancon valley from Bethesda. Rugged hills rose upwards either side of us and a wide, meandering river snaked between lush green fields along the broad base of the valley. The anticipation of approach grew with the mountains and reached its pinnacle as we rounded a corner into the long Ogwen Valley, which sits between the towering, lumpy Carneddau range and the set-back Glyderau, whose dark, jagged faces – although now quite familiar – never lose their ominous, tantalising mystery. After a short drive along the bank of Llyn Ogwen, we met the others in a roadside car park and walked to the little National Trust centre by Ogwen Cottage.
Lou met us there just after 9am, delivered the sad news that Geoff had developed a cold so couldn’t make it, and introduced us to Dave, who would be in charge of the other group for the day. She then went over some scrambling “theory”, which covered what equipment to take and key considerations when leading a group. We split into our two groups of six and headed up towards Llyn Idwal, with Lou taking charge of my group.
Testing the Group
The walk up to Idwal was as scenic as ever. The great, craggy ridge of the Glyderau towered in a great silhouette over undulating, rugged moraines carpeted in swathes of sandy grass, clumps of heather and a hectic array of boulders, and the morning sun – which hung low in the gap between Tryfan and Bristly Ridge – accentuated the darkness of the mountains against the warm, golden glow of the moors. On the way up we stopped several times at different boulders for little lessons on leading a scrambling group, which I summarise as follows:
Before committing to a route, assess each individual’s ability on technical terrain by watching them move up and over steep-angled, low-level boulders, giving pointers on technique where appropriate
Help others on difficult moves by holding their heel and pushing their foot into the rock at a 90 degree angle
“Spot” others on steep or insecure sections by standing below them, feet wide, hands out and elbows bent, ready to control their direction of fall in the event of a slip
Use games such as “the floor is lava” (a personal favourite in all situations) combined with “race to the lake” to determine the more and less confident members of a group on rocky ground
After lots of practice on various boulders near the path, we reached glassy Llyn Idwal via a floor is lava race, in which Darren indiscriminately charged through the rest of us scattering bodies as he went. This hanging lake is elevated in an atmospheric glacial cwm and has its own fittingly charming (if slightly melancholic) legend, which Lou conveyed very well – we were captivated.
Idwal Legend
Prince Idwal was the much-loved and widely talented grandson of an ancient Welsh king, who was taken to the lake one day by his jealous cousin. His cousin, knowing that the prince could do everything except swim, pushed him in. The prince drowned, the lake was given his name, and to this day no bird will fly over the lake’s surface as a mark of respect.
After scrutinising the sky above Llyn Idwal for signs of avian passage to no avail, we accepted the legend as fact and stopped for “first lunch” (a unanimously celebrated concept) on the eastern side of the lake. As we ate we took in the great cwm, whose vast, craggy faces towered menacingly above us on three sides. On the far side the sinister, black cleft of the Devil’s Kitchen loomed high above the water; mist often emanates from that rocky chasm and drifts around the bowl-like cwm, which means the Devil is cooking – another fact, although harder to verify. Today was clear, and the only mist in sight came as steam from my thermos of interminable stew.
Leading a Scramble
First lunch finished, we walked to the south-eastern end of the lake and stood by Idwal Slabs, which I’d climbed the previous year. We were to scramble up Senior’s Gully, a grade I route that follows a blocky channel up the northern side of Glyder Fawr. We set off upwards and Lou demonstrated how to lead a group scramble. From memory, the notable points were:
Choose the safest-looking route, taking into account difficulty, protectability and consequence, but allow confident group members to pick their own route within reason
As a leader, station yourself at the crux of difficult sections in a place where you can help group members without getting in the way
Help others on technical moves by spotting, holding their boots into the wall and steering them in the right direction by holding their rucksack
Ensure you can communicate with (and ideally see) the whole group at all times by staying within calling distance and letting everyone catch up before rounding corners
Position stronger group members next to less confident members so they can provide assistance, and place a stronger member at the back of the group
Senior’s Gully
The gully was fairly “technically” easy, with an abundance of good holds and grassy, heathery ledges, a relatively shallow gradient (for a gully) and just a couple of trickier moves up slabs, but although solid the rock was quite wet, which made it slippery and slowed us down significantly. It did, however, mean that we had plenty of practice helping others up the more technical moves, as water dampens confidence as well as rock.
We took turns leading and found that there was significantly more to think about on-the-spot than when leading a hike. Visibility of the gully ahead was often limited to just the next few moves, so the safest route wasn’t always obvious, and it was quite tricky focusing on personal safety, route choice and the rest of the group at the same time. I also found it quite hard to determine the best place to stop and assist others, having never really scrambled with anyone other than Ryan, who is so absurdly confident that I never really think about him.
We reached the top just after 3pm, a couple of hours after setting off upwards. We had second lunch at the edge of the Nameless Cwm, which isn’t actually nameless as it’s called Cwm Cneifion. Google reckons this means “cwm of the tufts of sheared wool” – I prefer the more mysterious (and more pronounceable) title. I celebrated the long-awaited final mouthful of stew and watched enviously as a couple of climbers made their way up Cneifion Arete. After pinpointing our location on the map (we were never safe from nav practice) we started the descent down the steep, winding path that takes a diagonal line down the western flank of Y Gribin.
We wound down the side of the grassy ridge, chatting away and making plans to go to the pub. We reached Llyn Idwal and returned to Ogwen Cottage area on the slabby path we’d walked in, coincidentally meeting the other group right at the end. Lou debriefed our group, which was really helpful as it cemented in everything we’d covered, and we returned to the cars in great anticipation of a good pub meal.
Evening
All twelve of us reconvened in the Black Boy at Caernarfon, a large, quirky, charmingly old-fashioned and necessarily haunted pub set within surprisingly intact, battlemented castle walls. We took two six-seater tables and most of us tucked into a hearty pie and pint, which was too much for Darren, who completely lost all decorum in a mad giggling fit just as the waitress came over – I can’t remember why but it was at Jack’s expense. The merriment continued in Connie’s car and back at the chapel, where Jack produced an elaborate cheeseboard and we celebrated the week over a few drinks with the help of an 80’s classics playlist. I wasn’t ready to leave the following morning, both literally and emotionally.
Friday: Expedition up Yr Aran, Wild camp, Night navigation
After a mad morning doing all the packing I should have done the night before instead of eating cheese and drinking wine, I loaded all my gear into poor Scabbers and – with great sadness – left Capel Tanrallt for the last time. After a relatively dismal 25 minute drive along narrow, winding roads, rain pounding the windscreen the whole way, we all met at Caffi Gwynant, a cosy, elegant converted-chapel-come-cafe nestled in the Nant Gwynant valley.
We had our fill of sausage sandwiches and coffee, then met Lou and Smyrff (the other instructor) in the courtyard for an expedition brief. We were to hike up Yr Aran via a set but undisclosed route, taking it in turns to navigate legs individually using a 1:50,000 scale map. Then we would hike to an overnight camp spot, pitch our tents, spend the evening doing a night navigation exercise and return to the cars the next morning.
Morning: wet, windy & very nearly miserable
We set off towards Snowdon on the Watkin path just after 11am. The first section took us gently uphill along the edge of an old broadleaf wood, overlooking the increasingly scenic Nant Gwynant valley, which was green, lush and flanked by thickly forested hillsides set beneath high, oddly lumpy ridges. We were bemused to spot an alpaca chewing nonchalantly among sheep in a clump of copper-coloured bracken, and Darren – who was leading this leg – talked us through the seven S’s of camouflage, which are useful to consider if you need to attract (or avoid) attention in the mountains: shape, silhouette, sound, shadow, shade, shine and speed (movement).
We reached the Afon Cwm Llan after a kilometre and continued on the Watkin path, which ran parallel to the river and climbed steadily up a wide valley. Trees no longer shielded us from the weather and I felt sorry for Mohan, who led this section through torrential rain and relentless wind. Thankfully the scenery was stunning despite the grim sky. The river cut a snaking channel down from Cwm Tregalen ahead, whose towering walls loomed high in the distance, and carved between the sloping sides of Y Lliwedd, Allt Maenderyn and Yr Aran. The water plunged downwards in several places via rushing falls, which were so white they seemed to emit light amongst the swathes of russet-coloured bracken, yellow-green grass and fading early autumn trees.
We rounded a craggy corner and turned left off the Watkin Path onto the Cambrian Way, which was slightly sheltered thanks to Yr Aran’s bulky presence. Connie took the lead and (being a doctor) gave a very useful crash course in first aid, which kept us entertained during a long, steady slog up the side of Snowdon’s south ridge. As we climbed, Lou pointed out a disused slate quarry across the valley, which consisted of some ruined buildings, spoil heaps and great slate terraces forming large platforms up the lower reaches of Y Lliwedd. The steady chatter fortified our collective mood against the miserable weather.
The weather breaks
We stopped for first lunch just below the col between Yr Aran and Snowdon’s south ridge, then tramped up its slippery, slatey side to receive a hearty battering from the wind. We left the path and Jack navigated us south along the rugged crest to a small mound, at which point the rain finally abated and the sun cast an ethereal, entirely unexpected golden glow over the landscape, which now revealed itself as a vast, wild sprawl of lumpy ridges and irregular summits. Old slate works formed a strangely industrial foreground, spread across the flattish area by the col, and the Nantlle Ridge stretched out along the western horizon, its green flanks now bathed in low sunlight above the wide Beddgelert valley. Accordingly, we all took a sudden interest in photography:
Yr Aran
My turn to navigate was spent leading the group down the awkward back of the mound, over a wall, through a bog and up the steep north side of Yr Aran. The others had all given interesting talks on relevant subjects while navigating, which I failed to match with my sermon on the ecological importance of peat bogs. In an attempt to be more interesting I mentioned that George Mallory, the Everest pioneer, trained for the Himalayas on the craggy northeastern side of Y Lliwedd, the vast ridge over to our left. Having exhausted my reserves of tenuously relevant knowledge, I tramped up the mountain with the others trailing behind.
We had second lunch on Yr Aran’s sheltered eastern face, which provided a lovely view of Snowdon under a newly blue sky scattered with pale clouds. We all watched amusedly while Graeme instigated a conversation between a phone recording of a raven and a real raven, which had materialised at the rustle of a bag of jelly babies. Once the croaking had concluded we continued up and over the mountain’s symmetrical top, where I managed to miss the remains of an RAF helicopter that caught fire after an emergency landing a few years ago. Graeme then led us down the western side, a long, grassy ridge, stopping at intervals to crush my peat bog lecture with interactive dissections of fox poo and/or owl pellets, one of which contained the unmistakeable shell of a species we’d learnt to identify while on the Nantlle Ridge hike – the violet ground beetle, which glinted in the afternoon sun.
To camp
Having navigated only a short leg, Lou gave me the cruel job of getting us to a specific, indistinct point on the northwestern slope of Yr Aran. In the absence of features and paths I could only use a bearing, pacing and contours, so was relatively satisfied to be only a few metres out on arrival. After a bit more bogtrotting we rejoined a path and returned to the slate-strewn col, where old spoil heaps, walls and ruins lay vast and still in the hazy, waning light, looking serene and wistful in their abandonment.
We crossed the col and dipped back down the other side, then followed Mohan along a vague path along the base of Snowdon’s south ridge for about a kilometre. We stopped at a flattish grassy area nestled between the hillsides of Cwm Tregalan, which towered above our camp spot on three sides, and busied ourselves by erecting tents, offloading sleeping bags and preparing dinner. Jack joined me while I munched boil in a bag chicken and rice, gave me half his hot chocolate and was unshaken by everyone’s relentless teasing: by sharing Connie’s tent and my jetboil, he’d achieved what was deemed a “lightweight hike” and concluded, quite rightly I suppose, that he’d simply “taken initiative”.
Night nav
Our preparations for a night navigation exercise were interrupted by the arrival of a poorly-looking lamb, which stood very close to Lou’s tent, swaying slightly, and seemed quite unaware of its surroundings. It looked a little forlorn but otherwise happy enough, but it clearly wasn’t well, so Lou texted a local farmer to arrange for its collection. Once this minor drama had been seen to we partnered up and set off in the dark, taking it in turns to lead short but time-consuming legs across the rugged terrain.
Jack and Darren led the first leg downhill, across a stream and to a small stone sheepfold, while the rest of us followed by taking a bearing off the leaders each time they changed direction and counting paces. This was slow and difficult on the rough ground, but it was quite exciting hiking in pitch dark and we were thankful for the lack of wind and meaningful rain (drizzle doesn’t count in Wales). Connie and I took over, took a bearing to a stream then handrailed it up a steep bank, helpfully advising the others not to fall in. We reached our destination – a featureless point on a small hill, denoted by the curve of a contour – using a bearing and pacing, and remarked how different the landscape seemed in the dark. Using contours as visual features was almost useless, as each tiny mound seemed extremely large without the context of its surroundings. This was the key thing I took away from the exercise – focus on bearings and pacing.
