We woke in our pretty, quiet spot overlooking Braemar and were up and breakfasted by 10am, which is unreasonably early by Ryan’s standards and catastrophically late by mine. It was set to be a bad weather day with all the trimmings – high winds, heavy rain, dark clouds and poor visibility, so we wrote off the idea of going up a mountain and settled on the Balmoral Cairns walk, a 6-mile hike between the 11 cairns erected in memory of Queen Victoria’s family in the thick forest of Balmoral Estate. We were particularly interested in Prince Albert’s pyramid, which we’d seen sneak peeks of in the Wild Guide.
We drove half an hour east to Balmoral, parked in a pull-in by the Royal Lochnagar Distillery, donned full waterproofs and headed towards the forest via a narrow track, which took us past some quaint cottages. A well-trodden footpath branched left and led us into the trees through a tall metal gate. The forest was reminiscent of that I described in the previous day’s blog post – vast, ancient and thriving, every inch of floor, trunk and branch covered in some kind of mossy, licheny life.
The first cairn, a neat, conical pile of rocks about three times my height belonging to Princess Beatrice, was a short walk into the forest. From there the path curved through the tall pines, climbed a hill and passed a few small, rocky crags before Prince Albert’s pyramid emerged through an opening in the trees. This opening dropped down steeply on one side to reveal a lovely panorama of rolling hills covered in dark forest, brown heather and in the distance, bright white snow. The pyramid’s perfectly straight, sharp edges and unnaturally symmetrical silhouette dominated the foreground and contrasted with the rough, irregular outlines of nature’s branches, ridges and undulations, and we were both taken aback by the size of the structure, which stood about as high as a three-storey house. Its cold, grey granite blocks were dark against the bright white sky and seemed to glisten in the light. It was a beautiful, poignant monument made mysterious – almost cult-esque – by the Egyptian-borne intrigue that surely every visitor must feel on fantasising about what probably isn’t, but could be, inside.
I informed Ryan that I expect at least an equivalent shrine in the event of my demise and we rejoined the path, already feeling pleased with our choice of rainy day activity. It snaked down the other side of the thickly wooded hill, whose trees occasionally parted to reveal the vast ridges of the mountains to the south and possibly – although I wasn’t certain – a view out to dark Lochnagar. The tall pines provided shelter from the intermittent rain and the recent storms were evidenced by many splintered and uprooted trunks, which lay like fallen giants.
We took a right at a gravel track, then a left through another tall gate. After about a kilometre we joined a narrow path that led us into the thick forest on our right and up another hill to Princess Alice’s cairn, which was much the same as Beatrice’s. It was wild, peaceful, and we didn’t see another person for quite a long time. At one point a small clearing treated us to a view of some misty, snow-capped peaks that were perfectly framed by birches, pines and a floor that was so full of rocks, moss, heather, lichen and little plants that not an inch of bare soil was visible.
We were deep in conversation when we took a wrong turn and inadvertantly rejoined the gravel track, so – a little irritated by this rookie error – I insisted that we continue to the rest of the cairns by another route. We walked a short way along the track before taking a path that took us back into the forest, then along the east-facing slope of thickly wooded Craig Gowan hill for about a kilometre to Prince Leopold’s cairn, which looked out over Balmoral Castle and the wide River Dee. From there we backtracked along the same path to the Purchase Cairn, which boasted a stunning view over the Dee valley and the rolling peaks to the east. Louise’s cairn was a little way on just off the main path, and we found the final cairn – Helena’s – up the slope on our right, tucked conspicuously into the forest. We returned to the track we’d come in on via an overgrown path and an old footbridge over a steep, narrow wooded valley that was filled with fallen trees – the spoils of the recent winds.
While writing this blog post – a surprisingly lengthy process which involves a combination of memory, using maps to check routes and looking at photos to fill in gaps – I came to the sad realisation that by taking a wrong turn, we inadvertently missed out a cairn. Prince Arthur’s cairn lies on the path between Alice’s and the Purchase Cairn and it escaped our notice, which – thanks to my compulsive tendencies – means I’ll have to go back to it, which isn’t such a shame given the wild beauty of the place.
We retraced our steps along the track, past the little cottages and back along the road to the van. Naturally it rained quite heavily on us just before we got back, so we de-waterproofed, bundled inside for bread and soup, then set off across the Cairngorms. A road closure meant we had to go near the fairytale-like town of Ballater, a 15 minute drive east along the River Dee, so I insisted on using their public loos just to warrant a quick visit.
I’m ashamed at how much my only photo of Ballater doesn’t do it justice
From there we took the road north that goes past the steep, forested Pass of Ballater valley and through the eastern side of the national park via Cock Bridge (snigger) and Tomintoul. Shortly after leaving Ballater the landscape became quite dramatic in that strange, enchanting way that makes you feel very, very small. Huge, open plains of sandy yellow grass and red-brown heather rolled over enormous, undulating hills which elevated the horizon to captivating heights, and the road carved and snaked through the vast, sheep-spangled wilderness. As we came to the high northern part of the mountainous plateau the weather changed from bright sunshine, whose low rays accentuated the undulations and cast a warm, enchanting light over the golden landscape, to sudden thick, grey clag and heavy rain. We climbed higher into the cloud and the weather worsened. The steepest, twistiest bits of road were covered in an anxiety-inducing layer of snow and ice as we crawled along through a relentless blizzard, praying with an almost unprecedented intensity that Bjorn wouldn’t decide to break down on one of these merciless slopes.
After what felt like an endless time we made it out the other side and descended to Boat of Garten, where we joined the main A95 road south to Aviemore. Our relief was palpable, and we got to the buzzing, outdoorsy town in time for the 4.45pm England vs Scotland Six Nations opening game. The Winking Owl pub put the rugby on in its cosy “Bothy Bar”, where we squeezed in feeling conspicuous amid a throng of Scotland supporters, but fortunately everyone was friendly and three very loud English supporters diverted any teasing banter away from us. Watching England lose had a poignant sting in a Scottish pub, but we enjoyed the game and I was merry enough to send a glass of gin crashing down on the floor, which I insisted on cleaning up myself with a dustpan and brush from the bar.
Ryan convinced me that we should not stay in the pub for more drinks for money and hangover reasons which, although I objected at the time, was definitely a blessing with hindsight. He drove us through Aviemore and along the foresty, lochside Glenmore road up to the large, flat car park we’d stayed in previously near the Cairngorm Mountain ski centre. He did an excellent job of cooking burgers while I made myself far from useful, and we slept so well in that wild place.
We were raring to go for a social weekend in North Wales. My old friends Dave and Charley had planned a group trip up with the intention of climbing Tryfan and celebrating Dave’s birthday way back in 2020, which – like most other things in 2020 – was thwarted by covid. Excited by the prospect of a long overdue reunion and double excited by the prospect of a long overdue reunion in the mountains, we were up and on the road by 04:15.
We collected Lee on our way up, another old friend and (as we soon found out) an excellent travelling companion totally unphased by most things, including waking up at silly o’clock to set off on random activities. We had a clear run of traffic and crossed the border by 9am. Concrete and tarmac turned into steep, forested, river-bellied valleys, and we stopped at picturesque Betws-y-Coed (a lovely little town whose praises I’ve sung previously) for a snack and a leg stretch.
From “Betsy” we drove along the familiar A5 for 20 minutes, already feeling absorbed by the thick forests and rugged valley sides that tower over the sweeping road. The sky was clear and the sun was already warm when we reached the roadside car park opposite vast, dark Llyn Ogwen, backed by the hulking mass of yellow-green Pen Yr Ole Wen (which is quite high on my to do list). We threw on our already-packed rucksacks, walked along the road to Ogwen Cottage and went through the gateway to the Glyderau mountain range.
Climbing at Idwal Slabs
The path up to Llyn Idwal is well-walked and well kept, and we were pleased to pass a big school group enjoying the sunny outdoors. The unmistakeable, stegosaurus-scale form of dark Tryfan dominated the view to our left and the high ridge of Glyder Fach and Glyder Fawr loomed ahead, curving round via the wide, black crack of Devil’s Kitchen to the equally intimidating Y Garn and Foel Goch on the right. The dark, high lake sat thus in a huge, rocky, ancient bowl overlooking the stunning Ogwen Valley. I’ve previously written about this area in more detail – see here for more of that kind of waffle.
Idwal slab is a huge rock face that lies at the head of Llyn Idwal and forms part of the south face of the towering Glyder Fach/Fawr ridge. Its sloping angle, grippy rock and solid cracks makes for good, low grade climbing, so as well as wanting to try it ourselves we thought it’d be good for Lee, who hadn’t really climbed before. We planned to do the classic route “Tennis Shoe” (HS 4b) but there were climbers already on it, so we opted for the easier “The Ordinary Route” (Diff), a “classic” that was recorded as a route way back in 1897.
We roped up and Ryan led the first pitch up a wide, easy crack. Lee followed and I cleaned the gear. Having an extra person was nice because the belayer always had someone to talk to, and I was amazed at how quickly and easily Lee picked it up – I’d been a little worried that a big multi-pitch trad route might be a bit ambitious for a new climber, but I’ve never known anyone so unfazed. Ryan and I alternated leading the route and as we climbed higher, the view of Llyn Idwal and the Ogwen Valley became increasingly impressive and the lake seemed to turn from deep black to a cool blue that contrasted with the bright, sandy yellow of the mountain grass. I could drawl on about the scenery and the captivating wilderness for a long time, but I’ll use some photos instead:
The climbing was straightforward all the way up, with the occasional slightly spicier move, and we didn’t bother changing our approach shoes for climbing shoes. It would have been quite a comfortable free solo until reaching the last couple of pitches and looking down the steep face. The gear placements were generally good (sometimes too good – I spent a good few minutes retrieving one nut) with the occasional weird bare bit where the rock seemed to change, and my last belay point was slightly dubious – I’d got to the end of our 40m rope and ended up pinning myself into an outward-facing seat by slings tightly attached to a nut and a horn either side of me. It was interesting having a third person because we had to choose belay points with space for him to sit or lean, which is something I don’t usually think about.
From the last belay point we scrambled left across less steep but rocky, slightly muddy terrain towards the misleadingly named “walk off”, which took a while to find thanks to the unhelpful description in our Rockfax guide. Eventually we spotted a couple of arrows etched into big rocks and I’m glad we did, as we wouldn’t otherwise have guessed that the way they pointed constituted a “walk”. Fortunately Lee was unfazed once again and we downclimbed a short, steep, rocky scramble that the book suggests is often abseiled. Doing so with a prawn sandwich in one hand probably wasn’t my smartest move, but I’d stopped at the top to put the book back in my bag and came across the irresistible, handy snack.
