Category: hiking

The Old Man of Coniston (Lake District)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ingleborough and Malham Tarn (Yorkshire Dales)

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Monday 6th May 2019

Ingleborough

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

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

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

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Malham Tarn

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

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

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

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Sunday 5th May 2019

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

Blencathra circuit via Sharp Edge

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

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

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

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

Skiddaw via Longside Edge

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

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

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

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

Pub

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

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

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Sat 2nd Feb – Llangollen56664564_2300276663626783_9008059420726263808_n

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scotland, Day 4: The Cairngorms – Lochnagar

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Lord Byron eulogised this mountain in 1807:

England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved o’er the  mountains afar:

Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic,

The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.

In contrast, Queen Victoria wrote of Lochnagar in September 1848:

“But alas! Nothing whatever to be seen; and it was cold, and wet, and cheerless. At about twenty minutes after two we set off on our way downwards, the wind blowing a hurricane, and the mist being like rain, and everything quite dark with it”.

After experiencing Lochnagar on a bleak day in December, I agree with the poet’s “wild”, “steep” and “dark” but otherwise I’m with Queen Vic. We woke bright and early in the Spittal of Glenmuick and met our friend Mike at the Lochnagar car park before sunrise. We set off on the 10ish-mile hike in a mix of fog, drizzle and gloom, disappointed with the weather but glad for the company.

The first section took us across a flat, heather-covered plain, with Loch Muick away to the south and a dark line of trees to the north. We couldn’t see much through the fog, but I knew that Loch Muick was cradled on three sides by steep ridges; I expect it’s stunning on a clear day. Lochnagar is within a few miles of the Balmoral estate, and I could just imagine the Queen (maybe a few years ago) tearing round the track in a Landrover, or a shotgun-wielding Philip bumbling after some grouse.

It was an easygoing route  for about three miles, along a wide, stony track up a gradual incline. We branched off left about a mile east of Meikle Pap, where the track turned into a slabbed stone path. I got overexcited at catching a glimpse of a few startled red grouse, then we hit the snow and the hike got a bit more complicated.

Just as the path started getting scrambley, patches of snow appeared. Snow does a great job of concealing paths, especially when the landscape is strewn with rocks, covered in wild, tufty vegetation and bereft of other summit-seeking humans. We followed it as best we could but did a lot of guessing, aiming in the direction of “up” and “west-ish”.

The vegetation disappeared, and after scrambling up a formless sea of steep, slippery rocks, keeping close to avoid losing each other, we hit real trouble – just as I got excited at a flock of winter-white ptarmigans. Mulling over why on earth anything would choose to live up there, we struggled through an annoying mix of soft, calf-deep snow and hard, unyielding ice. As we reached a kind of plateau, the rocks grew sparse, the climb became less steep, and the already hurricane-like conditions worsened.

Lochnagar stands at a lofty 1,156m above sea level and curves around a beautiful northern corrie (I know it’s pretty thanks to Google images). The path follows the ridge along the top edge of the corrie, so the exposure is huge and complacency could result in a massive fall. This was problematic as by this time visibility was non-existent, we were ill-equipped (no crampons or axes – terrible foresight) and we didn’t know exactly where the summit was. Or where we were.

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White-out

As we pushed on, I truly understood the term “white-out” for the first time. The only way to distinguish “up” and “down” was by looking at the other two and seeing where their feet were in relation to their heads. Ice, snow, cloud and sky all merged into one disorienting, blinding, infinite nothingness, like in a dream in a film, until little dark specks appeared and I tried to blink them away. Communication was limited to shouting in each others’ ears, and any exposed inch of skin was beaten raw by the strong, bitterly icy winds.

Just when it couldn’t get any worse, it did. We reached a false summit and the ground became sheet ice. Literally like an ice rink, only harder and less flat. I’m sure we went round in circles for a bit, slipping over constantly, resorting to bum-shuffling and actually laughing at our own ridiculousness while remaining acutely aware of our proximity to the deadly edge of the ridge. Still determined to reach the summit, we paused for a painfully cold moment to check the map and decided simply to follow the compass north to where we thought it was.