Mohan and Graeme led the final leg across undulating mounds and we bumped into the other group, a cluster of headtorches and cheery voices, just before returning to camp. I scouted round for the lamb but it was nowhere to be seen, so – hoping that the farmer would come and look for it early in the morning – we inspected each others’ tents. I admired Darren’s two porches, while he described mine as “palatial”, and I inwardly added “smaller tent” to my shopping list before heading to bed. I certainly do not need a new tent.
Saturday: Return, River Crossings, Debrief
After a good night’s sleep (the rain only woke me once) we were all breakfasted, packed and ready to leave by 8. Gold-lined clouds sat low above the distant hill that spanned the V of our valley as the sun crept above the horizon, making for a spectacular start to our final day. We hiked down the rugged slope for a kilometre, commenting on how near the features from the night nav seemed in daylight, and I quizzed Graeme on the merits of sphagnum moss while Connie recited the lichens she’d learnt.
Back on the Watkin path, the river rushed vigorously alongside us and we passed a small weir which Lou explained forms part of a local hydroelectric scheme (I think these should be widely endorsed). Lou then diverted the conversation back to the ML syllabus and we discussed campcraft, which encompasses various considerations around taking a group on a multi-day expedition such as hygiene, safety, cooking, equipment and environmental impact. Then, just as I was reading an information board about the Watkin Path being the first official footpath in Britain, Lou’s friend the farmer appeared on a quad bike on his way up to search for our poorly lamb, to everyone’s relief. He later reported that it had been found and collected.
By the time we descended into the pretty broadleaf wood we’d passed the previous day, people had started up Snowdon in droves and I was glad for the relatively quiet experience we’d had up Yr Aran. We emerged onto the Nantgwynant Valley road and saw that the laybys we’d parked in were now full, being a dry Saturday morning. With the expedition over, we crossed the road and commenced our final practical exercise of the week – river crossings.
River crossings and emergencies
We found the other group knee-deep in the wide, relatively shallow Afon Glaslyn and made our preparations to get wet. I thought I’d experiment by tying a spare bootlace tight around the top of my waterproof socks, outside my waterproof trousers, to see if my feet stayed dry (they did not). As Glyn led the other group across the river in a loud, military fashion, Lou talked us through how to deal with emergencies in the mountains, useful phone apps/services and demonstrated how to evacuate casualties using firstly a group shelter, then a jacket and hiking poles. After parading each other around on makeshift stretchers, we practised several methods of crossing rivers in a group – I’ll attempt to summarise what we learnt:
Choose the safest looking place to cross, taking into account the depth and speed of flow
Face upstream, maintain a wide, stable stance and walk sideways like a crab
Straight line: the group crosses together in a line facing upstream, one behind the other, holding on to each others’ shoulders/rucksacks. The leading person creates an eddy that protects the others from the brunt of the flow
Wedge: the strongest person forms the apex of a wedge and the others form a triangle behind them, all holding onto each other. The smallest/weakest people at the back are protected by an eddy and the group moves sideways together
Chain: the group spans the width of the river, holding on to each others arms/bags, and the last person moves from one end of the chain to the other by passing behind the line of people, taking it in turns to move one at a time until the chain reaches the opposite bank
With that done, we wobbled and giggled our way out of the water and back to the cars, wet to the knees, and drove in a loose convoy to Llanberis via the winding Nantgwynant valley road and the ever-scenic Llanberis Pass. I parked by Llyn Padarn and joined some of the others for a coffee and sausage roll in a little café, then we made our way to the previously visited Y Festri village hall.
Conclusion
The final session covered how to record Quality Mountain Days (40 of which are required to pass the assessment) on the online database, QMD requirements, how to navigate the training portal and useful learning resources. Lou gave us feedback and we all parted, slowly and reluctantly, with many promises to meet up for catch ups and QMDs in the near future. Llanberis’s colourful high street seemed uncharacteristically gloomy on leaving Y Festri and I set off on my drive home at 2:30pm, keenly feeling the quiet dullness of unaccustomed solitude after the constant camaraderie of the course.
To conclude, I had an incredibly enjoyable and memorable week making new friends and learning an abundance of new skills. Our group became quite tight in just a few days and we remain in contact – in November I met some of the others in the Brecon Beacons for a lovely hike, and the group chat still pops up fairly regularly. Having already spent a fair amount of time in the mountains, I was amazed at the depth of the syllabus, the variety of useful skills I learnt, and the knowledge imparted by the course instructors – for example, I never expected to come away able to identify an arsenal of plants, mosses and lichens. I plan to book the assessment within the next year or so, but in the meantime I’ll be off to the mountains again – now (hopefully) with corresponding competence and confidence!
Becoming an official Mountain Leader has been in the back of my mind for several years, but until recently I’ve elected to spend my finite annual leave gallivanting, unsupervised and unqualified (but not without hard-learned experience), around mountainous areas, sometimes with friends in tow. I just never got round to booking onto a course, and the pull of new, personally uncharted mountains was always stronger than the desire to plod around familiar areas re-enacting my DofE and army cadet days. This unjust premonition of formal mountain training was upended in October, when Ryan’s long-awaited week-long fishing trip to France robbed me of a climbing partner and gave me the impetus to sign up to a six-day Mountain Leader course in Snowdonia with Lou Tully at Freedom Outdoors.
Sunday: Capel Tanrallt
I pulled up at Capel Tanrallt at 4pm on Sunday afternoon, immensely relieved that Scabbers, our beloved, twenty-year-old, peeling, mossy Toyota Yaris, had completed the journey. I’d spent the previous 24 hours wild camping at Llyn Edno and hiking up Cnicht, the “Welsh Matterhorn”, but I’ll write that up separately. I was the first to arrive at the slate grey converted chapel near the small village of Llanllyfniand was greeted with smiles by Lou and her husband, who showed me round the accommodation and kindly found me some clothes pegs to air my tent.
The chapel was spacious, modern, cosy and well-equipped, with three large storeys, several two-person bedrooms, three bathrooms, a drying room, two living rooms and a large communal kitchen, which boasted tantalising views across to the dark, alluring summits of the Nantlle Ridge. I picked a first-floor bedroom adjoining the big living room, keen to not miss out on any social goings-on, and dumped my unnecessarily extensive array of bags by my bed (I’m not much of an unpacker, so the wardrobe remained redundant all week).
The other course attendees trickled in as I laid claim to a corner of the fridge, and Lou left us to settle in. Our first group activity came unexpectedly early, when several of us were summoned up a narrow road behind the chapel to push a van out of a ditch. With one successful team effort already under our belts, the first evening was spent making polite conversation around the long kitchen table, and on my part cooking up an overly large chorizo and chickpea stew. This would become a chore to consume over the next few days and an amusing subject for the group, all of whom refused to help eat it despite my increasingly desperate pleas.
Photo from the end of the week, hence the hastily abandoned beds!View from the kitchen
Monday: Navigation near Nantlle
We gathered around the kitchen table at 9am for “formal” introductions, a course overview and general group discussion. Lou split the twelve participants into two groups according to where we were sitting and allocated my group to Geoff, the other instructor, who would become our exalted mentor and fountain of all mountain-related knowledge over the following three days. We then split up and shared lifts to our different destinations: Lou’s group went to hike around the Nantlle Ridge, while my group met at an incongruous little car park ten minutes down the road to practise low-level navigation on the western edge of the National Park. Everyone politely declined a lift in Scabbers, a pattern that would continue throughout the week. I’d have done the same, given the option of relying on an equivalently small, mossy vehicle, so was thankful for the lift with Connie.
Map, Compass & Pacing
The first thing Geoff taught us was that everyone has the right to roam, ie. go anywhere on foot regardless of paths, on open access land, which is coloured in yellowish on an OS 1:25,000 map. He then covered the “four Ds” of navigation (distance, duration, description and direction), parts of a compass and pacing – how many steps it takes to cover 100m, counting every other step. We followed a wide path slightly uphill across rugged moorland, counting and testing our pacing. I have an attention span comparable to that of my parents’ young labrador, so in my excitement to be in the hills I miscounted, fell slightly short of 100m and made a mental note to practise at home.
Bearings
Once fully ensconced in the rolling, hummocky moor, the topic turned to bearings. Many of these techniques are most useful in poor visibility but we’d been blessed with clear, still, sunny weather, which was helpful for practising. For ease of recollection I’ll summarise my learning in bulletpoints:
Basic bearings: starting from a wall, we each hid an object, shared a bearing and distance with a partner, and went to find each other’s hidden items. I lost Jack’s bottle and he lost my apple, until we realised that our proximity to a metal gate was skewing our compasses. We were reunited with apple and bottle respectively after some searching.
Back bearings: once at the apple/bottle, we returned to the starting point by rotating the compass 180 degrees so the south needle was in the “red shed” of the bezel, then following the direction arrow while re-pacing our steps.
Boxing: we learnt how to “box” around a smallish obstacle by adding 90 degrees to a bearing, pacing until at the edge of the obstacle, continuing on the original bearing until past the obstacle, subtracting 90 degrees from the original bearing and re-counting paces back to the path. Sounds more complicated than it is.
Aiming off: on approaching a linear feature (eg. river, path, or boundary) perpendicular to our direction of travel, Geoff taught us to take a bearing to either side of the point we were aiming for, then – on reaching the feature – to turn left/right and “handrail” it until reaching the desired point. I’ve used this in the mountains several times before and was reassured to discover that it’s an official technique.
Handrailing: a simple favourite, with no bearings required – this means following a linear feature until reaching a destination, eg. walking along a path.
Attack points: this technique involves taking a bearing to any feature that is more obvious than, but near to or in line with, the destination and navigating towards that feature so the destination becomes closer and easier to find.
Duration
As we tramped across the moor, Geoff explained how to use duration as a rough gauge of distance. He estimated that we were moving across the undulating ground at approximately 4kph, so 1km every 15 minutes, plus about 1 minute for every 10m elevation gain (ie. every time we went up a contour on the map). He then demonstrated aiming off by taking a bearing to an imprecise spot on a wall ahead, to the left of a crossing point. We followed that bearing off the path and down a tufty slope, then stopped for lunch at a little rocky outcrop by the wall.
Practice
After inhaling the first of many PBJ sandwiches I’d consume that week, we handrailed the wall right, then crossed it, hopped over a stream and divided into pairs. Each pair took turns leading the group around the rugged ground, which was flanked by the steep, sweeping sides of the Nantlle Ridge to the south and east, and sloped down towards the villages of Nantlle and Talysarn to the north and west. One at a time, Geoff instructed the pairs to navigate to a pinpoint location on the map, usually denoted by some vague feature (eg. a slight hump shown by a contour, as opposed to an obvious trig point), and the others would follow and deduce the exact location on arrival.
We wandered around the rough ground in this way for the rest of the afternoon, taking turns to lead. It was an excellent way to practise navigating and to get to know each other; I learnt that my partner, Darren, was already maddeningly competent with a map and compass, so it was helpful to discuss with him which techniques were best for each leg. All three groups successfully reached their various destinations using mainly timing and handrailing, given the good visibility, although we noted that timing was particularly unreliable on the steep, rugged sections – at one point Mohan and Graeme were tasked with leading us down a steep slope covered with knee-high bilberry bushes, which everyone took appropriately slowly, with great humour and only a couple of slips.
Our route took us across open, undulating moorland to a vast re-entrant beneath Mynydd Tal-y-mignedd, a neat, grassy summit topped by a distinctive obelisk, then along the base of the Nantlle Ridge’s hulking Craig Cwm Silyn and Garnedd-goch. Their sheer, craggy faces towered menacingly above us as we hugged the lowest contours to minimise bog contact, then we skirted around the pathless southern edge of glass-like Llynau Cwm Silyn, wading through shrub and clambering over walls. The balmy afternoon sun cast long shadows which accentuated the ruggedness of the landscape, and the dark, flat water stretched temptingly below us. There was nobody else around and it was blissfully quiet.
There’s an obelisk up there somewhereCraig Yr Ogof
After a short climb we walked along a bank that followed the curve of the lake and rejoined the grassy path back to the car park. To me, this long, gentle downhill section felt almost dream-like. Ahead of us a flat strip of fields, hedgerows and villages separated our peripheral moor from the wide, hazy blue sea, and in the distance the dark, isolated peaks of Gyrn Goch and Gyrn Ddu floated serenely above a sublime cloud inversion. We got back to the cars at 5pm and returned to the chapel along a tiny little road.