We reached the bottom unscathed and walked down the sloping bank to rejoin the path alongside Llyn Idwal. We traipsed back to the car the way we came, down the hill that climbs up to Idwal (a glacial “hanging lake” set quite high up), past Ogwen Cottage and a short way along the A5, tempted by a dip in the cool, clear water of Llyn Ogwen and once again blown away by the stunning views and the unbelievably lovely March weather.
A Yaris tour along the North Coast
We left the car park to go and find the holiday cottage via a supermarket. It was six and two threes whether we went back the way we came through Betwys-y-Coed or carried along the A5 and followed the coast around, so we opted for some new scenery and went north west along the valley to the greyish town of Bethesda, then around the top of the national park via the North Wales Expressway, a smooth, wide road that runs along the north coast with the calm, blue sea on one side and hills rising hazily on the other. It felt like we were in a foreign country or a car advert, although poor, peeling Scabbers the Yaris would never make it into one of those.
We stopped at an Asda in Conwy, although it had little right to call itself an Asda – it was barely bigger than a Spar. I was more stressed out by the prospect of shopping than I had been halfway up the rock face, so we collected various fajita ingredients and assorted alcoholic refreshments and scarpered. We found the holiday place about 20 minutes south of Conwy in the middle of nowhere (where nowhere is an agricultural paradise of grassy hills, sprawling fields and long hedgerows), reached via some remarkably steep, narrow, twisty, bumpy country roads.
The House and the Reunion
We rolled onto the wide gravel drive and realised that Charley, the friend who planned the trip, had spoilt us all. We were looking at a beautiful, long, stone barn conversion with a lovely wooden extension and a huge porch. It fronted onto a slate-pebbled yard with lovely countryside views, and had its own open barn containing a hot tub, ping pong table and gas barbecue. It had four double rooms with a shower each, two living areas, a large central kitchen, a fancy staircase, lovely stone floors and a curious way of feeling both cosy and spacious. We saved the master bedroom (complete with balcony and en-suite fit for royalty) for Dave and Charley, Lee took one of the upstairs doubles and Ryan and I had the downstairs double, for alcohol and staircase-related safety reasons on my part.
The three of us unpacked the car and relaxed on comfy sofas until the others arrived. Dave, Charley and Cooper the dalmatian turned up after about an hour, Ryan and I cooked fajitas and we agreed not to drink too much that night – we had to climb Tryfan tomorrow, and it’d be better to save ourselves for Saturday night. Then Matt turned up.
He was earlier than expected and having not seen each other for such a long time (Ryan excepted, who met everyone that day), we must have gotten overexcited because everything took a turn for the worse. Drinks flowed (everywhere) as we caught up with each other, and – although my memory is hazy at best, utterly blank at worst – I think it’s probably a good thing we had the hot tub to contain us.
Saturday 26 March
I woke at 5am on a sofa, which is strange considering Ryan had put me to bed. I woke again about 8am thanks to the delightful sound (which I’ve missed for so long) of Matt cleaning the kitchen. I stood up, fell over for no reason, woke and whinged to Ryan about my bleeding knee, wandered out to say hello to Matt and Dave, and promptly returned to bed. I woke more successfully after about an hour and went to try and make myself useful, although the boys had already removed all traces of Friday night. Someone cooked bacon and somehow we were all in Dave’s car around midday.
The drive to Tryfan was harrowing. There was no avoiding the twisty country roads from the house, but after being on the main road for a while sat nav took us off and along the Gwydyr forest track instead of through Betws-y. It was a sorry excuse for a road, especially in a car full of six hungover people. I’m quite sure it’s the twistiest, bumpiest, narrowest, steepest, roughest road in the whole world, and Charley – who was the worst of all of us – looked like she’d perish at any minute. After about four calendar years we reached the Ogwen Valley and were relieved beyond words to bail out of the car.
Tryfan
Sadly poor Charley was a write-off. She made the sensible (if inevitable) decision that she’d consumed far too much gin to be on a mountain, so the five of us left her in the roadside car park with a window cracked open and trudged off towards the steep north ridge of Tryfan.
The first section involved a lot of rock-hopping and scrambling, and our senses began to clear. The summit is barely a kilometre from the car park as the crow flies and the path follows a fairly straight line, but over 600m of ascent meant that the “walk” was very steep and hands-on, requiring very little progress “across” and a lot of progress “up”. Fortunately there’s no hangover cure like cool mountain air and an imminent risk of death, so we were in good spirits before long. We followed the vague path, guessing the way up every time it stopped at bare rock and taking enough breaks to fully appreciate the incredible views up and down the long, pale golden Ogwen Valley, with dark Llyn Ogwen in its belly, the rugged curve of Y Garn and Foel Goch at its head and lofty Pen yr Ole Wen forming the opposite ridge. We couldn’t have hoped for better weather – the clear skies afforded the best views I’ve ever seen of the Glyderau and Carneddau mountain ranges and the gentle breeze kept us cool.
We stopped at the self-explanatory “cannon” for an obligatory photo, rolled eyes at the false summit and scrambled up the steepening rocks, which became a little exposed on the east side. We hauled ourselves up an extremely photogenic gully, traversed some large gaps and discovered a second cannon, which we decided was even better than the first in that the drop off the edge was much more dangerous, therefore much more irresistible. We decided that standing on it ourselves was fine, but watching the others do the same was extremely nerve-wracking as the faller wouldn’t really have to deal with the catastrophe. Once Matt – probably the most giraffe-like of all of us, and the last one to go up – made his way down from that rock, we all breathed a sigh of relief.
From there it was a fairly short but awkward way along and up, and at the top Adam and Eve appeared like effigies on the rocky summit plateau. Suddenly the view was panoramic and we were delighted, not in the least bit hungover. We did the jump between them to gain the “freedom of Tryfan” (again, watching was much worse than doing, and both were much more comfortable thanlast time Ryan and I did it in climbing gear and claggy weather), fed off Lee’s magic rucksack full of miscellaneous confectionary, debated why there were eggshells on the ground until deciding that hard boiled eggs are actually an excellent mountain snack, and walked the rocky but less steep and more sociable way down the summit’s sunnier south west face, enjoying the new views over to the Glyder ridge, Y Gribin and the lovely tarn of Llyn Bochlwyd.
The rocky terrain became decidedly boggy and we did our best to avoid the worst bits (especially the deep, sudden, ankle-sized holes) until we reached the well-kept path that goes from Ogwen/Idwal Cottage up to that high lake. We amused each other, notably with stories of snakes, pheasants and bits of badger-related law (thanks Dave), and felt fully recovered from Friday. Eventually the descent levelled out and the walk to Ogwen Cottage was very pleasant, except when – to Matt and Lee’s delight – a passing dog kicked a lump of mud in my hair just as I crouched to examine some frogspawn.
Return
We reached the bottom of the path, grabbed some snacks from the kiosk at the little visitor centre and made our way back along the A5 to Charley, not sure what condition we’d find her in. Luckily sleep had revived her, but the 40 minute drive to a big Tesco near-ish the house was enough to return the rest of us to our sluggish, hungover state, and once again I didn’t enjoy the shop one bit.
Back at the house Dave and Charley cooked lasagne and we spent the evening in a more acceptable way than the previous night, although it did feature the most hectic game of beer/ping pong I’ve ever played (involving six people, five bats, a washing up bowl and ball-repellent cups) and another, more chilled dip in the hot tub.
Sunday 27 March
Moel Siabod
After a lie in and breakfast rolls, we set off about midday for Moel Siabod, a mountain known as a lovely hiking destination that has been on my list for a long time. Once again we drove into the A5 valley through Betws-y, this time parking at the Tyn y Coed pub. We walked a short way along the road, then branched off up a very steep track (a substantial warm up) which eventually brought us to a sheep-spangled moorland covered in high yellow grass. The majestic, sweeping slopes of the mountain lay ahead of us and we enjoyed a near-panoramic view over rugged, rolling peaks, which were broken up into a golden-brown-grey-green patchwork of rock, grass, heather and forest.
Thankfully the path was clear and the gradient eased, so we talked our way up to the base of Moel Siabod’s rocky northeast ridge. A large, dark tarn appeared on our left as the land rose above us on our right, and we continued on feeling a bit fellowship-of-the-ring like until we reached some ruined quarry buildings and a small, deep-looking, almost perfectly round tarn with a sheer back wall. We threw a few stones in (we’re only human) before everyone else’s feeble tosses were put to shame by Lee’s rocket launcher arm, and we carried on along the base of Moel Siabod’s long, steep southeast face through grassy, rocky, heathery terrain until we came to another, larger tarn, Llyn y Foel, the hazy blue-peaked landscape opened up in front of us, and the path disappeared.
After some careful bog avoidance we stopped at the base of the Daear Ddu ridge for a snack, then began the technical part of the ascent. We’d planned to go straight up via Daear Ddu, a grade 1 scramble, but decided at the bottom it’d be safer for us all (especially Cooper) to follow what looked like the more trodden path to the left, which was effectively a scramble up a steep boulderfield away from the ridge’s sheer drop. It was awkward in places, particularly with a slightly nervous dalmatian who wasn’t used to hopping from rock to rock across big, dark gaps, but luckily he was very agile and made it up with some persuasion.
After what felt like a long time we pulled up over the edge of the mountain’s rocky south face onto the summit plateau, which was covered in large lumps of scree and dry, hardy grass. Cooper, who was relieved to be back on solid ground, had the cheek to bound off ahead as if he’d just finished the warm up while the rest of us tramped up to the trig point. Dave in particular did a lot of tramping, as I’d spent a portion of the ascent sneaking rocks into his bag (birthday beats are so 2009), which he only discovered right at the summit. He took it like a champ, and we all gawped at the now fully panoramic view until chilled by the breeze, pointing out the distinctive shapes of Tryfan and Snowdon and the uncountable surrounding peaks, which ranged in colour from hazy grey-blue to golden-yellow to brown and dark green.