This decisiveness saved the day, and as the towering pile of rocks loomed through the whiteness I almost collapsed with relief – I’ve never been so delighted to reach a trigpoint. I slipped onto my trusty old compass and snapped it, fortunately without stabbing myself, but it had done what it needed to do. We fumbled about for a quick photo, then practically flew back down the mountain, eyebrows, eyelashes and beards (even mine) heavy with ice.

I would have liked to make it a circular route and gone back along the north side of Loch Muick, but given the conditions we decided the way we came was the quickest and most certain way to the pub, and it’d look the same anyway. The fog had cleared slightly once we were back on the wide, stony track, revealing a rugged, heathery landscape. From there, the walk back was made a drag by our cold, wet-through clothes and desperation for a drink, but we reached the car park eventually. Lochnagar is definitely one to come back to on a better day, but I was glad for the adventure we had.

Semi-thawed, we drove to find a pub before heading to Perth for the night. We ended up collapsing on the sofas in the Deeside Inn at Ballater. It couldn’t have stood in starker contrast to the bleakness of a few hours earlier; the lounge was a huge room with deep red walls, thick curtains and dark wood beams, lit softly and warmed by a roaring fire. It had tartan sofas with pheasant-patterned cushions, a big Christmas tree, books, boardgames, a piano, complimentary crisps and (most importantly) cider. I think my life peaked at that moment – in there, the world was perfect.

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Brecon Beacons: 3 Days, 4 Waterfalls, 5 Mountains – Day 3

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Inside a tent is my second favourite place to wake up, topped only by outside a tent. Welsh weather dictated that this was an “inside” day. The mist cleared by breakfast and the dewy grass cooled my flip-flopped toes. After porridge and packing up (the new netflix n chill), we headed South West to walk the “must-see” four waterfalls trail.

 

We drove along the road that we’d trudged along, semi-lost, two days before, and it was breath-taking. I’ve never seen the Brecons in all their glory – on previous visits they’d been shrouded in thick, grey fog. I suppose the landscape was the same as it had been on the Friday, but we were slightly higher and could appreciate it so much more. We pulled over to take photos and admire the view: golden, grassy plains edged by dark, evergreen forests backed by protective, sweeping ridges. It wasn’t the wet, wind-beaten landscape I’d experienced before; the unfamiliar sun was shocking Wales into calm serenity and I couldn’t get enough.

 

We arrived at the car park near Ystradfellte an hour or so later and were surprised to find it manned by a handful of forest wardens. We knew it was popular but had no idea it would get so busy. We got there early so had no problem parking, checked the route and set off. The beginning and end of the trail is along a gravel track through the forest. It’s lined by tall, dark evergreens which are far enough from the path so as not to block the sun, and the route is well-marked enough so no need for a map.

 

The first waterfall was pretty but inaccessible, the second was wide and entered into a deep, round, inviting pool, and the third was my favourite. From the woody, leafy bank, we de-shoed and crossed the river onto a sunny, flat slab of rock to have lunch. The water here flowed between deep, round pools, all connected by shallow mini-waterfalls, with the main one on our left. A couple of guys in wetsuits joined us, and after lunch I dived into the pool for a swim.

 

It was lovely (after the initial shock!) – cool, deep and refreshing. I swam around and explored up and down river, scrambling over slippery rocks and scaling the jagged walls, nearly injuring myself only once. Apart from the people walking and sitting on the opposite bank, it was idyllic: the sky was clear blue, the water was cold and fresh and we were surrounded by the bright, glowing green of sun-drenched spring leaves.

 

We could have been there minutes or hours for all I knew, but eventually we packed up and headed off. A semi-strenuous uphill section took us back to the main path, and when we got near waterfall four we had to join a queue of slow-moving traffic to take the stairs down to see it. It seemed like the whole world had taken their children, husbands, grandparents and grandparents’ dogs to look at this waterfall; I don’t know where they all appeared from.

 

The waterfall itself was stunning  – the widest and tallest one yet, with lots of space behind it. However, the sheer number of people devalued it almost entirely. There was a crowd of yellow, blue, red, any-colour-you-can-think-of t-shirts and no space to walk around at all. I couldn’t believe that so many people would choose to hang about or have their picnic in a spot so teeming compared to the rest of the trail. One photo later, we turned and trudged painfully slowly back up the steps.