Mountain Weather
Back in the kitchen, we found the other group spread out in front of a projector, full of excitement about the cloud inversion they’d experienced on the Nantlle Ridge and raring to absorb a crash course in meteorology. Lauren distributed cups of tea while we settled into chairs – I don’t think the two kettles were ever cold the entire time we were “at home” that week – and our lesson kicked off with a Met Office video explaining synoptic charts, which we unanimously agreed was crushingly fast-paced. Thankfully Lou translated the video and delivered an interesting session covering forecast sources, mountain weather, pressure systems and fronts. It’s been a long time since I learnt so much in a day.
The rest of the evening was spent attempting, unsuccessfully, to make a dent on my stew and talking in the kitchen with my new friends. I thrive in a group environment and the camaraderie made it feel a bit like being (many years) back at an army cadet camp, but with very interesting, experienced outdoorspeople, rather than a rabble of kids – although we were quite apt at performing that role, too. I was in my element.
Tuesday: Hiking the Nantlle Ridge
With Scabbers judiciously excluded from the group carpool, Graeme gave Mohan and I a lift to Rhyd Ddu the following morning, where my group met Geoff at 9am in a layby. The plan for the day was to hike up and along part of the Nantlle Ridge, covering various topics on the ML syllabus and practising navigation skills along the way.
Following the same format as the previous day – taking turns navigating in pairs to a pinpoint location – Mohan and I led the first leg up the grassy side of Y Garn (633m), the easternmost summit of the Nantlle Ridge. Shortly after being assured by Geoff that this was a quiet part of the National Park, being further west and significantly less well-known than the Snowdon area, we bemusedly stood aside as dozens of uniformed soldiers trailed past us in large groups. Geoff accepted our gentle ribbing but was otherwise right – we barely saw anyone else that day.
Local Folklore: a floating fairy island
As we climbed, Geoff told a fascinating story about the little lake nestled in the valley to our right, Llyn y Dywarchen. The small island in the middle was once thought to be floating, driven around the water by the wind, a fancy that was “verified” in 1698 when the astronomer Edmund Halley swam out and purportedly steered it around like a boat. The island is also known in folklore as the place where a man once joined a fairy dance and, on awakening from his enchantment, discovered that he had been dancing non-stop for seven years.
Llyn y Dywarchen, with Snowdon on the right
Y Garn
We reached the grassy plateau of Y Garn after a sustained climb, snapped a couple of photos by the summit cairn and took in the landscape, which had opened out behind us in a broad sweep of valleys and layered mountains that sprawled, blue-grey, through a thin veil of haze. Just across the wide Nantlle Valley the bulky mass of Snowdon dominated the surrounding peaks, its long, sandy green flanks stretching down to rugged hills and its dark, craggy western cwm accentuated by the shadow of a low autumn sun. Over the top of our ridge, rough slopes flattened to fields, villages and finally a wide, blue sea. Once again we’d been blessed with good weather.
Scrambling
We continued south on the knobbly spine of the Nantlle Ridge towards Mynydd Drws-y-coed, a vague summit gained by a delicate hike along a lofty strip of protruding boulders. The left side of the ridge sloped a long way down into the valley like an enormous grassy slide, while the craggy right side dropped vertically into a vast, shadowy bowl. As we approached the unmarked top, hugging the less perilous left side, the gradient increased and provided some short, straightforward scrambling sections, where we learnt how to assess a scramble by gauging its difficulty, protectability and consequence. We practised assisting others by spotting – standing below, ready to control their direction of fall in the event of a slip – and by pushing their boots at 90 degrees into any dubious footholds.
The scrambley bit aheadThe group holding Jack up
Mountain Weather: a live demonstration
After the innocuous summit we descended a short way to grassier terrain, following a flattish path that hugged a contour and afforded far-reaching views across the broad valley to distant, easterly peaks. The panorama was briefly interrupted by a white mass of cloud, which blew in and hung dramatically over the dark green swathes of Beddgelert Forest that filled the great basin below. As we rounded a corner we were treated to a real-life demonstration of the previous evening’s lesson on mountain weather: a relentless southerly wind whipped up the long, green Cwm Pennant valley then, on hitting the narrow ridge at its head, sent low clouds streaming almost vertically up and over the steep ground. It was fascinating to watch.
This ridge was all that stood between us and lunch, so we wasted no time in heading for the distinctive obelisk – which we’d looked up at from Llynnau Cwm Silyn the day before – at its far end. The middle section was narrow and scrambley, with a disconcertingly steep drop left into a bowl-like cwm. We hugged the windward side, which meant that we took a fair battering the whole way across but couldn’t be swept into the even steeper right hand cwm, then climbed a grassy slope and stopped by a wall for a relatively sheltered lunch. Geoff talked us through the requirements of a Quality Mountain Day for ML assessment purposes, then we returned along the narrow ridge.
Coming back along the narrow bit
Triangulation
At the end of the ridge we turned right and headed south down a long, grassy spur, which provided lovely views over Beddgelert Forest and across rugged hills to the sea. We stopped halfway down the spur and learnt how to triangulate as follows (this probably sounds more complicated than it is):
Find a landmark identifiable both in the landscape and on the map, eg. an isolated peak
Take a bearing to that landmark
Transfer the bearing to the map by placing the long edge of the compass on the location of the landmark and (without turning the bezel) orienting the north-south lines with those on the map
Draw a line along the edge of the compass which is long enough to represent the distance between you and the landmark
Repeat twice more with different landmarks – your location is where the three lines intersect
Flora
We traipsed down and along the undulating foot of the spur, still taking it in turns to navigate to vague pinpoint features, and turned left into Beddgelert Forest. All day Geoff had been educating us on flora, and we were all captivated; he taught us to identify several types of moss, lichen and wildflower, and we learnt (through the medium of poetry) about sedges, reeds and grasses. Each species came with an interesting anecdote about its properties, characteristics and historical uses, and I learnt far too much to capture in this blog post (which I had intended – and have already failed – to keep quite brief). I may attempt to recite these in a later post.
Sedges have edgesGoing into Beddgelert Forest
A Neat Conclusion: weather, flora, fauna & mythology
We followed a gravel track which wound through the forest between thick, mossy swathes of spruce. After a mile or so we emerged onto a rugged moor at the base of Mynydd Drws-y-coed, crossed a stream that had carved a wide groove in the side of the ridge, and – now out in the open – noted the darkening sky. An ominous, hazy grey curtain was approaching us from behind, so we quickened our pace and were slightly relieved when the cars came into view. Geoff’s teachings did not stop despite the looming cloud; on this final section we ate wild sorrel, examined the dazzlingly purple shell of a violet ground beetle and learnt that the rocky lumps I’d mistakenly taken for quartz, which were strewn sporadically around the landscape, were actually remnants of the skin of a white dragon that had been defeated at nearby Dinas Emrys by the very same red dragon that features on the Welsh flag.
The rain came in as soon as Mohan and I had downed our rucksacks and clambered into Graeme’s van. To conclude, it was an outstanding hike, a great social and the very best kind of school day.
Pub
Respecting the fact that all good hikes should end in a pub, we drove a short way to the Cwellyn Arms at Rhyd Ddu and reconvened over a nice, cold pint (and waited for it all to blow over). However, it wasn’t time to switch off just yet: Geoff adorned the table with an interesting assortment of literature covering the ML syllabus, local flora and fauna and first aid, then launched into an interactive lesson on mountain hazards. We covered the multitudinous ways in which a group can be afflicted by terrain, weather and animals, came to the conclusion that mountains accommodated a disconcerting number of things that should be rigorously avoided, and decided – on my part – that no amount of peril could put me off a PBJ sandwich on the summit of something (with proper risk management, obviously).
We left the pub just as two sodden hikers entered and returned to the chapel bone dry, by the skin of our teeth, for another very pleasant evening spent chatting, drinking baileys hot chocolate and eating – once again – the interminable stew.
The weather forecast for Wednesday was fairly miserable, so Lou had arranged for the twelve of us to have a morning classroom session in a community centre in Llanberis, half an hour’s drive from Capel Tanrallt. Once again Mohan and I jumped in with Graeme; we parked by a grim looking Llyn Padarn and walked to Y Festri up the wet but resolutely cheerful high street, with its colourful painted buildings and quirky shops and cafes, and although it was nice to be back in the village I was saddened to see Pete’s Eats (the well-known outdoorsey café) still closed.
RIP Pete’s Eats
Y Festri
We sat in the old chapel, which had a cosy, classic “village hall” type feel with its wooden floor, wainscotted walls and PE benches, and started off with a session that built on the weather lesson we’d had on Monday evening and covered forecasts, synoptic charts and the geostrophic wind scale.Lou then led an in-depth discussion on the various administrative and legal aspects of being a Mountain Leader, such as training requirements, how to demonstrate experience, risk assessments, insurance and professional memberships. We then moved on to ropework, which involved a talk about helmets, gloves, equipment care and appropriate rope types for leading a group hike in the mountains. For my own reference, Geoff uses (I think) a 30m long, 8mm diameter Beal twin rope.
The weather did not improve when our time at Y Festri was up. We returned to the cars, drove a short way up Llanberis Pass, met in a large layby and donned full waterproofs for an afternoon ropework practical. Lou and Geoff led us up a steep, grassy, rocky bank above the eastern end of Llyn Padarn, where we split back into our two groups and paired off. The first exercise was “confidence roping”, which is used to help a nervous walker descend a slope.
Confidence Roping
I paired up with Graeme, who was as sure-footed as a goat and clearly not at all nervous, but I’ll use his name (rather than repeating “the other person”) to recall what I learnt:
Tie a waist-sized loop in the end of the rope using an overhand knot
Get Graeme to step into the loop and pull it up to his waist, then adjust the knot if need be – the loop should be secure but not too tight
Tie another overhand knot to stop the rope slipping through your hands, close enough to make Graeme feel secure but far enough to allow him to move freely (roughly a full armspan)
With your downhill hand just below this knot, thumb at the top, stand directly uphill from Graeme and assume a stable stance – facing sideways, legs at least shoulder width apart, elbows bent, with your uphill hand holding the rope above the knot
Keeping the rope taut, lead Graeme diagonally downhill, switching the hand below the knot as you change direction
“Bend” the rope into a Z-shape to gain additional leverage with both hands if need be
Maintain tension on the rope and reassure Graeme that there’s a pint waiting for him in the Vaynol Arms at the bottom of the slope
We found that maintaining tension while changing direction was surprisingly awkward over rocky terrain, and even more so over loose scree, so this is on my “to practise” list. With thanks to Graeme, who had the grace to act nervous.
Anchors
Once we’d got the hang of it and finished giggling at the others, who resembled strange, role-playing dogwalkers, we moved on to selecting and attaching the rope to anchors for the purpose of belaying and abseiling. The principles are familiar as I use them when trad climbing – find something that is:
big enough to easily hold a person’s weight, eg. a boulder, rock thread or tree trunk (at least thigh-thickness),
the right shape, ie. not tapered in such a way that the rope could slip off, and
in line with the person on the end of the rope,
and secure the rope to it by wrapping it round and tying the end to the “live” rope with an overhand knot.
We practised on rocks, fence posts and threads, then – to our relief – Geoff announced the arrival of lunchtime. We huddled into his bothy, relieved for the momentary respite from the cold, relentless rain, and I was (for once) thankful for some hot stew.
Apologies to Connie & Darren…
Body Belaying
Fed and warmed, we reluctantly left the bothy and tramped over soggy grass to a short, steeply angled rock slab, where Geoff taught us how to belay somebody up a steep section of a route using just a rope. He roped himself to a large boulder, sat near the edge of the slab and demonstrated how to pass the rope under one forearm, across the lower back and around the other forearm, which provides enough friction to hold a person’s weight. He then showed us the belay motion, which is similar to climbing in that the rope should always be held securely in at least one hand while the belayer takes in the slack. We took it in turns to have a go, and it felt quite intuitive once I got the hang of the repetitive motion. We also briefly covered belaying using an object, eg. a boulder (no sharp edges), for friction.
Llanberis Pass
As we waited our turns, we amused each other and took in the exquisite view up and down Llanberis Pass. To our right, the little whitewashed village of Nant Peris looked miniscule between the pass’s hulking shoulders, whose dark, rocky slopes climbed steeply into a thick, white cloud layer that hung suspended in the valley. To the left, swathes of copper-coloured heather swept down towards the eerily still, glassy surface of the huge Llyn Padarn, across which the vast, overwhelmingly grey slate terraces of Dinorwic Quarry rose into the fog like a literal stairway to heaven. The weather’s saving grace was the lack of wind. Occasionally the cloud would part, exuding wispy limbs that drifted in and out at random and revealing windows of slate and rock at improbably high elevations, which gave the impression that the valley sides stretched endlessly upwards. It was incredibly atmospheric and incredibly bleak, and I was glad to be below the cloud line.