The way down was more sociable, involving a walk across to the other side of the plateau, a little bit more scrambling and Cooper-herding across rocks, then joining a clear path through rugged grassland that signified the end of the most awkward terrain. As we made our way down Siabod’s less-steep northwest face the huge, dark blue-lilac forms of the Glyderau mountain range dominated our view to the left and the golden-green Dyffryn Mymbyr valley stretched out ahead of us with its random undulations, which were sometimes rocky, sometimes heathery and sometimes foresty.
We reached an evergreen forest after a long, straight “down” section and only one snack/admire-the-view break. It had that surreal, tranquil quality only found the wildest, remotest woods. Trees, birds, shrubs, spring flowers, mosses, even the stream – everything seemed to thrive in a quiet, old, unimposing way. We walked along the forest track until we reached the bottom of the hill, where the Afon Llugwy flowed white over the fascinating rock formations it had carved. We crossed at an old bridge and walked a short distance along the road back to the cars.
Chinese n Chill
The bar at Tyn y Coed was closed but we made up for it with a drink at Y Stabblau pub in Betws-y-Coed, where we’d eaten after completing the Three Peaks Challenge three years ago. Someone had planted the Chinese takeaway seed which meant the matter was not open for negotiation as we all fancied it so much, so we went back to the house, showered and regrouped in the big kitchen. After some faff trying to find a fairly nearby takeaway that was open and answering the phone, we sent Dave and Ryan off to collect the treasure after what felt like a 10-year wait. That Chinese tasted so good.
Before we ate Charley broke the wonderful news that she’d managed to get the following morning off work, so they could stay the night rather than driving back. We had a lovely evening playing ring of fire and cards against humanity (which was particularly memorable thanks to Matt’s unrepeatable answer to the “you can’t put *blank* inside *blank*” card), talking in the kitchen for ages and polishing off an unholy amount of leftover takeaway. Once again I stumbled into bed, but thankfully this time I managed to stay there all night.
Monday 28 March
Dave and Charley left early and again Matt took the lead on cleaning up the house. We had breakfast, packed up, said bye to Matt and left at 10am. Lee, Ryan and I wanted to make the most of the day without getting home too late, so we headed through the heart of the national park to Coed y Brenin forest park and set off on the 4-mile Gain Waterfall hiking trail (but not before a quick visit to the mountain bike shop and an avowal to come back for those trails another time, having only ridden the blue Minotaur trail previously).
Gain Waterfall trail
It was a lovely, well-marked route along a gravel path that took us through high, fragrant pines, across a shrubby, heathery plain overlooking the distinctive Rhinog mountain range, down a twisty valley and along the fairytale-like Afon Gain and Afon Mawddach rivers. We passed the ruins of an old gold mine and some stunning, high waterfalls which tumbled and rushed into copper-coloured plunge pools. Like the woods on the way down from Moel Siabod it was almost absurdly tranquil and timeless, and neither a dinosaur, a medieval vagabond nor a Victorian gold panner would have looked out of place in the old forest.
Home
After a sandwich and a drink in the visitor centre, we set off home. We talked for the full four or five hours, only stopping once in a pretty town with a funny hybrid petrol station/co-op/garden centre place to get petrol and cannonball-sized scotch eggs, and the sunny drive back through the Welsh/English countryside was way better than the motorway.
All in all a top weekend with top weather, top scenery, top accommodation and top people. 10/10 would recommend.
It took our 12-day Scotland trip a long time to come around but when it did, it was spectacular. We drove up on Thursday night and stayed in a quiet spot we’d used before about an hour over the Scottish border, near a village called Abingdon, 7.5 hours and 410 miles later – luckily we had a clear run.
All packedSettling down for night oneMorning view
We’d made a vague plan to head up the west coast to Skye via Loch Lomond, Glen Coe and Fort William, then east to the Cairngorms. When we checked the weather in the morning it looked dire in the west and marginally less dire in the east, so we made the last minute decision to go to the Cairngorms first. We drove for an hour and a half up to Perth, through bright sunshine and heavy snow, noticing the welcome abundance of wind turbines and large swathes of semi-wild agricultural land. We’d washed and waxed the van the weekend before but we needn’t have bothered, as it was already caked in road salt from gritters like Carrie Bradthaw, which we passed on the way.
Perth to the Cairngorms
Perth is an attractive, old, very small city, which has tall, elegant buildings of reddish-yellow sandstone, plenty of greenery and the wide river Tay running through. We parked in the central car park and walked the short distance to Wetherspoons for a cheap brunch, then wandered to Mountain Warehouse to pick up some trousers for Ryan, who’d managed to lose a pair at home somewhere.
An uncannily familiar menu in “The Capital Asset”A terrible quality still taken from a short video we took – forgot to take photos of Perth, this doesn’t do any justice…
From Perth we drove for another hour and a half to the charming village of Braemar, nestled in the heart of the Cairngorms. Farmland grew upwards into the rugged, steep rolling hills of the national park, and green fields became unboundaried patchworks of yellow grass, brown heather and dark green forest. As we drove along the smooth, wide road that snakes between the lofty slopes, we spotted a herd of about 30 young, antlered red deer. I was delighted, and we pulled over to get some photos before continuing on to Braemar.
Coming into the CairngormsPhoto through binoculars, N. Andrews and R. Hill 2022, all rights reserved
Braemar & Creag Choinnich
We arrived in the small central car park just before 4pm and after a quick chat with a friendly local, who was selling a campervan and keen to show us some pictures from his recent trip to Skye, we decided to squeeze in a short walk recommended by our Wild Guide book. Creag Choinnich is a small (by Scottish standards – 538m), perfectly round hill overlooking the village from its north east side, accessed by a well-trodden footpath through what I consider a classic Caledonian forest. Dominated by tall, fragrant pines blanketed by clinging lichen and connected by a verdant carpet of moss and heather, interspersed with rocks and tree debris, it had that truly thriving, alive, ancient feeling that human toil and rigour has never been able to replicate through intensive forest management. Nibbled pine cones gave away the presence of evasive red squirrels, and I wished in vain for a sighting. It was as if we’d just walked into the quiet, secretive home of nature, but the weather-battered trunks and branches reminded us that for all her reclusive gentility, she’s equally powerful.
We walked along a steepening brown path of dry, softly yielding pine needles that took us past some large, mossy grey boulders before emerging above the treeline onto a heather-covered hill. We were simultaneously exposed to a cold, sleety wind and treated to a stunning view of the sun setting over the valley, which boasted the glistening, snaking river Dee and mountainous sides that ensconced cosy Braemar. Classic nature – harsh and beautiful. We climbed up to the rocky hilltop and took in our first taste of Scotland as we’d hoped to experience it.
Charmed by the beauty of the place and chilled by the breeze, we scrabbled down the hill the way we’d come up and walked back to the van, fantasising that we lived in one of the cosy cabins or cottages that sat between the forest and the village centre. Somehow mustering the willpower not to nip into the pub by the car park, we drove the mile or so up the road past the Highland games stadium to the quiet, out-the-way car park we’d found on a previous trip, overlooking the village from the other side. We spent the evening planning, eating soup and delighting at the fact we were, at last, in Scotland’s vast wilderness.
We woke in the wild, quiet, slightly damp Dyffryn Mymbyr valley and made the excellent decision to get breakfast down the road at the Moel Siabod café. Ryan had been before but for me it was love at first sight, once we were past the tinny, slightly naff-looking red and green exterior: inside, half the walls were wood panelled and the other half were painted bright yellow, and from all of them hung canvases and frames displaying incredible mountain photography. A huge pile of mountaineering magazines sat invitingly in one corner, stories of epic local feats adorned noticeboards and two counter-mounted maps of Snowdonia took up a considerable amount of space among the homely pine tables.
We ordered breakfast, found a small gallery full of more stunning photos tucked in a side room, picked up a couple of magazines and sat down in a corner by the window under a framed jacket signed by Leo Houlding. At risk of stereotyping I noted that many of the people in there had “the climber look”, usually characterised by bright down jackets and slightly wayward hair (myself very much included). Our breakfast arrived, I stopped gawping around the room, and we ate. The food was lovely and very generous: Ryan’s full English and my smoked salmon and scrambled eggs set us up for the day’s hiking, and we left for the Glyders.
Moel Siabod cafe
The hike begins
After a 10 minute drive up the A5, we parked in the free car park below Tryfan and opposite Llyn Ogwen, waited a few minutes in the hope that the rain would subside, and packed bags for our hike. Having trad climbed up Tryfan a few days before, we decided to approach Bristly Ridge and the Glyders from Ogwen Cottage (the common approach is from Tryfan), which would enable us to enjoy a picturesque walk-in along a quieter path.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was grim when we set off late morning, but it was decidedly grey and damp. We walked along the road to Ogwen Cottage, which was busy with school groups and ramblers, and joined the popular path towards Llyn Idwal. After 200m we branched off left onto a quiet, rocky path and walked for about 1km, a pleasant tramp across grassy heathland which inclined gradually at first, then quite steeply. To our relief, the weather brightened up as we walked.
Undulating slopes rose high in front of us and the vast ridges of Pen yr Ole Wen and Mynydd Perfedd hid their tops in low cloud behind, separated by the V-shaped Nant Ffrancon valley. Llyn Ogwen stretched along the base of Pen yr Ole Wen, and its black, glassy water matched that of Llyn Bochlwyd, the attractive, wild tarn* that we came to after a fairly strenuous climb.
Ryan puffing up the slope with Llyn Ogwen behind
We fall out, and make up
We went slightly wrong here, executing the schoolboy mistake of subconsciously following a couple of hikers we’d caught up with. We realised quite quickly that they’d taken the left fork but we wanted the right one, so we retraced our steps over boggy ground and walked in the right general direction, the path having disappeared in the muddiness. We climbed above Llyn Bochlwyd while arguing about something silly – I think Ryan complained that I always take over, while I complained that if I didn’t we’d never get anywhere – then went slightly wrong again, then righted ourselves again, then traversed a boulderfield, then made up at the base of Bristly Ridge.
It’s a good thing we did, because the Bristly Ridge scramble was something special and getting over our silliness meant that we became willing to take pictures of each other. The route wasn’t clear from the stone wall that runs between Tryfan and Glyder Fach, so – keen to avoid the “normal” path and make sure we found the scrambling route – we kept west of the wall and headed up towards the vertical rock.