 

The signpost at the top reckoned it was 55mins back to the car park, but we did it in 35. It was an attractive walk back; forest-ey, but not boring. MapMyWalk says the route was 8.4km and we did it in 1hr32mins, not including breaks and stops. I’m dubious.

 

When we left, the car park and the drive up to the car park was rammed with cars and the wardens looked exasperated. We drove back to Brecon for an ice cream before heading to the Black Mountains – the easternmost of the three mountain groups in the Brecon Beacons. Confusingly, the western mountains of the National Park are called the Black Mountain Range.

 

This area is more agricultural than the wild, central Beacons. After driving along several narrower-than-narrow farm roads, we reached the car park of our target fifth mountain: Lord Hereford’s Knob. At only 690m high, it was the smallest peak of the weekend but it won the name competition hands-down. We’d tried to climb it previously but the weather had been against us and we were pushed for time, so we failed. This time the weather was much clearer and we were determined to find the elusive summit.

 

I enjoyed the walk to what we thought was the summit, clad in a knitted grandad jumper and flip flops (until I took them off a hundred yards in and went barefoot). At the top there was a lovely, panoramic view that was semi-cultivated, semi-wild, with rolling farmland shouldered by dramatic ridges. There was a small cairn but surprisingly nothing to announce the mountain’s glorious name, so we broke a rule and pulled our phones out to check sat nav. We hated the thought of thinking we’d done the Knob, only to find out later that we’d missed it. Unfortunately, Google Maps said the actual summit was ahead of us and to the left, so we begrudgingly followed it downhill and towards the next peak (which looked a long way away).

 

The land we walked through was more rugged, and shortly after passing through a herd of super-photogenic wild ponies the path disappeared and sat nav decided that the Knob was actually in roughly the direction we’d come from. Frustrated, hungry and aware of the fog rolling up the valley to our left, we took what looked like a quad-bike track back towards the ridge we’d started on. The terrain was all bracken and bog, and I nearly lost a flip flop more than once. We climbed the steep side and followed sat nav along the top, back to the very cairn we’d been at about 45mins previously. We couldn’t help but laugh.

 

We walked back down the same way we came. We’d done five mountains and four waterfalls in two days, plus spent an extended period being lost on a hike on Friday; needless to say, the Subway we eventually found open at 10pm in Gloucester was the most well-earned “dinner” I’ve had in a long time.

 

Lesson learnt: trust Ordnance Survey (and your navigation skills) more than Google Maps.

 

Brecon Beacons: 3 Days, 4 Waterfalls, 5 Mountains — Day 2

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I was up with the sun and raring to hit the mountains, but the weather had other ideas. It would  have been do-able in the wet, but I was interested in visibility more than anything and my Met Office app told me it was due to clear in the afternoon. I’ve been up Pen y Fan in the fog before and done enough beautiful mountains in poor conditions to barely differentiate between them, so I fancied taking the chance to appreciate the scenery.

I’d found out that Brecon had a cathedral and I’m interested in historic buildings (don’t tell my cool friends) so we killed some time wandering round there, then found a pretty, wooded walk by the river. I’d expected (and half-remembered) Brecon to be a bustling, outdoorsy hub like the Fort William of the Highlands or the Betwys-y-Coed of Snowdonia, but it was fairly quiet on Saturday night and totally dead on Sunday morning.

Given the saving we made on dinner the previous evening (see Day 1’s post), we returned to Wetherspoons for breakfast and route-planning. I picked a circular route based very roughly on one described in an outdoorsey magazine that started at one of the car parks in Taf Fechan forest and encompassed the “Big Four” peaks: Fan y Big (719m), Cribyn (795m), Pen y Fan (886m) and Corn Du (873m). It’s an interesting area, geographically speaking: a big, semi-circular ridge linked to six smaller, semi-circular ridges, each with sweeping, sloped sides and long, smooth spines. If anyone ever wants to talk about maps and landforms I’m just a geeky message away.

On the way there it p***** it down and I thought of all the waterproof clothing I didn’t want to wear, but as we drove uphill and into the forest it eased and we were enveloped in thick, blinding fog. We set off in waterproofs but didn’t need them. The first part of the walk took us up a cycle path and along a bit of road. We turned up a steep, rocky footpath past some misty waterfalls, which plateaued onto a foggy, steep-sided ridge. Although we were on the Beacons Way, the route turned off the path and (according to the map) across an open area of land with just “pile of stones” and “stones” marked to prevent us wandering into the middle of nowhere.