Body Abseiling
The final part of our ropework lesson involved abseiling down the rock slab, again using just the rope. We learnt and practised the “traditional” and “South African” methods; the traditional abseil involves passing a single strand of rope behind one leg, over the chest and one shoulder, under the other shoulder, over the forearm and into the hand, while the South African crosses both strands around the lower back to the front, between the legs and a single strand goes around each leg into each hand (or a single leg into one hand, but I didn’t like that as much). A lot of rope-body contact means lots of friction with which to control the descent, which was exacerbated by the wetness of the rope. Once again it helped to have climbing experience, as a lot of crags require a controlled descent, and I enjoyed the novelty and simplicity of rappelling using minimal equipment.
A Cosy Evening
Despite another excellent day, I think we were all glad to return to the warm, dry chapel. Graeme stopped for fuel on the way back and I grabbed a newspaper to dry my boots, which was – in hindsight – a good decision. I couldn’t face the thought of more stew so I had tinned chicken soup for dinner, along with a variety of random snacks, and shared with Connie, Jack and Mohan the delights of Baileys hot chocolate with marshmallows (courtesy of Mohan). We fired up the wood burner and spent another lovely evening sharing stories, speculating whether Jack’s too-good-to-be-true second hand jacket would actually turn up (it didn’t) and generally talking rubbish. I was dreading the end of the week already.
The drying room, pushed to its limitsJust missing Chris & Alice!
Disclaimer: Strap in – this was a difficult, lengthy post to write as I wanted to do justice to the intricacy and other-worldly beauty of Plitvice. Please excuse my rambling descriptions, inclusion of utterly unpronounceable names and repetitive variations of “blue”, “green” and “clear”…
Wednesday 5 July
After researching Plitvice Lakes, we’d initially decided that 40€ each was too much to pay to visit a National Park. However, I’d seen some photos and the seed had been planted, which meant (as it always does) that I’d inevitably reverse that decision. I decided to treat us to the trip on the conditions that Ryan a) get up early, and b) drive us there without damaging the rental car.
The journey
We were on our way by 6am. The 1h40 journey was traffic-free, which was just what Ryan needed to get used to driving on the “wrong” side of the road. We joined the tunnel-ridden E71 motorway shortly after leaving still, peaceful Starigrad, nestled between the Paklenica mountains and an inlet of the Adriatic sea, and entered Lika-Senj County to the north, which was – to our mild surprise – shrouded in early morning fog.
We arrived at Plitvice at 7:30am, parked very carefully at Entrance 1 and made our way to the chalet-style ticket office. There was already a long-ish queue and I was concerned that having made the journey without booking, we’d come across some issue that would prevent our visit. My foreboding was not unwarranted as the card machine didn’t like my bank card, but luckily a different card worked and we received tickets after an anxious few minutes.
We passed through the entrance and went straight to the information boards showing seven waymarked hiking routes, which I’d already researched online. We naturally picked the longest, an 18km trail that circumnavigates nearly all the lakes and cuts out the land trains and electric boats (bar one) that shortcut around the park. Having photographed the board, we wandered over to the start of the trail and were instantly blown away by the landscape.
Lower Lakes: Veliki Slap waterfall to Milanovac
If we’d have been in a cartoon, our jaws would have hit the floor. A vast limestone valley opened up below us, pale rock walls rising from large pools that were bluer than blue and so clear that we could see the bottom from our high vantage point. These pools were set at different levels, and fell into each other via multitudinous cascades that tumbled as vertical columns of pure white water so bright that they seemed to emit light. A forest of the lushest, most brilliant green covered every inch of land that wasn’t rock or water, almost glowing, and across the valley the highest waterfall, Veliki Slap, dropped out of the trees at eye-level and disappeared behind a vegetation-covered, natural limestone dam, which held the torrent back from a series of small, tiered, turquoise pools set low in the basin. A distant mountain ridge stretched hazily across the horizon, just visible above the forested valley side, beneath clouds of white and lilac-grey interspersed by occasional blue patches. It was as if the sky, in deference, reflected the land.
We followed the handrailed, switchback walkway down the side of the valley, feeling as though we were dropping into a real life Avatar set. It was already getting busy so we were keen to see Veliki Slap, “Big Waterfall”, before the crowds descended. The lakes grew in size and clarity as we approached from above and looked impossibly, almost unnaturally blue. We reached a rustic (but solid) boardwalk across the water between Novakovića brod lake, which was level with us, and the Korana river, which was set low in the valley and fed by an abundance of falls bursting improbably from invisible sources concealed by leafy vegetation. We wandered along this boardwalk marvelling at everything: the lakes, the falls and the incredible variety of water grasses and leafy plants on either side of us. It was impossibly beautiful.
The boardwalk snaked around a sheer limestone face to Veliki Slap, a 78-metre high column of water surrounded by tens of narrower, only slightly shorter falls. It was utterly magnificent: I wondered how there was enough water on Earth to feed this powerful, constant giant, which erupted from the clifftop treeline high above. Once we’d gazed in sufficient awe we snapped a couple of photos and returned to the boardwalk, aiming to break away from the growing number of tourists collecting at the base of the unimaginatively but accurately named Big Waterfall.
We followed the boardwalk along the western side of Kaluđerovac lake, still awestruck by the water, and crossed a low limestone barrier between tiered pools to a path along the eastern side. The shallows were gin clear, melting to translucent turquoise and almost opaque blue-green in the middle as the lakes deepened. Fish basked nonchalantly in the open water, and the perfectly flat surface reflected pale rock walls and green forest across the valley.
The path bordered Gavanovac and Milanovac lakes under a leafy canopy and we walked past several tantalising, dark caves set into pale limestone walls on either side of the valley. The number of visitors had dwindled, as we’d predicted, and after a kilometre we crossed another low dam via a boardwalk over shallows brimming with vegetation. Wide, multi-columned Slapovi Milke Trnine and Milanovači Slap waterfalls rushed out of these shallows below us, connecting great Kozjack lake to its smaller sister Milanovac about six metres below, and I was in awe at how the rock held these vast waters back from each other.
Upper Lakes: Kozjak to forest trail
We followed the edge of enormous, irregularly shaped Kozjak to a large visitor area containing dozens of picnic tables, wooden food kiosks, a gift shop, toilet block and the first boat station, where tens of people queued to cross the lake. Happy not to join this rush, we continued along the western edge for a couple of kilometres, snaking round the lake’s undulating border through the fringe of a rich beech forest. We drank in the quiet serenity of the flat water and almost overwhelming brightness of the blues and greens, feeling utterly content now that there was nobody else around, save for the occasional pair of other visitors looking to experience the place in solitude.
The path climbed a short way into the trees, affording stunning views over Kozjak, which – now that the sun had emerged – was a perfect mirror of the verdant forest on the opposite bank. I was amazed by the biodiversity of the woodland, where all kinds of low plants, shrubs and fungi covered the floor beneath a glowing canopy. We had a good view of thickly forested Štefanijin otok, the park’s sole small island, before finding another waterfall about eight metres in height and width tucked away – somehow subtly – in a leafy corner.
We climbed a set of stone steps up into the forest, then walked down a bank and found the ferry dock, where most visitors disembarked having caught the boat across Kozjak. We had a minor disagreement over which way to go – I was keen to continue on Route K but Ryan was concerned that we’d miss out on the waterfalls, so wanted to go with the throng along the low path by Burgeti lake. I conceded at first but after about a hundred metres became stressed by the influx of slow-walking people constantly stopping for photos, so – to Ryan’s initial chagrin, but eventual approval – we turned back, climbed the wooded bank above the busy path and continued on a quiet, sun-dappled trail beneath towering, impossibly green trees.
Upper Lakes: Forest trail to Okrugljak
After a short way we came to a clearing and looked down across the glassy blue water of lagoon-like Gradinsko lake to Veliki Prštavac, the second highest fall in the park, which formed a wide series of white pillars erupting from the forest above. To call it a fairytale scene wouldn’t do it justice. The path then continued for a few kilometres under a high beech canopy that covered a steep bank overlooking a multitude of smaller lakes, which formed a watery patchwork that filled the valley floor, separated by snaking, leafy rock barriers. I was looking out enthusiastically for grizzly bears, featured in the National Park’s logo, but (to my disappointment) was only successful in spotting some large bracket fungi and some pretty nine-spotted moths:
Any remaining sourness from our disagreement dissipated the minute we emerged at another clearing, where the path turned sharply left before descending to the popular trails. We gazed over the blue glass of lake Ciginovac, surrounded by rising green forests, and above it, the vast, hanging lake of Prošćansko – almost as big as Kozjak, and just as irregularly shaped – whose mirrored surface shone into the sky, the unimaginable weight of water impossibly suspended by a steadfast limestone dam. It was as if the rock stoically kept the lakes in check, permitting water to move between levels via numerous regulated falls, but had no control over the vegetation, which spread on all but its most vertical surfaces and encroached in the shallows as if showing off its leafy mastery of the landscape.* I pointed out to Ryan, blissfully aware of my capacity to irritate, that we’d never have seen Prošćansko on the popular trails. I think he forgave me.
*This later made sense, on learning about the formation of tufa barriers – no spoilers here, you’ll have to read on
We wandered down the hill through more forest, paused at a viewpoint over three of the little patchwork lakes to admire more falls bursting from various treelines, took a couple of switchback turns and emerged back onto the tourist route by the edge of Okrugljak lake, where we rejoined the steady flow of visitors.
Upper Lakes: Okrugljak to Galovac
Another curving, handrailed boardwalk granted passage across the green strip of vegetation between small, bright blue Veliko jezero and Batinovac lakes, and I was delighted to see a two-foot long brown snake zipping effortlessly through the clear shallows in a graceful S-shape between roots and reeds.
Having crossed the water, a path took us slightly away from the azure lakes into a rainforest-like area of woodland, then north along the eastern side of Galovac, where an information board taught us how the limestone dams between water levels are actually called “tufas”. They are formed by a gradual build-up of calcium carbonate deposits from moss, invertebrates, bacteria and the blue-green algae that give the water its bright blue colour. These barriers are estimated to be 6,000-7,000 years old and grow at an average rate of 13.5mm per year. It was as if the science behind the landscape was necessarily explained to convince visitors of its reality.
Water tumbled in tens of narrow pillars down the tufa at the head of Galovac, its vertical course replicated by green columns of grass and moss that hung over the side of the dam. Yellow, pink and purple wildflowers climbed the tall, grassy bank below the forest edge, and fallen trees below the water’s surface accentuated its blue clarity, the long forms of their majestic trunks fully visible as they stretched far from the bank. We skirted along the edge of the lake, passing a photogenic trio of goosanders (it was strange to see a UK-dwelling bird in this exotic place), and stopped for our customary holiday lunch of highly processed ham and cheese sandwiches on a fallen tree trunk just off the path, overlooking an irresistible little lagoon.
Veliki Prštavac waterfall and Upper Lakes: Galovac to Kozjak
We didn’t hang around for too long, noting the presence of several large ants, before continuing past the gin clear shallows at the northern end of Galovac. The path took us through a wooded area between lakes, past another high, grassy waterfall and down a steep bank onto a busy, snaking boardwalk between Galovac and Gradinsko, where completely colourless water flowed steadily beneath our feet. We ambled along at the slow pace of the single-file line, approaching the base of 28-metre high Veliki Prštavac, which we’d seen earlier from high in the forest. It had looked quite tranquil from a distance, but proximity betrayed its intensity as white water rushed urgently in a wide, multi-columned wall into the pool below, its fine spray relieving us of the hot sun. Again, vegetation was everywhere: trees grew above the falls, grasses hung low over the edge of the barrier, mosses concealed every inch of rock and rhubarb-leaved water plants (I’m a poor botanist) crammed the edges of clear pools.
We passed a small crowd taking photos of the waterfall and continued on the boardwalk, which twisted tightly between several small, clear pools lined by reeds and slim, pale-trunked trees. Numerous falls poured from forest-topped tufas thick with hanging, trickling grasses and opportunistic shrubs, bursting from every nook and cranny that would take a root, and every inch of ground was covered by what seemed like a hundred different plant species. It was fascinating, and I wished desperately (despite the in-fittingly rustic boardwalk) that I could have seen the park before the age of tourism and slipped into its cool, clear, blue-green waters.