Bristly Ridge
Once past the loose boulders, the real climbing started. Bristly Ridge is a grade 1 scramble situated on the north face of Glyder Fach which has good, solid holds but some exposed sections. Most of the climbing involved scrambling up gullies and around slabby corners, and we found it quite exciting – steep, exposed and probably quite scary to anyone not used to climbing, but technically easy and excellent fun. We paused mid-climb to watch a couple of jets whoosh low through the Ogwen and Nant Ffrancon valleys like bullets, filling the air with a thunderous roar – no wonder the rocks were so full of cracks. The sky had turned blue, scattered with fluffy clouds, and the sun illuminated the olive green, rock-strewn landscape, accentuating the wild beauty of the rugged mountains all around.
At the base of Bristly Ridge, looking back towards TryfanOverlooking Llyn Bochlwyd
The Glyders
Eventually we emerged onto the Glyder plateau and, finding that we no longer needed our hands, walked along the wide, boulder-strewn ridge towards the summit of Glyder Fach (994m). I’m not sure exactly where that is as there’s nothing to mark it, but looking at a map we must have reached it after about 200m. We found the famous cantilever stone, took the obligatory (cheesy) photos on top and carried on along the grey ridge.
Glyders Fach and Fawr are the two highest peaks in the Glyderau mountain range. They run east-west and once at Glyder Fach, the “path” (there isn’t really one, it’s just a case of heading in the right direction across the scree and boulders) to Glyder Fawr is rocky, loose and relatively flat. I walked this wide, distinctive ridge one blizzardy, dark January day a few years ago and it was a totally different place – colourless, desolate and hostile. This time the weather allowed us to see for miles over the breathtaking grey-green landscape, appearing in windows between low, drifting clouds, and we could appreciate the strange, jagged, Mordor-esque formations of dark grey rock protruding along the ridge at odd angles from the ground. The best example was Castell y Gwynt, a monstrous alien structure made of many thin, vertical slabs that rose high above the ground in a huge, spiky dragon’s scale shape, as if the rock had been forcibly rejected by the Earth.
We reached Glyder Fawr after about a mile of this and continued west – not entirely intentionally, and to the bemusement of some hardy sheep – to admire the spectacular view of the Llanberis Pass from the Esgair Felen spur. From there, we headed back towards the vague path that drops steeply down the scree field to Llyn y Cwn, a small tarn, half walked, half slipped down, and once near the black water, took the level path that heads north east towards the Devil’s Kitchen.
The CantileverCastell y GwyntGlyder FawrThe steep slope down to Llyn y Cwn
Cwm Idwal & Devil’s Kitchen
We crossed a drystone wall and paused to admire Llyn Idwal below us, framed perfectly by the steep sides of Y Garn and the Y Gribin ridge and backed by cloud-topped Pen yr Ole Wen. We descended down the steep, twisty rock steps that took us into the belly of Cwm Idwal with the ominous-looking Devil’s Kitchen on our left, stopping to chat to a couple of small groups on our way, all the while taking in the enormity of this incredible hanging valley**.
The Devil’s Kitchen is a large, dark crack in the rock overlooking Llyn Idwal that separates the two hulking masses of Glyder Fawr and Y Garn. A waterfall flows from the crack and steam often rises out of it, which – according to legend – indicates that the Devil is cooking; that is, while he’s not busy beckoning weary travellers in, never to be seen again. He must have been otherwise occupied when we were there, because the black gap was menacingly still and steamless, as if its inhabitant was lying in wait for such an unsuspecting weary traveller.
After a considerable descent, we took the path on the west side of Llyn Idwal and walked along the mysterious, gently rippling water’s edge, feel very small in the huge, bowl-like cwm. The lake is named after Prince Idwal Foel, a grandson of an ancient Welsh King, who – according to another legend – drowned in the lake. As a result of this tragedy, birds will never fly over the water. This is a shame, given the cwm’s status as a National Nature Reserve.
We walked along the stony beach at the head of the lake, crossed a bridge and headed back along the well-trodden path to Ogwen Cottage. Being only slightly less busy than earlier, we didn’t hang around before shooting back along the A5 to the van.
The Devil’s Kitchen on the leftDevil’s Kitchen (centre)Llyn Idwal looking over to Pen yr Ole WenLlyn Idwal looking back to the GlydersMountain “frame” art instalments near Ogwen CottageTryfan
Evening – Plas y Brenin & Gallt y Glyn
We got back about 5.30pm, sorted our stuff and considered our options for dinner. Being the last night we decided to eat out, so we drove back along the Ogwen valley, into the Dyffryn Mymbyr valley and stopped at Plas y Brenin, the National Outdoor Centre. We had a drink at the cosy bar overlooking Llynnau Mymbyr lake, jealous of the several large groups who’d clearly been doing some kind of outdoor training or activity and were more than likely working or staying there. Feeling a little out of place we decided to try a pub in Llanberis, hoping for somewhere with good food and a bit of a buzz, so we drove along the Dyffryn Mymbyr valley and down the Llanberis pass into the town. We had a drink in The Heights but didn’t fancy anything on the menu, so we took heed of our Rockfax climbing guide, which informed us that the nearby Gallt y Glyn pub held “climber’s night” on Wednesdays.
The pub was a cosy hostel/hotel on the edge of the town near Llyn Padarn. On arrival we were disappointed to find that covid restrictions prevented any kind of socialising with other climbers, but we liked the homely atmosphere and were delighted with our food. For £8 each (plus toppings, which weren’t expensive) I had a custom pizza (prawn, olive, sausage, basil and jalapenos) and a glass of wine, and Ryan had a custom burger with salad and a beer. It was really delicious – up there with the best pizzas I’ve eaten.
Full of lovely food and in good spirits despite our impending last day of holiday, we drove back up the dark Llanberis Pass and parked on a roadside pull-in near Plas y Brenin. We went back in for another drink and sat on a cosy corner sofa, chuckling at a 1950s mountaineering handbook taken from the large bookcase behind us that was full of mountain-themed treasures. The bar was buzzing and very cosy, and when we went along a corridor to find the loos we were distracted by the multitude of fascinating old climbing photos on the walls. It was a large building with a lot going on – reception area, accommodation, training rooms, bar etc – and we decided that we’d love to come back and do some of the training courses.
After a couple of drinks we walked back to the van, slipped into the bed we’d made up earlier in anticipation of the couple of drinks, and slept soundly.
Gallt y GlynPlas y Brenin
*Tarn – a small mountain lake formed by a glacier, usually surrounded by steep slopes
**Hanging valley – an elevated valley formed by a glacier with a steep slope joined onto the side of a main, deeper valley
The Snowdon Horseshoe is a classic hiking/scrambling route which follows the ridges and peaks that run around Snowdon’s east side in a distinctive horseshoe shape. It takes in the perilous knife-edge balancing act of the Crib Goch arete, with its vertigo-inducingly steep drop offs either side, the epic scrambles of Garnedd Ugain and Y Lliwedd, the ever-popular Snowdon summit and on a clear day, some breathtaking panoramic views.
We woke early in our picturesque camping spot in the Dyffryn Mymbyr valley, quickly sorted the van, grabbed our ready-packed bags and headed west along the A4086. Ahead of us, Snowdon and its surrounding peaks were bathed in the golden early morning sun. After a few minutes we passed the Pen-y-Gwryd Hotel and entered the dramatic Llanberis Pass, where the narrow, twisty road snakes between steep, undulating ridges covered in scrubby grass and an absurd amount of slate-grey rock, of which some towers as formidable vertical slab and some blankets the hillsides in large, loose boulderfields. The low drystone walls that line the road look incredibly small in that wild landscape.
We drove past Pen y Pass, the car park and youth hostel where some of the most popular routes up Snowdon begin, and were shocked to see that it now costs £18 to park for 8 hours, £25 for 12 and £40 for 24, and parking must be booked over a day in advance. We carried on down the valley for a couple of miles and stopped at the large park and ride car park in the tiny village of Nant Peris, nestled deep in the Llanberis valley. It’d usually cost £6 to park for the day but the ticket machine wasn’t working, so we chanced it and left a note in the windscreen before kitting up (in a bit of a rush) and hopping on the early morning Sherpa bus back to Pen y Pass.
The Pyg Track
From Pen y Pass, we set off west along the Pyg track and plodded on for about a mile. The terrain was rocky and moderately steep, and looking down the Llanberis Pass the low sun behind us highlighted the yellowish grass, the long, black shadows cast by jagged rocks and the deep blue sky which implied a beautiful clear day. After a strenuous couple of miles we overshot the right fork that leads up to Crib Goch, but realised after about a minute and retraced our steps to cross a wall and realise the hidden path, which was less well-trodden than the Pyg.
Crib Goch
After branching right, the real steepness began. The way up Crib Goch is certainly a scramble rather than a hike, and we pulled, pushed and climbed our way up the bare rock. The array of crampon marks and kind-of-paths all heading in the same direction suggested that there was no definitive right way up, so we just headed up the bits of rock that seemed most forgiving.
A lot of ascending and very little “as the crow flies” progress later, the terrain levelled off and we found ourselves on a rocky ridge overlooking the most beautiful panoramic landscape. The entire Snowdon horseshoe was clearly visible in a long, dark curve which towered over and around the glassy, blue-black waters of Glaslyn and Llyn Llydaw, and hazy peaks punctuated the distance in every direction above innocuous, wispy clouds.
We exchanged the generic “lovely day for it” with a couple of hikers having a snack before the Crib Goch traverse, then I led the way along the narrow, uneven, precipitous ridge. To the right, the ground dropped away so sickeningly that it wasn’t worth thinking about the consequences of a small slip. To the left, you’d be lucky to get away with a couple of broken legs. It was exhilarating. Despite the seriousness of any potential fall, we were quite sure-footed and decided that a fall was unlikely in the dry, clear conditions, so we crossed the arete fairly quickly.
Garnedd Ugain
Once across the knife edge, the next section involved an exciting scramble up, around and across more jagged masses of bare rock until we reached the trig point at the mini-summit of Garnedd Ugain, which is really just a high point along the long ridge between Crib Goch and Snowdon. We watched a red and white rescue helicopter hovering dead still and low above a flat, grassy plateau on the ridge opposite us, along the path we’d take after summiting Snowdon, and decided it was a training exercise rather than an actual rescue. All the while we were surrounded by spectacular views over sprawling ridges, mountains and valleys, and over the back of that opposite ridge we could see out to the flatter, jutting coastline around Porthmadog.