We wandered through this surreal, intensely detailed, prehistoric oasis until the boardwalk straightened along the edge of Gradinsko. A path took us through verdant pine and beech forest to the boat station at the southern end of Kozjak, and after a short wait we boarded and sat at the front of the electric boat as it carved smoothly across a narrow section of the lake past Štefanijin otok island to the eastern bank.
Return from Kozjak
After a quick loo break at a chalet-style café, we set off north on the quiet, shady path back to the park entrance. This trail hugged the eastern edge of the lake, and on clambering onto an overhanging tree for a terribly touristy photo, I – to Ryan’s great amusement – very nearly overbalanced and fell in. I dismounted quickly, muttering something about how a rucksack affects balance, and we continued on the final 4km stretch. Highlights of this last section include a dice snake slithering through the water a couple of feet away from us, more fallen trees emphasising the clarity of the lake, which shelved steeply on this side, and stunning views of waterfall-backed, dazzling blue depths as we climbed into the leafy forest above Milanovac, Gavanovac and Kaluđerovac on a high path parallel to the lakeside route we’d taken that morning.
We reached a viewpoint overlooking the curving boardwalk that crosses the pale turquoise water to Veliki Slap, which was now suffused with a long, moving string of ant-like people. This vantage point gave us a new perspective over the tiered series of green-and-white-dammed lakes stretching up the valley, and it seemed impossible that the high, pale limestone walls on the opposite bank could hold the weight of the immense leafy forest that climbed towards the sky like a long, green afro. Returning to the entrance above that first-described view of Veliki Slap was like being struck by déjà vu, or suddenly remembering a striking dream. I thought that if, even I’d looked over that verdant, rocky, watery basin a thousand times, I’d never not be awestruck.
We tore ourselves away from the view and after a quick peruse of the gift shop, we returned to the car. I expressed my disproportionate fury at paying for seven hours’ parking despite being just a couple of minutes over six, and we started the drive back to Starigrad at 1:30pm.
Journey back to Starigrad
On the return journey, we were astonished by the beautiful countryside that had been concealed by the morning’s fog. For some reason I’d thought the landscape would have been quite arid, but the lush fields, swathes of forest and abundance of shrubs and wildflowers revealed my naivety. Rolling hills and yellow-green meadows all around us were backed by the undulating, forest-covered Velebit mountains, which stretched in a wide panorama across the horizon ahead. Remote farm buildings were scattered thinly across the countryside and we drove past lots of quaint little roadside stalls selling homemade cheese and honey.
We passed through a couple of peaceful-looking villages containing stone churches, several hotels and large buildings painted pastel orange and yellow, guessing nervously at the uncertain speed limit. At the risk of sounding like a naïve British tourist (again), I thought it looked very “European”, not dissimilar to parts of France or Switzerland. We joined the motorway and cruised back to Starigrad, enjoying mountain views the whole way, Ryan’s driving confidence having soared to the point he was willing to overtake the occasional car and sing merrily (if poorly) as the road snaked into the now-familiar little town.
We picked up a couple of supplies from the supermarket and returned to the apartment, where we relaxed for a couple of hours, making the most of the air con. We had our customary dinner of cheap, tasty slop, this time a rudimentary paella with rice, fake sausage and tomato sauce, then headed into town for a swim.
Evening: sea swim and surprise street party
We walked all the way along the pretty seafront, past the market by the main quay, and stopped on a concrete block jutting into the water between small, stony beaches backed by a leafy walkway and a little seafront campsite. I swam around while Ryan watched a snorkeler collect clams and stash them on the beach under (presumably) his mother’s straw hat. The sun dropped into the sea at the foot of the dark, jagged Velebit ridge that stretched behind the town, casting a soft orange glow between the deep, textured blue of the water and the smooth pastel sky. It was indescribably tranquil.
When the sun disappeared, we walked up a quiet street past rustic stone and whitewashed houses, then headed back to the town centre via the main road. It was a very homely place: washing hung in colourful lines from the verandas of terracotta-rooved houses, small, cosy restaurants served pizza and seafood, children of all ages played football in a small, fenced sports court and people congregated in little groups on the pavement, laughing and smoking.
Back at the main quay, which we’d only seen quiet and still under a hot sun, we stumbled into what felt like a random, Wednesday night street festival. It was 9pm but the seafront was alive with lit-up stalls selling all kinds of peculiar little gifts and edible treats. Open-fronted restaurants served food and drink to tables that had popped up across the walkway and people milled around everywhere. We bought a curly fried potato on a stick, which was spicy, salty and greasy but in a delicious way, and listened to an excellent live band that had popped up on a small seafront stage. Children and adults danced to the music and people wandered around left, right and centre with ice creams, pushchairs and dogs on leads. We finally felt like we understood the culture, and it was so charming.
We’d have liked to stay all night, but had ambitious designs on the towering vertical face of Anića Kuk in Paklenica National Park the following day. It would be our first “big wall” climb and we knew that it’d require a good night’s sleep, so we left the party after half an hour. We returned to the apartment, packed our rucksacks and went to bed feeling a strange mix of extreme contentment after our wonderful day, and intense anticipation for what we knew was to follow – “an epic”.
Our apartment was so close to Paklenica National Park that we were desperate to venture there as soon as possible. The plan for the day was to hike for six kilometres up to Manita Peć, a show cave set high in the hills at an altitude of 570m, then to come back down and find some easy sport climbing.
Hiking in Paklenica: trail to Manita Peć
We left at 8:30am and headed toward the dramatic, lumpy skyline of the rocky national park, which was just a 10 minute walk up the road. After a gradual climb, the road curved and dipped down into the mouth of a great canyon and we came to a small building, where we each paid the 20€ fee for three days’ entry to the park – we thought it a bit steep at first, but it later transpired to be well worth the money.
View up the road towards Paklenica
Once inside the park the narrow road followed the gentle curves of the canyon, which cleaved a natural rift between towering hills and vast limestone faces. We walked uphill alongside the Paklenica River, which trickled below us in a leafy valley brimming with all kinds of shrubs and trees, notably fragrant pines and verdant beeches. The constant trill of cicadas saturated the warm air, and after 20 minutes we reached the final small car park and the tarmacked road became a wide, gravel footpath.
The climbing looked wonderful. Vast rock walls rose steeply up on either side of us, spanned by tens of bolted routes – the Klanci area. The gorge was so narrow that the left hand wall could be climbed from the path and the even steeper, higher right hand wall was accessible through a strip of tall beech trees. I’d never been anywhere like it: everything was so high and enormous, yet the canyon was so inescapably steep-sided that it could have felt claustrophobic. I felt exquisitely tiny in that leafy, rocky paradise – even the sky seemed small.
We passed a little gift shop and a toilet block cut into the wall on our left, then the “Underground Secrets of Paklenica”, a visitor centre set in old bunkers built by the Yugoslav army in 1950-53 during the period of political tension between Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union. We didn’t go in as we were so enthralled with the canyon itself, but I wish we’d gone back there.
Shortly after the visitor area, the gravel path became a well-maintained cobbled trail. We continued up it, marvelling at the impossibly high sides of the gorge and the incredible abundance of vegetation despite the apparent lack of soil. We passed a ranger leading a pack horse laden with panniers, somehow navigating the uneven cobbles with nonchalant ease, and followed the path as it wound uphill around jutting rock faces. After 15 minutes we rounded a corner and the gargantuan face of Anića Kuk – the 350m vertical wall we’d eyed the previous day from the Mirila stones –loomed over the valley on our right hand side, and an information board showed the lines of several quite serious climbing routes. In all its dark terror, it planted a seed in our minds, and at that moment we knew – even if we hadn’t yet acknowledged it – that we’d be back there soon. The sight of it was inspiration enough.
Anića Kuk
The trail curved round to the left, through the thickly forested lower reaches of the canyon, and I felt as if I’d never been anywhere so green. I paused to address a blister, then we continued through the canopy for about a kilometre, skirting past families until a sign told us to take a left fork to the cave. From here the path climbed up the left hand side of the gorge, first through more verdant forest, then ascending above the trees in a steep, narrow and increasingly tight switchback that afforded breathtaking views of the canyon, which widened to an immense valley of rock and shrub, with layered peaks stretching left and right across the high, undulating horizon. We revelled in this new, completely unfamiliar landscape.
Manita Peć cave
After a mile of twisting and turning up the hill, overtaking lots of people on the way, we reached a large, distinctive finger of rock that towered into the sky like a church spire, then rounded a corner and arrived at the entrance to the cave. You can only enter as part of a guided group tour, and we arrived just in time to join a group of about 30 people. This was very fortunate, as otherwise we’d have had to wait half an hour until the next lot went in – we were so “just in time” that the guide told us we could pay the 5€ fee after the tour.
Our luck struck again when the guide offered the tour in English or Croatian, and we were surprised when the majority vote was for English. We entered at the back of the line through a narrow passage and descended into the cave, our eyes taking a few minutes to adjust to the darkness, and were led down into an enormous chamber. The group spread along a handrailed walkway that curved around the edge of the chamber, so everyone had a clear view of the vast, open, dimly lit space.
Hundreds of long, sharp stalactites hung from the ceiling like icicles, looking ready to fall at any minute, and lumpy, cactus-like stalagmites rose from the floor as if reaching up to touch them. The guide’s voice rung from across the chamber, and he explained how they grow from carboniferous deposits dissolved in water droplets at a rate of 1mm every 5-10 years, which would make some of the innocuous-looking structures – which were over a metre tall – about 10,000 years old.
We followed the line around the edge of the cave and descended through another low, narrow passage into a second, cathedral-like chamber, which was smaller but even more grandiose, with a high ceiling and walls formed of regular, clumped stalactites and rounded, vertical columns. The rock formations were fascinating: “the witch” brooded in front of us, an irregular mass that looked like a large-nosed woman hunched eerily still in the middle of a room, and the left wall was spanned by “the organ”, a series of multitudinous towering columns stretching from floor to ceiling that resembled organ pipes. I was in awe of the age and grandeur of these natural structures.
Shallow pools of gin clear water spread across the floor, providing a strange habitat for tiny, invisible creatures – incredibly, the barren-looking cave is home to 52 species of invertebrate. While waving a flickering torch over various rock features, the guide explained how this cave had never been inhabited by humans due to its dampness and constant 10 degree temperature – it would have been impossible to heat the space to stay warm and dry. Being English and used to miserable, damp cold, we were just about the only visitors still in shorts and t-shirts, relieved by the coolness of the air.
After half an hour in the blessed cool, we filed back up to the first chamber and out of the narrow entrance into the hot, blinding day, very impressed with the magnificent caves and the engaging tour. We grabbed the guide, who had started attempting to organise the large group milling outside for the next tour, paid our 5€ and slipped past the crowd onto the path we’d come up. Our plan was to return to the Klanci area to climb some of the single pitch sport routes we’d walked past that morning.
Hike down from Manita Peć
We started back down the gravelly switchback, excitedly noting the drop where the loose, rocky valley side fell steeply away to the left of the path. Happy to have made it to the cave in good time (it was only open from 10:00-13:00), we descended at a leisurely pace, taking in the dramatic peaks, faces and drops of the canyon and the lush richness of the forest. We read all the information boards, which told of the park’s abundant flora, fauna and rock formations, and had a budget sandwich (tiny slices of bread, processed cheese and a slice of reformed sausage – surprisingly delicious) on a bench overlooking the valley.
At the bottom of the switchback we plunged into the trees that fill the valley basin and, on our way back through the forest canopy, slipped through a small, natural rock arch to a little clearing just off the path. It was almost too idyllic to be real: an umbrella of young beech leaves glowed green as they shaded us from the burning sun, the Paklenica River flowed smoothly into a crystal clear pool over rounded stones and the vast face of Anića Kuk rose above the trees in the V of the valley under a clear blue sky. I went to investigate a little waterfall below the pool, then found a way of cooling off without undressing or getting my clothes wet – I kneeled in the river, ankles raised on a rock, and submerged my arms in a kind of press-up position, relishing the cool water. We sat here for a few minutes, enjoying the peace, then returned to the path and headed down the valley in search of some climbing.
As I kneeled in the water, my legs disappeared
Sport climbing in the Klanci area
On the way down we stopped to fill a bottle from a pipe in the ground, which provided pure, cold drinking water from the river, scrambled up a large boulder for a clear view of – once again – the mesmerising Anića Kuk, and had a second sandwich while watching some climbers on the steep right hand wall of the Klanci area. After a short rest we left the shade of the tall beech trees and perused the sunny left hand wall for a nice looking, relatively low grade climb. We decided not to spend 30€ on a guidebook as several routes were helpfully named and graded by little triangular plaques at the bottom of the wall. I chose “Banana Split”, an interesting-looking, eight-draw 5c with varied features.
I harnessed up and started the climb while Ryan belayed from the gravel path that runs through the canyon, just down the hill from the little gift shop. We climbed with two 60m half ropes, which we’d bought with Anića Kuk in mind – this was good practice (if a little awkward for a straight-up sport route) as we’re used to a single rope. The rock was solid but quite polished, which made it feel hard for the grade. Luckily I climbed boldly that day and wasn’t bothered by clipping in awkward positions (which is not always the case!). The limestone was different from the Dorset rock we’re used to: there were no dubious-looking loose blocks, small, juggy pockets provided good holds, and random cracks made for interesting, balancey movements and some high feet as I moved left and right up the wall. I thoroughly enjoyed the route, despite having to rest at the final clip after tiring my forearms out looking for holds.
Ryan lowered me to the ground, then led the route up to the last bolt while I, rooted to the belay, batted away a large, bitey looking insect and got to grips with the two ropes and our new mega jul belay device. He couldn’t work out the final sequence to the ramshorn anchor at the top, and after some frustration, much deliberation and the odd bit of swearing, he came down so I could (to my reluctance) re-climb the route and retrieve the quickdraws.
Evening
Unfortunately this knocked Ryan’s confidence, which doesn’t happen often, so we called it a day and silently pondered over Anića Kuk. We headed back down the canyon at 4:30pm and returned to the apartment, where I cooked a memorably good improvised spaghetti carbonara with cream cheese, unthinkably processed sausage, fried tomato and rosemary pinched from a bush on the pavement. We had a frank discussion about Anića Kuk, agreed to postpone until the time felt right, and made plans to get up early the following day to drive to Plitvice Lakes.
That evening we walked down to the seafront and sat on the wall to watch the sunset. I ate fresh plums and apricots, drank more of our new favourite, Somersby cider, and swam around as the sun – which looked much bigger than usual – dipped into the sea. It cast a warm, orange glow over the calm water, and the long, jagged ridge behind Starigrad climbed in a layered, grey-blue haze into Paklenica. I thought once again how lovely everything was.
Garmin got confused in the canyon, hence the squiggliness of the route
Following the stress of preparing for our last minute holiday, it was blissful to wake up in our peaceful Croatian apartment with no urgent responsibilities. I did battle with the window blind and the coffee machine, two of my arch-nemeses (objects that I always struggle to operate, no matter the make/model), and ate cereal while Ryan worked on getting up.
Starigrad town
Our plan was to walk into central Starigrad on a reconnaissance mission – a term I used to help justify a relaxing day in this wild, exciting country – to gather information on the area and obtain a local map. We left the apartment at 9am and headed down the road towards the sea, drinking in everything about the place: the constant croaky hum of cicadas, the generously spaced out buildings, the variety of shrubs and trees, the clean streets and the hot sun. Most houses were painted white or cream, with red tiled rooves, verandas and shuttered windows. The gardens contained large, stone-chimneyed outdoor ovens, seating areas and abundant vegetable patches filled with all kinds of produce, and several residents had set up little stalls selling homemade jams, liqueurs, oils and home-grown fruit and veg. I was instantly sold on the place.
We walked past houses, campsites, cafes, supermarkets, restaurants and a petrol station, all lined up along the main E65 road through the long, narrow town, which is sandwiched between the Velebit mountains and a large inlet of the Adriatic Sea. On reaching the town centre we were drawn straight to the water, which was calm and impossibly clear. Little boats were moored in little quays and a small tourist market spread along the wide waterfront walkway, but – unlike other places we’ve visited – nobody tried to draw us in, despite our apparently obvious Englishness (throughout the week lots of people greeted us with “hello” rather than the Croatian “dobar dan”).
Remembering our mission, we peeled away from the inviting water and headed for the tourist information centre across the road. We picked up some leaflets and free maps, which we perused on a little wall outside. One of them described a 3-mile circular hike from Starigrad to the Mirila, a series of stone monuments in the Velebit foothills dedicated to the departed relatives of local people. I pitched the idea to Ryan, who must have inwardly rolled his eyes before agreeing.
Starigrad-Mirila hiking trail
We returned to the little market to buy a much-needed pair of sunglasses each, then headed up a peaceful, residential street to the start of the hike, examining the sun-drenched, productive, leafy gardens along the way. We followed a quiet road which climbed above the town, tried some not-quite-ripe fruit from a wild fig tree, and stopped at a viewpoint to gaze contentedly at the view. Orange rooves sprawled among lush trees, and we looked across the flat, blue water to the stretch of semi-arid mainland on the other side of the inlet. In, that moment, we knew that the hassle of travelling was well worthwhile.
We left the road and took a narrow gravel trail into the Velebit foothills and Paklenica National Park. It didn’t take long for me to regret – for once – wearing flip flops, as they became quite greasy under my hot feet and much of the route involved balancing across large, uneven boulders, but the karst limestone was too sharp to go barefoot. This, however, wasn’t my main concern: I was busy concentrating on not being bitten, having glimpsed a sandy brown snake (which I retrospectively identified as probably a balkan whip or aesculapian – both non-venomous) slither into a crevice a few metres away.
I struggled along, holding Ryan up for once, but I was far too happy to turn back. The way was marked by intermittent red paint on the rocks and required some careful route-finding – at one point we lost it in a boulderfield, so Ryan acted as scout while I examined a snakeskin and fended off a large hornet. We were keen not to stray as I’d read of unexploded land mines off the trails within Paklenica, but thankfully we regained the path and continued up the hill. I developed a snake-scaring tactic, which involved picking up handfuls of stones and tossing them onto the path a short way ahead to frighten off any lurking creatures prior to the arrival of my feet – this seemed to work, as apart from a few scratches I remained unscathed and unbitten.
After about a mile of this precarious fun we reached the mirila stones, which are set in a kind of basin between the hills of Mali Vitrenik and Veliki Vitrenik. This was our first taste of Paklenica’s beautiful wilderness: high, rounded hills of pale grey rock and dark green shrub dominated the landscape and the valley ahead of us brimmed with lush vegetation, filled with the ever-present buzz of cicadas. The bare, 350m vertical face of Anica Kuk instantly drew our attention, rising prominently above the valley and looking – from a climber’s point of view – both ominous and irresistible. We perceived (correctly, as we’d find out that coming Thursday) that Paklenica would become a very special place.
The stones themselves are small and so in-fitting that they could almost be missed among the textured, busy scenery. They were placed by the people of the mountain hamlets in the 17th to 20th centuries in memory of their loved ones, and the tradition was that the bodies must be carried there without stopping – a strenuous task – to greet the sun for the last time. Stone tablets were laid at the head and feet (the people must have been quite short), carved with various symbols, then the bodies were returned to local graveyards. It was believed that the souls of the deceased would remain at the site of the mirila, which the families visited more often than the actual graves.
There were several of these stones dotted around a small area, and I found the markings – mostly circles and crosses, some celtic-looking – mysterious and very interesting. It felt serene, poignant and strangely humbling, and I informed Ryan of my desire for a similar ritual in the event of my inevitable snake-induced demise.
After a thorough and respectful poke around we headed back down another rocky path towards Starigrad. I was interrupted during a “wild wee” (as my mum calls it) by the jingling of a large, multicoloured goatherd passing across the valley above us, led by a tanned, bare-chested man wielding a crook, the first person we’d seen since setting out on the mountain trail. The way down was otherwise uneventful and very pleasant, save for my continued struggle across rocks in sweaty flip flops, which I had to fix a few times after pulling the strap through the sole – this was very frustrating.
We were back on tarmac after about a mile, and as we walked through quiet streets we observed yet more thriving vegetable gardens thick with tomatoes, cucumbers, melons, grapevines and – strangely, I thought – cabbages. I was delighted to find a scarce swallowtail butterfly, retrospectively identified, basking on the street, with large, zebra-striped wings and two long tail points. We returned to the town centre and went straight to the sea for a dip.
First swim
The waterfront at Starigrad was unlike any I’ve seen. A wall stretched along the length of the perfect little town, with a 4-5 foot drop down to the clear, blue water, and the walkways were peppered with trees, flowers, benches and bins. Small, square concrete sections jutted into the sea at regular intervals, providing moorings for several boats, separated by slipways and little grey pebble beaches. Because the front was broken up in this way, it never felt too busy despite lots of people – mostly Croatians on holiday, it seemed – having set up inflatable mats (there was no sand) and towels.
We followed a wide walkway from the little tourist market to a small, empty beach between two mooring blocks and settled on the wall. Houses, a small restaurant and a pretty cream church were set back from the water on the other side of a quiet road, and I watched a young man on a moped cross himself as he rode past – the majority of Croatian people are Catholic.
I was in the sea within minutes and wore flip flops until it was deep enough to swim, as I’d read of painful sea urchins and noticed that children, paddleboarders and bobbers-around were all wearing water shoes. Once treading water I awkwardly fastened them to my bikini, then went exploring. The water was mild – a great relief in the 30 degree heat – and incredibly clear. Little fish shoaled and sniffed around, avoiding me, and I could see spiky urchins and squishy anemones among the pebbles at the bottom. Warm and cool currents came and went as I swam about, and I didn’t get far from the shore before it got too deep to see the bottom.
A balmy afternoon/evening
After my dip I munched crisps on the wall while Ryan bobbed around, then we headed back to the apartment via a little climbing shop, where I bought a map of Paklenica. We drank fruity cider and had an early dinner of sheep cheese ravioli (delicious), then sat out on the veranda and did our first real bit of holiday planning. We sprawled maps, leaflets and books across the table, ate slices of melon and came up with a rough itinerary for the rest of the trip.
In the evening we walked up the road towards the official entrance to Paklenica, which was just 15 minutes from our apartment. Its towering, lumpy rock faces loomed invitingly above the large houses on the outskirts of the town, where locals lounged on verandas as they watched the world go by and enjoyed the balmy air. A series of old stone buildings sat quaintly below the vast backdrop of the national park, the town’s final outpost before the great, rocky canyon that cleaves southern Paklenica in two, and people drank on a square of decking under a leafy tree. There was a lovely, quiet buzz of community where everybody seemed to spend the evening casually socialising outdoors, rather than tucked up in their homes.
We turned left onto a quiet, leafy road and returned to the seafront along attractive residential streets, noting again how spaced out the houses were – no greedy developers rubbed their hands together for a few square feet in this undefiled place. We stood on the sea wall and watched the sun dip behind smooth lilac clouds, then fall into the flat sea at the toe of a long, jagged mountain ridge that rose up high behind the town. In finding Starigrad, we’d stumbled across a little slice of paradise.
Waking up amongst the great, wild hills of the western Cairngorms never gets any less special, particularly with the view we had over the vast, dark forests of Rothiemurcus and Glenmore. Our plan for the day was to park at the nearby Cairn Gorm ski centre, hike into Coire an t-Sneachda and climb Aladdins Couloir, a Grade I winter route. We’d ticked off our first winter climb at Sneachda last year (Jacobs Ladder) and had really enjoyed it, so we were keen to develop our experience on snow and ice.
Walk in to Coire an t-Sneachda
We packed our bags, drove a couple of minutes up the hill and set off from the ski centre car park. I was slightly ratty at the fact it was approaching 10am as I’d have liked to start earlier, partly because I was worried about getting stuck behind another group on Aladdins Couloir (as we had on Jacobs Ladder) and partly because I’d quietly considered attempting to climb two routes in the corrie that day, or “nip up” a nearby mountain (Braeriach, 1296m) “on our way back” to the van. It wasn’t long before Ryan expressed concern that he might develop a blister, but – perhaps a little sensitive to my delay-induced mild irritability – he refused my offer of compeed. Unfortunately that is not the end of the story.
The hike into Coire an t-Sneachda is, as approaches to winter climbing routes go, short and easy, being only a couple of straight-ish miles. We followed the clear path south to the corrie, which climbed gradually up a sweeping, heathery valley. Behind us, the Cairngorm plateau dropped away to reveal the misty swathes of forest, loch and valley around Aviemore, backed by faint rolling hills that were now shrouded in cloud. We rounded a corner and Sneachda appeared ahead, a dead-end, three-sided bowl, its dark, jagged face streaked with the bright white seams of icy gullies and irregular snow patches.
From a distance we eyed up Aladdins Couloir, which follows a wide, kinked gully wrapped around the left side of Aladdin’s Buttress, a distinctive, triangular mass of rock. Along with Jacobs Ladder it’s one of the most obvious lines up the corrie face, and probably the most central. The path ended and we scrambled across a large, awkward boulderfield at the base of the wall, stopped on the last bit of flat ground and prepared to climb. This involved pulling on harnesses, crampons and helmets, selecting an arsenal of climbing nuts and slings to use as rock protection, attaching ourselves together by a short length of rope, extracting our ice axes and – on Ryan’s part – finally affixing a blister plaster.