Snowdon
From there, the way up Snowdon was a bimble. We followed the curve of the ridge round until we joined the Llanberis path, where most of the major routes up the mountain – the Miners, Pyg, Rangers, Llanberis and Crib Goch paths – meet and run parallel with the railway up the wide, gently inclining ridge on Snowdon’s north side. Suddenly there were a lot more people, and we joined the pilgrimage for about 700 metres to reach the distinctive, stepped summit mound, where we queued (a little ashamedly, but it only took a few minutes) for a photo. We had lunch sat on the east side of the summit overlooking Glaslyn and the beautiful, sprawling landscape, thankful for clear weather. It was busy, but not unbearably so being a Monday and the train/summit café being shut – I’ve seen Snowdon much worse.
Y Lliwedd
Refuelled and amused by a couple of sheep that were forcibly interrupting picnics in search of snacks, we sent my dad a happy birthday video message and left the summit before the breeze got to us. We headed onwards down the Rhydd Ddu path, which descends Snowdon’s south side. It was steeper and considerably less busy than the Llanberis path to the north – the majority walk up and down the Miners/Llanberis paths. After a couple of hundred metres we took a sharp left onto the Watkin path, which set our course east, back towards the dark blue water of Llyn Llydaw and in the far distance, invisible behind rocky ridges, our destination – Pen y Pass.
The first half mile was a rocky, steep hike, almost verging on a scramble, down Snowdon’s south east side. It then flattened out a bit and we walked along the path, taking in the view. Ahead of us Y Lliwedd loomed dramatically: its right side swept majestically in a long, gentle curve down to the bottom of another huge cwm*, backed by layers of ridges, hills and eventually flat coastline, and its left dropped away, an intimidatingly high, dark face of bare grey, almost vertical rock.
At the base of the long Y Lliwedd ridge, we left the Watkin path and continued up the bare rock of the jagged mountain. We were scrambling once again, using hands almost as much as feet up the steep ridge, but the climbing was very straightforward and not nearly as exposed as Crib Goch. Eventually we reached the top of the long scramble and were rewarded by stunning views over the almost unrealistically blue, green and grey-brown landscape in front, made up of the rugged, grassy-rocky cwm sides, glassy lake in its belly and hazy, distant ridges under a deep blue sky, which was broken only by a low scattering of fluffy white clouds.
The Home Straight
We walked along the curved ridge in awe of and slightly overwhelmed by the world, then descended down the more gradual, grassy, unreasonably picturesque slope of its north east side. We reached the edge of Llyn Llydaw, crossed a wooden footbridge and joined the Miners track back to Pen y Pass. I’ve walked this path several times and it never gets shorter; it’s very well-trodden, relatively flat and seems to take forever, although it doesn’t really matter because the scenery is beautiful the whole way. The mountains loomed behind us over the huge, bowl-like, two-tier cwm containing the two lakes, and high, grassy, rocky ridges ran above us either side. Ahead of us the distant, rolling landscape was visible in the V at the end of the valley, as if affording us a glimpse into another world.
The Miners track snaked between smaller ridges, past little Llyn Teyrn and around the end of the lumpy mass of rock that eventually leads up to Crib Goch. The two miles we spent on that path were almost languid, and we reached the Pen y Pass car park just before 2.30pm, which was several hours earlier than we’d expected based on reports from guidebooks/google. The weather had very much been on our side – the horseshoe was obviously a totally different game in wet, windy or winter conditions – but we were pleased to have made it round with a moving time of just under 4 and a half hours at what we considered a leisurely pace.
The Snowdon Horseshoe had been very high on our to-do list for a very long time, so we celebrated its completion with a couple of drinks from the Pen y Pass youth hostel bar. We sat outside basking in the warm afternoon sun and before I knew it I was tipsy, fast approaching full-blown drunk, on a cider and a (single) gin. After an hour or so we got on the double decker bus (front seats at the top, of course – the best view of Llanberis Pass) back to the van.
Evening
Pleased to find that we hadn’t received a parking ticket, we wandered over to the nearby Vaynol Arms, only to find it closed on Mondays. Unfazed, Ryan drove us back along the Llanberis Pass, past the layby we camped in and through Capel Curig to the Tyn y Coed pub we’d been impressed by after climbing Tryfan on Friday. He charmed the very friendly manager into letting us stay in their large car park overnight, and in return we sat in a corner of the pub for a good couple of hours. We planned the following day by poring over climbing books, phoned my dad to say happy birthday and grovel for once again being away on an adventure, ate a pizza and a burger (respectively, not each) and had a couple of drinks before retiring to the van, which was tucked away under some leafy trees, for an early night. Needless to say we slept well.
*a cwm is kind of a three-sided valley / bowl with a single opening
What a week. We’ve just returned from an incredible trip to Snowdonia and the mountain blues have hit us like a steam train. Hiking, scrambling, climbing, mountain biking, an island road trip, a smidgeon of wild swimming and several pubs – the last few days have had everything I could have asked for and more.
Friday 17th September
We drove up on Thursday night and stayed in a layby just before Betws y Coed. After a good night’s sleep and eggs on toast for brekkie, we drove west along the A5 through the picturesque valley that cuts through the lush, green Gwydir Forest. Past the trees, the landscape opened out to wild country, where mountains sprawl lazily for miles across rugged land untainted by concrete or tarmac.
Little Tryfan
After a 20 minute drive we parked in the long layby on the A5 just after Gwern Gof Uchaf campsite, nestled in the Ogwen Valley. We fancied a gentle introduction to what we (rightly) anticipated would be a full-on week, so we started with some easy trad climbing on Little Tryfan, where I’d climbed with army cadets a decade ago and Ryan had climbed a couple of years ago. We tramped past Gwern Gof Uchaf and a short distance up the south side of the valley to the huge, slanting rock face, whose gentle angle and solid, grippy rock make it the perfect destination for new or casual climbers.
Most of the wall was being used by a big army group so we walked past them to the far end and climbed “Mossy Slab”, an easy two-pitch route graded HVD. I led the first pitch and Ryan led the second. Some of the gear was good but I found that several of the crack constrictions were “wrong” in that they were V-shaped and didn’t allow nut placements to correspond with the direction of fall, but the climbing was so easy that I was comfortable with running the gear out. At the top we paused to appreciate the stunning view of the Ogwen Valley, then walked down the rightward descent scramble.
We felt that Little Tryfan was one of those “if you’ve climbed one route, you’ve climbed them all” crags, so at the bottom I put forward a case for climbing “big” Tryfan. My arguments were:
the weather was drier and clearer than forecast,
we were part way there anyway,
we’d packed enough equipment to not have to return to the car, and
we’d already discussed climbing it via a certain route called First Pinnacle Rib.
Ryan put up precisely no resistance and insisted that he’d be fine in his battered old Nike skate shoes. It was one of those off-the-cuff decisions that lead to the best days out, and the verdict was unanimous. Off we went.
Tryfan: to Heather Terrace
The first bit involved a steep walk/scramble up to Heather Terrace, the path that runs roughly north-south along Tryfan’s east face and is characterised by uneven rock, unavoidable grey boulders, resolute purple heather and lovely high views over the valley of Cwm Tryfan. Heather Terrace is probably the gentlest and flattest route up Tryfan, a mountain whose summit requires at least a scramble regardless of which way you go.
Once we were in roughly the right place along the path, we searched the rock for the start of the climbing route. We’d eyed up First Pinnacle Rib (also called Overlapping Ridge Route), a classic VDiff multi-pitch that featured in both our new Rockfax book and Kev’s (Ryan’s dad) 1990 Constable guide, which Kev had climbed years before. We couldn’t easily tell exactly where the routes were as the rock to our right was high, steep and looked very much the same, and the photos in the guidebooks were taken from further back – we’d have fallen off the side of the mountain if we stepped back to gain the same vantage point.
After a frustrating 20 minutes or so I spotted “FPR” vaguely etched into a slab. Kev had told us that “1PR” was scratched at the bottom of the route, so we assumed that the “1” had been turned into an “F” at some point and didn’t investigate further. A few days later we spotted in the Rockfax book that FPR actually and misleadingly denotes the start of Pinnacle Rib Route, fortunately another classic VDiff which is next to First Pinnacle Rib, so that’s what we set out on.
Tryfan: Pinnacle Rib Route, the nice bit
We shoed, harnessed, helmeted, geared and roped up and I led the first pitch, an easy line up a big groove with good gear and solid holds. Ryan followed me up and led the second pitch up a rib, again with good gear and holds. I came up and led the third; we weren’t exactly following Rockfax’s instructions as to where to climb/belay, but just doing what looked good and felt right. I paused a couple of times to snack on some wild bilberries that grow on scrubby bushes all over the mountain.
The first slightly sketchy section came at what I thought was “Yellow Slab”, an infamous polished wall. With hindsight and research I don’t think it was Yellow Slab, but I found myself on a flat, vertical face covered in thin yellowish lichen, few holds and fewer gear placements, just past a flat ledge and out of Ryan’s view. I felt strong and confident so I pulled myself up, managed to place a small blue nut which subsequently popped out shortly after I climbed above it, and belayed from just above it – fortunately it was quite short.
We were enjoying the climbing hugely and flying up quickly until Ryan finished the fourth pitch and belayed me up. The sky was starting to cloud over and at one point I was climbing above a rainbow, which was cool. However, Ryan had gone slightly off-piste by climbing in whichever direction he liked the look of, and we weren’t entirely sure where we were. We read something in the book about walking rightwards for 20m and belaying, so we tramped right up some awkward wet, heathery ground and stopped at a slightly ominous-looking corner crack.
Tryfan: Pinnacle Rib Route? The ordeal
For reasons that will become clear, I don’t have any photos of this section. The weather had closed in, the stunning views had gone, we were starting to get damp and Type 1 fun was rapidly turning into Type 2. Looking a little reluctantly at the wet corner, I started up it and quickly realised that opportunities to place gear were scarce. It followed a crack up a corner between two fairly bare slabs which tilted towards each other at a shallow angle, not enough to properly bridge, meaning that I had to trust my shoes to grip the damp rock on tiny or next-to-no holds while I made some awkward upper body moves. The crack itself was slimy and mossy and the gear placements just got worse.
I climbed quite slowly, constantly weighing up whether to carry on or come down. The gear became so run-out that if I slipped it’d have been a ground fall onto the ledge where Ryan was belaying (very supportively and encouragingly despite his soaking wet shoes, to his credit), a fact of which I was painfully conscious. When I was climbing my head was calm, clear and acutely aware of everything, but when I paused to look for a much-needed gear placement I felt genuine fear. I’m not used to that feeling – there’s a difference between the adrenaline-inducing thrill of climbing above a bolt at a crag, flying down a steep mountain bike trail or scrambling along an exposed ridge, or even worrying a little that we’d get back later than planned after a big day out, and real, spine-chilling, one-wrong-move-means-hello-mountain-rescue fear.
Eventually I reached a good handhold where I placed two nuts. I didn’t allow relief to wash through me because the next few metres looked as bare as the previous few. I convinced myself to carry on, then proceeded to put myself through the same torment as before, with a long, run-out, balancey few moves up slippery rock until eventually (another potential ground fall later) I reached a horn of rock, which I threw a sling over, clipped into and fully exhaled for the first time in a good few minutes. From there I clambered up onto another horn, which I straddled tightly and belayed Ryan up from, genuinely relieved to be unscathed.
Ryan followed me up and congratulated me on being alive and unbroken, then led the next pitch up an awkward channel which luckily had plenty of gear placements. I followed him, a bit shaky from my belaying position, and met him at his belay. I was a bit disheartened not to see Adam and Eve, the two adjacent pillars that mark the summit, but after a slightly awkward scramble up a column of rock they emerged through the clag to our immense relief.
Tryfan: summit, descent
Ryan clambered up first and did the famous leap between the pillars to gain the “freedom of Tryfan”. I followed, still a little shaken from that hellish pitch, and jumped across before I could ponder the sheer drop to the left, the wide gap between the rocks or the slippery-looking, uneven surfaces on the tops. Ryan thought it funny to tell me I had to do it again as he’d missed the photo; I did not find it funny. Fortunately (for him) he’d captured it perfectly.
We swapped climbing shoes for Scarpa approach shoes / Nike pumps (joking that Ryan was now “that person” we hate to see up mountains), munched a cheese salad sandwich and walked down the steep south side of the mountain until we branched left and rejoined Heather Terrace. The terrain was awkward, uneven and very rocky, and our knees took a battering all the way down. The clag lifted as we descended, the landscape-defining artery of Nant Gwern y Gof appeared way below us to the right, and eventually the views over the long Ogwen Valley returned.
The Perfect Ending: pub, curry, van
We passed behind Little Tryfan, through Gwen Gof Uchaf and returned to the van around 5.30pm, pleased to see the bikes hadn’t been stolen and slightly amused that we’d only travelled just over 4 miles (2,000ft elevation aside). We threw our stuff in and drove the short distance down the A5 back to Tyn-y-Coed, a nice, welcoming pub Ryan had frequented on a previous trip with his brother. I was revived by a cider and an Irish coffee, then Ryan drove us back along the A5 to a car park by Llyn Ogwen, a wild, peaceful mountain lake overlooked by Tryfan.
Several vans were already parked up and there were no signs so we decided to settle for the evening. I cooked a Thai green chicken curry which was admittedly pretty good, especially after the day we’d had, and with hindsight, we could (almost) laugh about the strange route we’d taken up the mountain. We slept very well.
This blog post (1 of 2) tells the tale of the first half of a week campervanning in Pembrokeshire, a coastal national park in west Wales, spent with Ryan (boyfriend), Mum (mother and chef), Dad (father and taxi driver) and Angus (not-so-little brother).
Ryan and I drove up as soon as he finished work on Saturday evening and we found a quiet wild camping spot near the village of Newport, where we’d be staying. The van was fully loaded with climbing gear, surfboard, bodyboard, mountain board, power kite and other miscellaneous toys, so the week was looking good.
Sunday27th June
Parrog & Newport
We joined mum, dad and Angus at Tycanol campsite, a basic site with lots of green space and stunning views over the wide, sweeping Newport beach. First on the agenda was a walk along the Pembrokeshire coast path, conveniently accessible from the site, down to the quaint old port of Parrog. It was a tiny, pretty place, where little boats sat moored in a calm quay cut off from the sea by a sand bar and green hills perched above the cliffs and dunes across the bay.
We walked a short way up the hill to the bigger village of Newport, where the busy streets were lined by attractive stone houses, shops and cafes. We grabbed some supplies and walked back along the main road to the campsite, where we took advantage of the wind and flew Ryan’s stunt kite.
Castell Henllys
After a ploughman’s lunch, we all got into dad’s van and went to Castell Henllys Iron Age village. It was worth the £7.50 entry fee – the walk up to the village took us along an ancient stream, through leafy woodland and past the resident pig. The roundhouses were very authentic and the three talks/demonstrations on food, village life and battle were excellent. To my delight, we had a go with the slingshots and I took great joy in lobbing a lump of dough at dad. Remarkably, he still treated us to a drink and a cake at the café.
Nevern & Preselis
On the way back we stopped at a timeless hamlet called Nevern to see the bleeding yew, a remarkable, 700 year old tree in an atmospheric little churchyard which oozes blood red sap. It was simultaneously eerie and serene, a strange combination, and the sap smelt nasty on my fingers. A brief excursion across a stream and up a wooded hill took us to the site of an old motte and bailey castle, now reclaimed by nature, where only earth mounds disclosed its human past.
Still keen to explore, dad then drove us back through Newport and a little way into the Preseli Hills, where the four of us (minus mum, who had a bad knee) walked the short distance up through heathery moorland to the rocky tor of Mynydd Caregog. The plateaued landscape reminded me of Dartmoor, with its distant rolling peaks and scattered granite outcrops, and there were spectacular views over the sweeping blue curve of Newport Bay, tucked between strikingly green Dinas Head to the left and pasture-topped cliffs to the right.
Realising that it was 7pm, we hurried down to Parrog and arrived just in time to order fish and chips. After a long wait and some impatience on my part, we ate them in the van – delicious – then went back to the campsite for some drinks.
Monday 28th June
St Davids
The weather looked wet in the morning, so we decided against strenuous activity. After another bimble around Newport we drove 40 minutes west to St Davids, the smallest city in Britain with a population of 1,600. Grey stone houses and shops lined its bustling streets, which were pretty despite the overcast sky, and the old cathedral was incredible, with flagstone floors, carved and painted high ceilings and perfectly symmetrical stone arches. Ryan and I walked back up the hill to the stone cross at the city(!) centre, queued for ages to get lunch (chicken baguette and a pasty), and met the others back at the modern information centre by the car park.
Whitesands Beach
We realised that we hadn’t planned beyond St Davids, so decided last minute to visit Whitesands Beach just up the (very narrow, twisty) road. An archaeological excavation was going on at the site of an old chapel just above the beach, which is being threatened by erosion. We peered down, fascinated, on people brushing dust from thousand-year-plus old human skeletons, including that of a baby. See https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-57685284 if you’re interested.
While mum and dad sat on the beach, Ryan built stone towers, Angus pottered around the rockpools and I went to explore a rocky promontory. The vertically layered slate was awkward to walk on but the excursion was worth it for the deep, coral reef-like rockpools, sea-filled tunnels and wild, remote scenery. I went over the other side of the big rocky lump, away from the beach, and looked out on a small, empty beach, wild headlands and a calm sea under a moody sky. There wasn’t a boat in sight and all that interrupted the horizon was a few small, hazy islands.
I clambered around the rocky lump and made my way back to the beach via a rockpool-bottomed tunnel, which required a short climb out the other side. We regrouped and went back to the campsite for the evening, where mum cooked vegetarian curry and we sat planning the next day’s hike.
Tuesday 29th June
Hiking in the Preseli Hills
In the morning Ryan, Angus and I were dropped off on a roadside near the village of Crymych. Our plan was to walk the bridleway that runs east to west across the spine of the Preseli Hills (sometimes – dubiously in my opinion – called Mountains) and get picked up from a pub on the other side. Meanwhile, mum and dad went to a woollen mill, much to mum’s delight and dad’s indifference.
The forecast was dry and overcast, but there was a distinctly wet-looking fog hanging over the hills as we approached. We went through a wooden gate which marked the eastern boundary of the Preselis and instantly deviated from the bridleway to climb Foeldrygarn, the first hill – a big, green, rocky lump looming in front of us – that sits slightly north of the path and is topped by a trig point, which we decided made it worth a visit. It was steep enough to break a sweat and once at the top we messed around on the rocks (at one point I got stuck a little too high and needed a spot from Angus) while Ryan experimented with his new gimbal video thing.
We rejoined the main path and headed west across the undulating moorland plateau, which was full of sheep, fog and rocky outcrops. We spotted an enormous red kite (questioning at one point whether it was a lost eagle) and a few skylarks, but it was otherwise quite barren. We stopped to pull on raincoats on account of the wet fog that engulfed the hills and thwarted what was probably a stunning view over north Pembrokeshire. The next four miles was oddly enjoyable and consisted of bleak fog, the occasional bog and passable banter.
We stopped for a strange lunch of pork pie, cheese, lamb pasty and mugshot pasta (I can’t recommend a Jetboil enough) by the edge of Pantmaenog Forest, then headed south away from the main bridleway towards Foel Cwmcerwyn, the highest peak in the Preselis and the last hill of the hike. The sun had started to burn through the fog and it was quite clear by the time we reached the top. The view was incredible, stretching out over miles of quiet valleys, green fields and dark forests, and we looked back to see the Preselis still shrouded in the isolated layer of thick white cloud we’d just emerged from.
The walk down was reminiscent of the hobbits leaving the Shire, with abundantly biodiverse meadows and verges on either side of us filled with all kinds of grasses, wild flowers and trees. In front and to the left was a heartwarmingly pastoral view over peaceful Welsh fields rolling way into the distance, and behind was the lush, fir-lined edge of Pantmaenog Forest.
The path dropped down through a sheep field into the village of Rosebush, where our 8.5 mile hike ended at the Tafarn Sinc pub. The community-owned pub is worth a mention in itself, with its purple corrugated iron cladding, sawdust-scattered floor and timeless décor, which includes various mysterious agricultural implements and several legs of ham hung up to cure. We had a drink while awaiting our taxi, then another when it arrived bearing mixed reviews of the woollen mill.
Newport Beach BBQ
The taxi (dad) drove us onto Newport beach, where we kicked a ball around and explored rockpools, shallow caves, a small waterfall and grassy sand dunes. Ryan and I watched England beat Germany (much to our surprise) on my phone, in terrible quality as signal was bad, while dad cooked the barbecue. We had sausages, burgers and salad (to which my contribution was foraged sea beet and dandelion), washed up in the back of the van and went for a walk along the long stretch of sand towards Parrog, which was cut off by a deep stream. The beach was practically empty and the sunset was lovely.