Aladdin’s Couloir
We’d passed several groups on the hike in, so I wasn’t surprised that we found ourselves behind four other people heading up this popular, low grade route. From the boulderfield, the approach to the gully is a snow slope which, although steep and unprotected, was firm and reliable underfoot, and we caught up with the group quite quickly. Three of them had stopped on reaching the first proper belay position, which was on the left wall at the base of the gully about 100 metres up the snow slope. With that belay spot unavailable, we checked they were happy for us to climb past and continued on, moving across the wide gully to the right wall to avoid sending any loose rocks or ice chunks down onto them.
Two factors contributed to our spontaneous decision to solo the route: firstly there were no obvious placements in the rock to set up a belay, and secondly (and more importantly) we immediately felt so comfortable moving on the firm snow that we simply didn’t feel it necessary to use the rope we’d brought. The gully looks intimidating face-on, but it’s actually far from sheer – much more of a steep slide than a vertical wall, and the gradient was consistent. Decision made, we traversed from the right wall into the middle, carefully climbed over the other group’s rope (which was draped across the width of the gully), passed the fourth climber and headed upwards.
I settled into a steady rhythm of foot-foot-hand-hand, kicking the front points of each crampon into the ground, burying the tip of my single axe with a flick of my right wrist, planting my left fist for stability and repeating. If I wasn’t happy with a foot or axe placement I’d pause and reposition, although it felt so solid that this was probably unnecessary – two constant points of contact would have been plenty. Although it was steep – an unarrested fall would have sent me and perhaps Ryan, who was below me, careening down towards the rocks below – the movement felt natural and the position stable, so we were quite happy working our way up the firm but yielding snow, occasionally resting by angling our knees into the slope and leaning in.
When we were halfway up, the gully veered right and steepened slightly. We passed what looked like a small, frozen waterfall and continued all the way up to the lip at the top, which we pulled over at 12:15, 40 minutes after setting off up the snow slope. On our right the towering, rocky spire of Aladdin’s Seat teetered over the sheer wall of Aladdin’s Buttress, as if threatening to fall all the way down into the corrie, and two friendly climbers rested below it.
Hike back
On emerging from the gully, the Cairngorm plateau appeared in its usual character: a barren, wide, foggy wilderness strewn with small, grey boulders and a strange, soil-like covering of fine, reddish stones. I pulled off my crampons and put away my unused climbing gear, feeling a little victorious. However, although we were thrilled with the Couloir, Ryan’s heel blisters had become quite established during the climb, which dampened both our moods as we moved through the Mars-like landscape – Ryan’s because he was in pain, and mine because my secret scheme (to climb Braeriach or another route in the corrie) had been thwarted.
Fortunately the dramatic, dark face of Sneachda dropped away steeply to our right and made for easy navigation – we followed the edge for a mile or so up a gentle gradient to Cairn Lochan (1215m) , then around and down the long, sweeping ridge that forms the corrie’s west side. Interestingly Ryan and I had picked different battles: mine, without crampons, was ice, and his, with crampons, was rock. I’m still not sure who was right – there was a lot more rock, but the icy patches were so slippery that at one point I held my arms out and the strong southwesterly wind caught me like a sail, sending me sliding slowly backwards. I had a couple of minor slips coming down the ridge, one necessitating a fairly casual ice axe arrest, and I quietly wondered if I should have left the crampons on, although with hindsight I still think they would have been more hassle on rock than my boots were on ice – and I didn’t want to blunt them.
The combination of blisters, fog, wind and frustrating terrain rendered the four miles back from Aladdin’s Couloir bleak and relatively miserable, save for Ryan’s sighting of a couple of ptarmigans. Nevertheless we made it down from the plateau in fairly good time and returned to the van along the easy Ben Macdui path. Unfortunately I don’t have many photos of the way back because I managed to lock myself out of my phone for an hour, having left it in a damp pocket.
Loch Morlich
From Cairngorm ski centre we drove for 20 minutes into Aviemore for a few supplies, then back to Loch Morlich for a scenic late lunch. The loch is about a kilometre square, conveniently located on the Glenmore road and nestled between the immense, merging forests of Glenmore and Rothiemurcus. We pulled off the road and parked on the north bank, where a few camera-wielding birdwatchers were keenly eyeing something through large telescopes. The little car park afforded lovely views across the water and above the trees to the edge of the Cairngorm plateau, and our moods were lifted further at the prospect of some hot soup and bread.
I scrambled into the back of the van, assembled the dubious kitchen setup, heated some tinned Scotch broth for Ryan and made myself a much-anticipated peanut butter sandwich. Hunger and associated irritability dissipated, and I grabbed my binoculars and approached the water in search of whatever the birdwatchers had spotted. I returned shortly with a humble report on a few lethargic mallard ducks.
Evening
The blister-gate scandal meant that further physical activity was off the cards for the rest of the afternoon, so after a brief excursion back to Aviemore to post a house key to Ryan’s brother – who, in the process of feeding Ryan’s fish, had locked his key inside the house – we drove back up to our favourite overnight spot below the ski centre and did some planning. I cooked gnocchi in a tomato sauce with miscellaneous leftovers for dinner and we spent the evening in the usual way, scattering the van with an assortment of maps and books and checking the weather forecast at far-too-regular intervals. Contentment manifest.
Brecon Beacons, 26 August 2022: Redefining “crazy Friday nights”
August was a sad month owing to the long-put-off but inevitable sale of Björn, my beloved campervan. I felt tethered, having tasted the freedom that comes with van life, so I was looking forward to a bank holiday weekend spent camping with friends in the Brecon Beacons.
Björn the Bold 😥
Ryan and I headed up in an accidental convoy with Gus (who has featured in my blog previously) and his girlfriend Dan, after realising 20 minutes from home that they were in the car behind us. The journey was uneventful apart from a long-awaited McDonalds and a stunning sunset as we crossed the Prince of Wales Bridge. We entered Wales, got past the drabness of Newport (sorry Newport) and drove across the National Park, which became darker and wilder as we moved further west. We crossed a moor, navigated the steep, snaking, dead-end road to the small car park for Llyn y Fan Fach, hauled our crammed rucksacks out the boot and set off hiking just after 10pm.
I already felt immersed in the mountains. The car park sat in a narrow valley between high, rugged hillsides whose jet black silhouettes stood beneath a star-spattered sky, and the air was still and quiet. Our plan was to hike up to a bothy by Llyn y Fan Fach, spend the night there, and set off early in the morning for a 14.5mi/23km loop around the Camarthen Fans, the distinctive flat-topped mountains of the western Beacons.
To reach the bothy we walked up a gravel track that ran parallel to a river between long, high hillsides for 2km. At one point we turned our torches off (curiosity is a strange thing) and were plunged into a blackness so thick that it was quite disorientating. The path was uphill all the way but easy to follow and we reached our accommodation after about half an hour.
The bothy is a simple stone hut on the flat northern edge of Llyn y Fan Fach. I have a feeling that within bothy circles it’s known as being one of the less pleasant ones to stay in, probably because of its prominent location by a popular lake and its slightly disconcerting graffiti. At least “english BASTARDS”, which was sprayed on the wall last time Ryan and I stayed there, had been mostly removed.
Photo of the bothy from our last trip (October 2020)Thankfully the decor has been updated
Its single room is big enough to sleep about 12 people (if you like each other) and has a squat wooden door held in place by a rock, benches along two walls, a small fireplace in the corner and a beamed ceiling that we attached a lamp to. We were immensely relieved to find it empty as we didn’t fancy spending the night with strangers, let alone ones who might consider us “english BASTARDS” – if it had been occupied and we didn’t like its occupants, we’d have had to hike back down to the cars to get the tents. We dumped our bags, set up our mats and sleeping bags on the floor and went out into the night to assess our position.
We climbed just above the bothy to the wall of a large concrete dam overlooking the lake. It was shockingly empty, presumably as a result of the summer drought; I’ve only ever seen it full of glassy, dark water, which in daylight reflects the colossal escarpment stretching high above and along its far bank, so I was a bit sad to see only a huge, deep crater of mud and concrete. In addition there was a load of construction/engineering work going on along the path up and along the edge of the lake, but that didn’t really bother us as we couldn’t see the temporary fences and assorted debris in the dark, so it was wild enough.
The dry lake and construction debris were more than made up for when we looked back towards the valley we’d walked up, over the roof of the bothy. We’d gained about 220m elevation on the hike up, which meant that the silhouettes of the huge black hills all around us had shrunk – apart from the huge, dark escarpment towering over the lake – to reveal a wide, clear, impossibly starry sky. We stood and stared, feeling incredibly small, then went back inside to try and get some sleep.
We shared Gus’s mead and settled in, four in a row. I felt a bit like a kid at a sleepover. Just before we turned the light off there was an exclamation from the vicinity of Gus that went something like “there’s a bat!”, which I giggled at and put down to his excitement, until I too spotted a shadow flitting across the ceiling. For some reason this was very funny and we watched it fly around for a while, although just for good measure we reassured each other that even Welsh bats don’t suck blood and no harm would come to us from sharing the bothy with a bat. The light went off about midnight and none of us slept much, but at least we didn’t come across any bothy-dwelling murderers.
We packed up, had one last breakfast with mum, dad and Angus and left the campsite at 8.30am. Saying goodbye to them always puts a little lump in my throat because I’m secretly a bit soft, particularly when we’d just spent such an amazing week together, so we hastened to plunge ourselves into the mountains for one last day of adventure. They were to drive home that day but we’d booked the following day off work, so the plan was to return to Napes Needle – the iconic rock pinnacle on Great Gable where we’d climbed a couple of days previously – this time to climb the classic trad route “Needle Ridge”, summit the mountain, hike across to tick off its neighbour Kirk Fell, then drive home that evening.
Hike up Great Gable (899m)
We drove deep into the dramatic Wasdale valley one last time and parked again at Wasdale Head. Great Gable loomed ahead in all its distinctive pyramidal glory, its dark, jagged upper reaches calling to us with the siren song unique to high and distant horizons. Loaded with rucksacks full of metal and rope, we hiked the easy, flat mile to its base, then started up its steep southwestern face.
Having already hiked up to Napes Needle, we were prepared for what was coming: a long, steady march up a steep grassy path to gain 450m of elevation in just one kilometre. Green fells surrounded us like towering, frozen, rolling waves, their sweeping, curved edges pitted with rocks, scrub and streams that cut across the surface like long scars. Kirk Fell loomed to the left beyond an impassably steep ravine of grass and scree, which actualised the scale of our undertaking – in terms of vertical elevation gain/loss our first 450m would be followed by a five pitch rock climb for another 350m to the summit of Great Gable, then a descent of 300m to a col between the mountains, then a climb of another 200m to summit Kirk Fell, then a loss of 700m to return to Wasdale. That’s a lot of up and down.
We reached the scree slopes two thirds of the way up the mountain after an hour’s walk, keeping a keen eye out for the practically non-existent path towards Napes Needle. We were eager to take a less treacherous route than we had done previously but I’m not sure if we actually found it. Paths can’t easily be spotted where they run across loose, steep, uneven rocks, changeable terrain where boots leave no mark, so our scrabble along the mountainside was no less perilous and awkward than before. Thankfully we were now vaguely familiar with the triangular pinnacles and seemingly endless grey rock faces of Great Gable’s southern face, so finding Napes Needle was more straightforward than last time and we breathed a sigh of relief as its distinctive form came into view.
NeedleRidge
We scrambled up to the base of the Needle, geared up and as is typical of fickle mountain weather, it started raining – that light but cold and deceptively wet kind of rain. It had been cloudy and dry until then, and we willed it to stop – climbing slippery rock is unpleasant at best. Deciding to push on before it got too wet, Ryan led the first pitch at his own request, which was probably the trickiest due to its polished, slabby nature and seeping rock. Thankfully the rain stopped as he clung to the marginally less slippery left hand side of the slab, struggling a little to find a good gear placement, then pulled through the crux to both our relief. While belaying I chatted to another couple of climbers who had turned up, then I followed up the first pitch, which was easy but admittedly a fairly bold lead due to the polished, damp surface.
The climb was graded a comfortable VDiff so we didn’t bother changing into climbing shoes – our comfy, grippy approach shoes were fine. Rather than belaying at the points shown in the climbing guide, we lengthened the pitches for the sake of speed and ease, choosing the ledges and flat sections (of which there were plenty) that seemed most sensible to us. This made the climbing more natural and allowed us to get way ahead of the other two climbers, reducing the risk of sending rocks tumbling towards them and ensuring we didn’t hold them up. I led the second pitch, an enjoyable venture up a steep crack followed by a scramble over blocky rock, and we continued in this way, alternating leads all the way up the ridge.