Wednesday 30th June
Tombstoning at Blue Lagoon
The forecast was good so we decided to get wet. We went west along the coast to Abereiddy, a tiny, pretty coastal hamlet with a small beach and a disused slate quarry which has become a hotspot for swimmers, paddlers and ledge jumpers. The quarry is called Blue Lagoon, which is a lovely if unimaginative name as it’s effectively a large bowl of clear blue water connected to the sea by a narrow channel. On the far side are two man-made platforms, once used as part of the quarry, which drop straight down into the water.
The three of us (mum and dad chose to stay at the beach) walked down into the bowl, changed and clambered over the rocks and into the cold water. We swam across to the other side, dodging swimmers, paddleboarders and a huge jellyfish, and climbed out and up to the platforms. There were a lot of people queuing for the lower one, which is about 4 or 5m high, so we went straight to the higher one, about 12m – nearly the same height as three double decker buses.
Peering straight down into the dark water below was adrenaline-inducing enough, so without hesitating we checked it was clear and one-by-one, jumped off the edge before reluctance could take hold. It’s the highest thing I’ve ever jumped off and the feeling of weightlessness was exhilarating, if a little terrifying – my instinctive fear response sent a “what the hell are you doing” type message through every fibre of my being and it felt like I was falling for an age. I hit the water the right way but it was still quite an impact due to the height of the drop, and – relieved to be alive – I swam to the surface grinning, retrieved the terrible wedgie, and hauled myself out onto the rocks like an ungainly seal. For some reason, I did it several times more.
We were probably in the water about an hour before deciding we should get back to make our pre-booked 2pm kayaking spot, so we swam back across the lagoon to our stuff on the beach. I shivered my way into my changing robe, which provided immense relief, and we walked the short distance around the coast back to the van, parked just behind Abereiddy beach.
Kayaking & Paddleboarding at Llys-y-frân
I’d booked a canoe for dad and Angus, a paddleboard for Ryan and a kayak for myself at Llys y Frân, a lake and country park at the foot of the Preseli Hills. After a brief altercation – I think the only one of the holiday – about washing up and being slightly late, we were out on the water in the warm sun. It was incredibly quiet, wild and peaceful. First we paddled up the smaller, left hand “arm” of the lake, past lush green banks with trees overhanging the water and over roots visible through the shallows – it could have been prehistoric. The only people we saw were a couple picnicking in a clearing at the end and the safety man in his powerboat.
Ryan and I swapped, then we paddled back to the bigger, wider arm of the lake, which gave a good view of the Preseli hills. It was less sheltered here and we were fighting the wind, which was fun as it was quite hard work. On one side the bank was crammed with thick, leafy trees and on the other a grassy slope was occupied by people fishing, walking and sitting on benches. We paddled as far as we could go given the 2 hour hire time, then turned around and came back. Angus treated us to a drink at the clean, modern café, then we headed on to the pub for a meal.
Tafarn Sinc & Bessie’s Pub
The food at the Tafarn Sinc was lovely and service was good, considering how early we arrived. It was a simple, proper pub menu with nothing fancy or unpronounceable (apart from the Welsh side). After a meal and a couple of drinks we headed back to the campsite via Bessie’s pub, properly called the Dyffryn Arms, nestled in the thickly wooded old valley of Cwm Gwaun.
I’ve never known a pub so cemented in time. The bar is a tiny hatch in a room with a tiled floor and granny-style floral wallpaper, filled with a hotchpotch of chairs and decorated with what would be, if hung up anywhere else, a naff old bunch of pictures (including a painting of Queen Elizabeth in her 20s, probably the most modern object in the pub). They do approximately one ale and one cider, mysteriously extracted from somewhere behind the hatch, and the unlit outside toilets are charmingly ancient, cold and dark. Our pints just about stayed upright on the wonky bench as we overlooked the field, stream and woods on the other side of the narrow valley. I think it’s one of those places that should never change.
It was our last night in North Pembrokeshire and the end of the first half of the holiday. When we got back to the campsite, Ryan and I packed up our stuff and went wild camping for a night on the Preseli Hills, where we found a small, pull-in car park hidden in thick fog. We watched Jeremy Clarkson’s Farm on my phone and planned the next day, where my next blog post begins…
I’m writing this a year and four months late, which is quite poor even by my timekeeping standards. A lot has happened since then (global pandemics etc) and other diversions have meant that I’ve neglected my blog terribly, so consider this my effort to catch up.
We woke in our cosy Italian Air BnB, breakfasted on cereal, made coffee on the hob with a saucepan and ladle (no kettles in Italy) and drove off to find somewhere to hike. I can’t remember why we went where we did – maybe we Googled local hiking spots – but after a short drive we ended up parking in a pull-in halfway up the side of a mountainous valley. The weather was kind of grey and snowy, but visibility wasn’t too bad and we loved the remoteness of the location.
We waded through deep snow towards a forest, following what vaguely resembled a path. When we reached the trees it was as if we were transported into a winter fairytale. Dark green firs, pines and spruces towered above us, branches laden with thick snow, and as we got further in the tracks faded and the white ground ahead became pristine. It felt like we were the first people to ever set foot in the forest.
We played around, shaking snow from branches, throwing snowballs, falling over, climbing bits of rock, drinking from a stream and shuffling along the trunk of a fallen tree. It was surreal, like noone else existed. We ate feta and salad sandwiches under the shelter of a rock and, childish impulses satisfied, headed back to the car the same way we came.
I drove cautiously along the winding roads, down the side of the valley and into the town of Aosta. After a brief altercation with an uncooperative, non-English speaking parking meter, we managed to get a ticket and wander round the town. Neither of us had been to Italy before so we found it really interesting.
Aosta is an ancient place which has largely retained its Roman foundations, including thick city walls, an amphitheatre, some old gates and a regular, blocky street plan. On approaching the centre we walked through a couple of stone arches and were bemused by the juxtaposition of thousands-of-years-old architecture with modern, raised walkways and handrails. Despite this contrast the town didn’t feel fragmented or piecemeal in any way – it felt simultaneously old and new, “then” and “now” inextricably woven together and brought to life by a vibrant buzz of people, flags and shop fronts. We weaved along cobbled streets lined by four and five story buildings painted yellow, orange and beige, populated by all kinds of shops and pizza, pasta and gelato places.
We left the buzzing high streets and found the cathedral, a towering neo-classical building fronted by tall white columns topped by intricate carvings of crucifixes, wreaths, figures, books and ornaments. Set back under the large front arch is a wood panelled door surrounded by a colourful display of painted biblical scenes, framed by golden columns and another arch containing delicate statues with painted robes and faces cast upwards. I cant do it justice with few words, so here’s a picture:
We explored the side streets, intrigued by intricate architectural details and the simple, timeless elegance of the place. Snow-scattered, mountainous valley sides rose above rooves and chimneys, giving the town a self-contained, cosy feel, and statues (notably of Neptune, huge trident in hand), arches and an abundance of churches hinted at Aosta’s long, rich history.
We wandered back to the car feeling satisfied with our cultural immersion, only to find some paperwork under the windscreen wipers and a couple of police officers lingering on the street. Hearts sinking, we realised that the road was being closed for the “Fiera di Sant’Orso”, some kind of festival that had been advertised on banners around the town but which we’d paid no attention to, nor had we seen road signs warning of closures (not that we’d have understood them anyway). One of the police officers said something semi-irately in Italian, to which we replied quite uncomprehendingly in English, and she took back the paperwork and let us drive away after a bit of gesturing and what was probably a bit of a telling off.*
A 20-minute drive through the valley took us back to the Air BnB, where we had a camembert snack and researched places to go for dinner. We wanted to try proper Italian pizza and we found a pizzeria called Le Vieux Bourg in a small town called Etroubles, 15 minutes from the apartment. We got there about 7pm, found a tiny shop and picked up a couple of cartons of €2.30 wine (always classy) for later, then waded through snow to get to the restaurant.
I’ve never had pizza like it. It was perfect – a thin, light base, just the right amount of tomato sauce, melty, gooey cheese, perfectly cooked toppings and not greasy at all. I had the “Twin Peaks” (sausage and onion, I think) solely because I liked the name, and Ryan had something meaty. Prices were very reasonable – more than passable wine at €2 a glass – and the waiter was friendly, as well as English-speaking. We had gelato for dessert, which we didn’t need as the pizzas were so big, but we wanted to try it and it was also very good. I can’t emphasise enough how good the pizza was, we still think about it to this day. 10/10 would recommend. I’ll stop now as I’m getting hungry.
I drove us back to the apartment and we spent our last night in Italy drinking cheap wine and trying to get over how good the pizza was. We like Italy.
* We’ve since received a parking fine in the post (14 months later) which we’re contesting. Fun & games.
We had heard from Ryan’s dad how difficult Ben Macdui could be to navigate in poor conditions, so we set off around 8:30am from the Cairngorm Mountain upper car park. It was clear and dry but the clouds hung like a heavy, grey blanket just above the tips of the distant peaks behind us. To our left was a short valley headed by a ridge of bare rock towering over a small loch, Coire an Lochain, and in front was a vast expanse of brown heather and rock-strewn, yellow-gold grass, ascending gradually towards the high horizon that hid the great plateau of Ben Macdui.
The mountain lay directly south of the car park and the walk-in was long and gentle. Because the Cairngorm peaks perch on a plateau that already rises way above sea level, they don’t have the jagged drama of the western mountains and they’re generally more walkable. The gravel path was easy to follow for the first 3 or 4 miles (obviously a different story in snow), until the ground turned from grassy moorland to boulderfields. We hopped from rock to rock, reassured by the occasional cairn. The last mile was steeper and as we climbed the fog thickened, so we were glad for the many cairns that led up to the summit.
There were lots of little rock shelters at the top and after a quick trig point photo (10:30am), we huddled into one and made a brew. As is often the case with high, beautiful places, the fog ruined all our chances of appreciating the landscape and allowed us a view only of the barren, flat, rock-strewn top of the mountain. It felt like we had walked onto another planet.
We headed back down the way we came and when the steep bit levelled out, we took a right fork along a new path towards Cairn Gorm. The fog cleared as we walked past the high, glassy Lochan Buidhe, and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll for the next 2 miles along relatively flat ground. We looked back at Ben Macdui and saw that the cloud had lifted, revealing its dark, hulking peak peering over the vast expanse of yellow-brown, open land, backed by similar dark summits and veined with rivers reflecting the white cloud above.
Looking towards Cairn Gorm (over the hill on the left)
We walked along the rocky ridge that towers above Coire an Sneachda with the grassy plain on our right and a sheer drop down bare rock to our left. The last 500m up Cairn Gorm were very steep and rocky, and we summited about 1pm. At the top sits a big cairn and a weather station, which consists of a small scaffold tower with some metal contraptions sticking out of it and a big black cylinder on a raised platform. It was quite busy as a lot of people walked to the top and back from the car park, so we didn’t hang around, although the view was lovely – panoramic, the horizon formed on all sides by rolling blue mountains.
Looking back towards Ben Macdui from Cairn Gorm
We descended the steep-ish path north past the Ptarmigan centre and the ski lift, keeping a hopeful eye out as Ryan wanted to see a ptarmigan. Sadly the rocky, heathery ground was birdless. We finished our circular route back at the van around 2pm, had a quick nose in the visitor centre (which was largely closed due to covid) and decided to head down to Loch Morlich in the Glenmore valley for a swim.
We had set aside the whole day for our hike as we’d expected navigation to be a lot more difficult than it was, so I was happy to fit a quick swim in. There were signs at Loch Morlich warning of blue-green algae, but having been exposed without any effects before I decided to swim anyway. I wasn’t in the water for long as I was hungry and still a little wary of the algae (and the duck poo – I found myself in the middle of a flock), but the cold was exhilarating. The worst bit was peeling off my wetsuit in the car park as I shivered myself dry.
The way down from Cairn Gorm
Ryan wanted to camp in the same place as we had the previous night, but that was on a dead-end road and as we’d ticked Ben Macdui off I wanted to explore somewhere else. After a brief “negotiation” we decided to grab some supplies from Aviemore and take the A939 road that runs south down the east side of the Cairngorms so we could see the town of Braemar and perhaps climb Lochnagar. The drive was lovely, and after an hour or so we found a good overnight spot at a quarry just outside the village of Tomintoul.
On our customary poke around we found a sculpture on a hill above the quarry, which was like a 3D mirrored picture frame a couple of metres deep that framed the pretty hills behind it. We had tinned chicken in white wine sauce (surprisingly good), rice and veg for dinner, and my highlight of the evening was Ryan returning from a toilet trip with reports of swooping owls and screeching rabbits, and one soggy foot from the only boggy ground in the vicinity.
We parked in the North Face car park just north east of Fort William and set off through the dense, wild Leanachan forest. We practically trotted through the trees, flailing limbs at the infamous West Highland midges and – although the forest was enchanting – were keen to put as much distance as possible between our as yet unbitten skin and the river by the car park.
We emerged onto a wide sweep of heather dotted with bright green shrubbery and small broadleaf trees, backed by the majestic hump of Ben Nevis’s north face, dark against the clear blue sky. Our next destination, the CIC hut, sat neatly at the head of the valley in a cosy, three-sided bowl formed by Carn Dearg, Ben Nevis and Carn Mor Dearg, looking down the length of the Allt a Mhuilinn river to a north-westerly horizon full of hazy blue mountains. Our path up to the hut was well-maintained and parallel to the river, so there was no real prospect of getting lost. The tricky bit would be determining our target – Tower Ridge.
We had no guidebook and the previous night’s googling yielded little light on the exact location of the ridge, so we were going off a couple of vague diagrams and a singular, hand-drawn map found on google images. At the hut, where a handful of raggedy climbers and seasoned-looking walkers congregated, we munched a sandwich and identified what we were fairly certain was Tower Ridge – a narrow, protruding finger of rock that joins the high, plateaued ridge between Ben Nevis and Car Mor Dearg at a 90 degree angle.
The giveaway was the Douglas boulder, a hulking mass of rock at the base of the ridge. From the hut, we walked, then scrabbled, up the loose, rocky debris that constituted the ground. It was hard work and the ridge definitely felt further away than it had appeared. Eventually we got to the other side of the Douglas boulder, turned towards its vast east face and started climbing, now in the dark shadow of the formidable Ben. This is considered a more sensible way to gain the ridge than from the west, even though the walk-in is longer.
Buzzing at the first real bit of exposure, we stopped once we were straddling the spine of the ridge to take in the view and decide whether to get the rope out. Although the way was steep and either side of the ridge was treacherously sheer, we decided against it for this first section; the holds looked big and solid, and we were confident that it was no more than a steep scramble. It wasn’t long, however, before we got to a more questionable face on the west side of the ridge.
We roped up and I led the first pitch, which turned out to be less technical than it had looked. I set up a quick anchor and brought Ryan up safely, then we scrambled on carrying a few feet of rope between us, coils stored over shoulders, not secured to the ridge but confident with the easy climbing. We moved at a steady pace, sometimes debating whether to use the rope and, more often than not, deciding against it. On our left loomed the intimidatingly dark, sheer face of Ben Nevis, and on our right we were spoilt by seemingly endless stretches of lush heathland, green forests and blue mountains.
There was one sketchy moment when we decided that the best route was to go left around the ridge, only to realise – once I was balancing somewhat precariously above the apparently bottomless east face – that the holds were few and far between and some of the rock was loose, and that we should have gone right. Ryan quickly took the most convincing right hand route and set up an anchor, so I could climb safely out of my uncomfortable, teetering position. I wasn’t happy with my Salomon Quest boots, as they’re thick-soled and chunky – perfect for hiking but not for use as climbing shoes, as I could barely feel the rock between my feet and I didn’t trust the grip. It would have been a little too easy to tread a little too aggressively and misjudge a foothold. Ryan’s LaSportiva XXX approach shoes, on the other hand, were perfect for the purpose – grippy and flexible enough that he could feel holds with accuracy, but without the foot-choking tightness of climbing shoes.
About three-quarters of the way along, we found ourselves squeezing up a narrow tunnel on the left hand side of the ridge. After giggling at the ungainly way we each emerged from the gap, we looked up and realised that our next move wasn’t obvious. Up until now, it had seemed that there was no “right” route along the ridge, apart from that which didn’t take us too close to either of its perilous sides. Here, we were pinned to one side and faced an unlikely-looking climb upwards, or a tight traverse along the left side of the ridge, which seemed to take us downwards. We chose left, but stopped at a strange whistling sound. A moment later, a cheery-looking climber popped out of the tunnel, wearing just a pair of bright yellow shorts, trainers and a small rucksack. We asked him the way and he grinned as he told us it was not left but “up”, then proceeded to float up the wall with irritating ease. He explained that this was the most difficult move of the route, probably around VDiff, but foraged around with his arm in a crack and reassured us that there’s a good hold somewhere.
Bemused by his timely appearance and nonchalent manner, we climbed upwards after him, roped up. He was long gone by the time we’d reached the top of that section, Great Tower. Ahead of us was the bit of the ridge that we’d watched videos of, and which we were looking forward to most. Ryan led the way across the most exposed part of the route, which is a skinny arete about 50 feet long and as wide as a pavement, which drops down hundreds of sheer feet either side. It was exhilarating to walk across, and I picked each uneven step carefully – although I was on belay, the length of the traverse meant that a fall would mean a nasty swing and crash against one of the ridge’s treacherous faces.
At the end of the pavement was the famous Tower Gap, a break in the ridge that required a slight downclimb and committal step across to the other side. The holds were good, and I joined Ryan quickly. From there, the way to the top was quite straightforward – up and over another high, but solid, grey mass, unroped. We pulled over onto the Nevis plateau elated and to the shock of several hikers.
We walked left along the flat top to the summit, which was teeming with people. It was as if we’d suddenly plunged back into reality, the timeless thrill of the climb behind us. On the ridge, we’d overtaken a group of three and been overtaken by whistling guy, but otherwise hadn’t seen anyone up close (we could see people on the plateau from the ridge) for hours. We took in the panoramic view of endless mountains, layered on top of each other in an enticing blue haze, had a sandwich and (to our horror) queued for a quick summit picture. People eyed us with interest, and a group asked us whether we’d climbed up. I refrained from telling them that “no, I wear a harness everywhere and the rope’s for show”, and we made our way down the loose, zig-zag pony track before we got too peopled out.
The view over Glen Nevis was stunning, but unfortunately we were busy focusing on each loose, uneven step down to appreciate it fully. We passed a waterfall and came to a fork near the dark water of Lochan Meall an t-suidhe, where most people went left down the pony track. We went right, which took us east around the north face of Carn Mor Dearg and back along a long path towards the CIC hut. Before we reached the hut, we cut left down the bank to cross the river and join the path we’d come up that morning, but not as soon as we could have – we were keen to avoid finding a bog, which we’ve become uncannily adept at.
I stopped to pick a handful of bilberries, which are lovely, sweet little wild blueberries that grow on low, scrubby bushes. The walk back to the van back down the Allt a Mhullain river was beautiful, and we soaked in the wilderness of open heath speckled with lilac cornflowers, pink heather and leafy green bushes, backed by dark forest and countless mountains. Breathtaking, but still we were keen to get back; we were starving, walking on sore feet and eager to find a pub.
Eventually we reached Leanachan forest. In its late afternoon quietness, it took on a sense of mystery that we hadn’t felt earlier; it was as if the trees were watching us pass, but it was peaceful, rather than creepy. Our heightened senses took in the grassy, mossy carpet, the lichen growing abundantly on the dark side of the trees, the fungi nestling in crevices and the intricate detail on the bark of the gnarly birches and towering pines. Every time I’ve been to Scotland, I’ve noted that there’s something magical about the forests.
We got back to the van, shut out the midges and de-booted. A twenty minute drive later and we were at the Ben Nevis Inn, tucked on one bank of the valley of Glen Nevis. We were pleased to see that we could stay overnight in the Achintree Road car park, right by the pub down a dead-end road. Unfortunately the pub was full indoors and booking-only, thanks to covid, but we enjoyed a pint of Thistly Cross cider (delicious) in the garden. I’d recommend the pub – amazing location and lovely looking inside, an old barn I think. That night we cooked and enjoyed a couple of ciders in the van before collapsing into bed, exhausted. We’d been incredibly lucky to have had clear, sunny weather all day – that night, it’d be an understatement to say the rain came.
curiousgnome 