We absolutely love classic climbing routes due to their long, adventurous, committing nature, inspiring history, exciting exposure and exclusive views only attainable by those who love the mountains enough to truly immerse themselves. Wasdale sprawled below us, the far reaches of glassy Wast Water almost touching the horizon, and the rugged, hulking Scafell Pike range sat across the steep, deep valley of Lingmell Beck beyond the crinkly, green shoulders of Lingmell. We were so immersed in the landscape that we barely noticed the pitches going by, and before we knew it we were at what is described in the book as pitch 5, a 40m scramble along the final part of the ridge. This last section didn’t really involve any climbing so we de-harnessed, flagged the rope and effectively free soloed along a long, narrow stretch of rock and grass, moving quickly along the undulating ridgeline. It was easy but exposed, with a serious drop off either side, and lots of fun.
We pulled up onto Great Gable, whose summit is a sea of loose boulders, and walked a short way to the top, marked by a cairn and a plaque commemorating local mountaineers lost in the First World War. We sat and stared at the panoramic view of rolling fells, chatted to some hikers, then made our way down the mountain’s east side. The path was steep, awkward and almost indistinguishable among the litany of unhelpful rocks, and our knees were relieved when we reached the relatively flat col between Great Gable and Kirk Fell. We stopped here to talk to a 70+ year old solo hiker with an astoundingly long, difficult-sounding itinerary, passed the nearly-empty Beckhead Tarn, and started up the side of Kirk Fell.
Kirk Fell (802m)
It was a grassy, minimally rocky ascent up an easy but steep path to the top of Kirk Fell, a shapely mountain with smooth, regular slopes in comparison with its jagged neighbour. We made it up in about 30 minutes and stopped at the plateau on top to munch some Grasmere gingerbread, chat to a friendly northerner assessing a small mountain leader group and admire the breathtaking rolling landscape from our last summit of the trip. We looked down on the tiny buildings and patchwork fields of Wasdale Head directly below and reluctantly gathered ourselves for the final descent.
The path led us straight down the south face of the mountain in one sustained line and was long, very steep and at times quite awkward for our well-worked legs. It involved a combination of grassy “steps” and loose rocks, which required careful route-picking to avoid starting mini rockfalls, and was only a mile long but with over 700m elevation loss. Wasdale Head seemed not to get any bigger until the gradient eased slightly and the cricket-to-football-sized boulders were replaced by a sea of ferns split by a wide, grassy path – the home straight. We went through a gate at the bottom, trees rose up around us and suddenly we were back at the Wasdale Head Inn, where the babbling of an idyllic, picture-postcard stream signified the end of our time in the high fells.
We returned to the car feeling quite wistful and started for home about 4pm. It was a lovely drive out of the Lakes across the undulating eastern moors, followed by a brief stop at Broughton-in-Furness (won’t rush back) for fuel and a commiseratory McDonalds to mark the end of a wonderful trip. The drive home was mercifully uneventful once Scabbers (the beaten up old Yaris) stopped making dubious squealing noises, and we made it back in just over 7 hours.
A relatively big mountain day was the most fitting way to conclude a lovely holiday, which is something I struggle to do in words. We had such a good time exploring the Lake District with my family and managed to squeeze in a great mix of activities across the whole National Park, although as always we could have stayed there for a good deal longer – probably in perpetuity. Doubtless it won’t be too long before we’re back.
Lake District, June 2022 – 9/10 overall. Minus one for the fact we had to leave so soon.
We woke and repeated yesterday’s little morning walk a short way up the side of Brown Crag to look over Thirlmere valley, see the lambs and stretch the dog’s legs. The sky was grey and didn’t look too threatening, but we got a bit rained on anyway. We had breakfast and left at 10am for a walk to Cathedral Cave, which we’d found in the Wild Guide.
Langdale
After some poor direction-giving – I’m exonerating myself as a mere pawn of Google Maps – dad drove the van down a long, narrow, twisty lane off the road between Ambleside and Coniston, only to find it was a dead end. I got out and ran up the lane to make sure, only to receive the disappointing and slightly embarrassing confirmation from some hikers that we’d have to turn back the way we came. I delivered the unwelcome news and we trundled back up the lane, then took the slightly more substantial looking road to Little Langdale and found a roadside parking spot by some ludicrously nice houses.
We piled out the van and took a footpath through some very pretty meadows. Everything seemed to thrive in the idyllic Langdale valley, from buttercups and cornflowers to oak woods carpeted with bright green mosses and ferns, and the low hills lacked the intimidating, serious feel of the higher fells. The open fields were divided by drystone walls, hedgerows and babbling streams, and perfect little stone cottages dotted the hillsides. After about a kilometre we reached the dead-end lane and followed the tree-lined path west along a river for another kilometre, then attempted to scout out Cathedral Cave.
Cathedral Cave
The cave wasn’t named on my OS map, which marks it as “Quarries (disused)”, so after coming across a sign by a steep bank warning visitors to enter at their own risk, Ryan scrambled up for a closer look while I stopped to show a couple of Dutch hikers the map. For the sake of my bad-knee-d mother, we continued along the path until we came to a more obvious route up and a National Trust sign for Little Langdale Quarries. We read about the area’s slate-quarrying history between the 1500s and 1950s, then walked up the path and went through a person-sized tunnel in a large rock face to Cathedral Cave.
The tunnel opened into a large, rocky cavern with a smooth floor, roughly hewn walls and a high ceiling that sloped upwards towards a vast, raised opening at one end. A pile of jagged boulders lay strewn below this huge, open window, and through it poured broad daylight which illuminated the ferns and mosses spilling in from outside so that they shone a brilliant shade of green. The ceiling was evidently propped up by a huge, leaning pillar of rock in the middle, and on the far side a large pool of clear water reflected the rough brown walls as if manifesting the cave’s resonating echo.
I consulted the basic quarry map that I’d saved earlier and we went through another tunnel below the window, then clambered up some rocks to an open courtyard that was full of verdant foliage and enclosed on all sides by high, rocky walls. Angus, Ryan and I explored cramped, dark tunnels, looked down on Cathedral Cave from the window, and climbed as high as we could up rough steps to try and gauge the full extent of the quarry. We popped out onto a hillside from one of the upper levels and were treated to a picturesque view of tranquil Langdale, with its undulating green fields and abundance of trees. We spotted mum, dad and Bosun poking around a slate miner’s hut, which looked fairytale-like tucked between leafy, white-trunked silver birches, and reassembled for the walk back to the van.
We walked down to the path we’d taken earlier and crossed a stone bridge over the wide, shallow river. The walk back was very pleasant, along a little country lane lined with tall hedges and drystone walls, then through the idyllic hamlet of Little Langdale, with its scattering of rose-fronted cottages overlooking the gentle valley. We clambered into the van and set off for Grasmere in anticipation of some gingerbread.
Grasmere
We arrived in the village 20 minutes later and split up so mum could bimble around the little gift (tat) shops at her commendably leisurely pace. Our first stop was the famous gingerbread shop, a small cottage with railway green windowframes and a permanent queue. There’s just enough room to stand at the counter and marvel at the layers on layers of shelves stacked full of jars, bottles and paper-wrapped treats – it feels like a little portal back to the Victorian age of paper doilies, white-frilled aprons and home remedies (all containing ginger). The smell of fresh, warm gingerbread was tantalising, and we barely made it out the shop before each tucking into a sweet, spicy, chewy slice.
Gingerbread aside, Grasmere is an almost uncannily pretty village, sheltered between fells, watered by a gentle river that flows clear past the charmingly simplistic St Oswald’s church, and filled with picture postcard slate cottages, many of which make pretty little shops and cafes. Once home to Romantic poet William Wordsworth, it’s become something of a tourist attraction, with hotels, shops and even the car park bearing his name. Personally I think this hype detracts from the authenticity of the place, but as one of the horde I speak hypocritically (although I came for the gingerbread, not a poetry-themed spa day).
We walked around Wordsworth’s peaceful, almost annoyingly pleasant daffodil garden, where memorial paving stones bear the names of their sponsors, then walked to the Co-op on the far side of the village, which – as it’s such a small place – took a grand total of about three minutes. We grabbed a meal deal to stave off the torment of our remaining four pieces of gingerbread (it comes in packs of six or twelve) and walked back to the van, somehow involuntarily collecting Bosun from dad on our way. Ryan, Angus and I perched on a wall and as we ate lunch, we marvelled at mum’s ability to browse at such a stoically unhurried pace and dad’s capacity to endure (he hates shops).
Helvellyn, Nethermost Pike, High Crag, Dollywaggon Pike
When everyone was back at the van we returned to the campsite, had a cup of tea and prepared for the evening. Located in the Thirlmere Valley, the campsite was within walking distance of Helvellyn, England’s third highest peak. It forms part of a vast, hilly ridge that stretches down much of the eastern side of the Lake District like a knobbly spine. I’d climbed it a couple of times before but only from Glenridding to the east via the famous Striding Edge, so I was keen to approach from the west. We planned the route, packed our bags and set off at 4pm.
We went through the farmyard and headed up the western side of the vast landmass. We climbed steeply up a narrow path past drystone walls and lush ferns, which turned to bare rocks and rugged yellowish grass as the terrain grew higher and harsher. As the valley behind us shrank, the glassy, black water of Thirlmere Reservoir stretched between its undulating, wooded hills and ridges and distant peaks appeared on the high horizon. The gradient eased slightly and as is customary we found ourselves crossing a lot of open, boggy ground, then we joined an obvious, steep, rocky path that climbed the mountain parallel to Hevellyn Gill. The path dissolved into a kind of open, gently sloping plateau that formed the top of the ridge, where grass grew patchily, sheep roamed freely and rocks littered the ground.
We walked southeast along the ridge for about a kilometre. The easy gradient gave us the chance to admire the stunning view north across Thirlmere to hulking, angular Skiddaw, which towered over the silver-grey surface of Derwentwater as it nestled between irregular slopes. The western horizon was formed of endless hazy blue peaks which all merged together in one long, enticing chain, and the nearer, greener fells rolled into one another as if the result of a single, sweeping brush stroke. The weather had been mild, still and cloudy but clear, but as we approached the summit we found ourselves pulling on raincoats to repel the suddenly wet air and squinting over the brim of the ridge to catch a glimpse of the eastern mountains through the fog. Naturally, the stone trig point crowning the top sat just above the cloud line.
We had a sandwich and some sweets in a drystone shelter near the summit, then continued south along the ridge to Nethermost Pike (891m), High Crag (884m) and the delightfully named Dollywaggon Pike (830m). This involved walking in a relatively straight line along the edge of the steep, high escarpment that forms the eastern face of the Helvellyn “spine”, whose sheer, rocky aspect is in stark contrast with the rolling, green slopes of the western side. Considering I’ve referred to the top of the ridge as a “plateau”, there was a fair amount of elevation loss and gain between Helvellyn and each of the other three summits (if they qualify as such), but the gradient was moderate and the path was easy to follow. Fortunately the fog was isolated to the very top of Helvellyn so we had clear, near-panoramic views over rugged valleys, undulating ridges and an array of countless, layered, diversely shaped peaks.
Striding Edge was particularly impressive as we looked back from Nethermost Pike, its long form stretching up to the base of Helvellyn like the blade of a serrated knife. Hardy grass grew stubbornly wherever it could establish roots, and wherever it couldn’t was dominated by sheer grey rock and loose scree. U-shaped valleys carved the hills into seemingly random, rugged shapes, and the slopes to the east flattened suddenly to common-or-garden farmland at the distant edge of the National Park, beyond the snaking curve of Ullswater.
Our modest reward for adding the three satellite peaks to our hike was a photo at each cairn. We turned around after Dollywaggon and retraced our steps up and down High Crag, Nethermost Pike and Helvellyn, then rejoined the rocky path down Helvellyn Gill. We decided to avoid the boggy ground so followed that path steeply down for about a kilometre to the edge of a forest. As the sun dipped it cast an other-worldly light over the landscape in front of us, highlighting the fluffy edges of the heavy-looking clouds, accentuating the layers of mountains over Thirlmere and bathing the rough slopes in a golden-green glow. Near the base of the slope we branched right, crossed a rocky stream and followed another path that ran parallel to a drystone wall for another kilometre, a fairly level stretch that entailed some fighting through bracken.
We rejoined the path from the farm and walked down the last steep hill to the campsite, getting back 9 miles later and – precisely in accordance with my calculation – just after 9pm. I slept contently in all my smugness.
curiousgnome 