Fortunately it was quite easy to follow and we ended up along Craig Cwmoergwm, headed towards peak number one – Fan y Big (behave). Unfortunately we missed the path that led straight there and ended up skirting along the side. After realising we were heading downhill when we should be going up, a quick map check revealed we’d taken a parallel path that took us past the peak; a few paths converged at Bwlch ar y Fan, so we decided to carry on and take a different path up from the other side.

We had jam sandwiches and salad (pre-prepared and super pretentious: quinoa, avocado, beetroot – you get the idea, but mega-nutritious) where the paths met, just as the sun was breaking through. Turning back on ourselves we took the short, steep path up Fan y Big, past a sluggish DofE/cadet group, and only recognised the summit by a distinctive, diving board-esque ledge we’d seen in a photo and a small, easily-missable metal plaque engraved with a picture of some hikers. We admired the smooth U-shaped valley, the river nestled between its shoulders and the long, sweeping sides of Bryn Teg ridge opposite, then realised we were being eaten by nasty black flies and turned back down the steep path.

When we were halfway down, the loud, bleak caw of a couple of ravens reverberated around the valley, so when they landed on the opposite ridge I ran off to take photos. I’d forgotten how large, wild and impressive these fairytale-villain birds are; they cruised and swooped around the valley like majestic, jet-black rangers who didn’t want to be photographed.

Next up (and I mean very up) was Cribyn. Standing opposite Fan y Big, this sharp ascent was the toughest of the route. We powered up earthy footholds that had been toe-punted into the steep side, taking short, aggressive steps and settling into steady, silent rhythms. At the top there was sadly no trig point, and we were sadly attacked once again by hundreds of bitey little f***flies so we didn’t hang about. We didn’t miss the view as we’d wandered into cloud almost as soon as we left the trough of the valley.

We headed to the left and downhill, along the long, steep path between Cribyn and Pen y Fan that follows the curve of another horseshoe ridge. No navigation was necessary, so as soon as we descended below the cloud we could enjoy the sun and the rich, springtime green of the surrounding landscape. What seemed like the “main” valley was to our left, broad, long and shouldered by the horseshoe ridges of Fan y Big & co on one side and a long, straight ridge – Craig Gwaun Taf – on the other.  The glassy water of Lower Neuadd Reservoir was nestled in the valley’s wide, smooth trough, and the black pines of Taf Fechan forest seemed to mark the distant end of the long basin. In contrast, the valley to our right was shrouded in cloud, which crept towards us but was driven upwards in a towering, misty wall by the protective sides of Cribyn.

The adjoining sides of Cribyn and Pen y Fan are like a giant’s half pipe skate ramp, smooth and gently curved. The path is rocky and (in my opinion) easier to climb up than down. Approaching Pen y Fan from the Cribyn path, the last section is a half-scramble up some steep rocks before popping up onto the plateaued summit to surprise the mass of “tourists” who had ambled up from the Storey Arms car park via the heavily-trodden, straight-up-straight-back-down route.

Once again, the summit was swarming with f***flies. I don’t know why but they only seemed to hang about right at the very tops of the mountains. They’re jet black, chunkier than mosquitos and live on a diet of human. A couple of obligatory summit photos later we were keen to get away from flies and people, so headed along the busy ridge at the “head”  of the valley to Corn Du. The section between Pen y Fan and Corn Du is so short and relatively flat that it seems like cheating to count it as the fourth summit, but it’s marked on the OS map so I’ll take it. Again, too many flies/people meant we didn’t hang about for long, so we hit the long, straight ridge of Craig Gwaun Taf (or Rhiw yr Ysgyfarnog?) that lies on the opposite side of the valley to Fan y Big & co.

This was one of my favourite parts of the walk. We came across four people in about an hour (a fell runner, a photographer and a hiking couple with a dog – more my kind of people), ate more jam sandwiches, the sun broke through, we’d escaped the day’s fog and the views were magnificent. The path runs along the top edge of the ridge so I could really enjoy the panorama; the long U-shaped valley that I’ve waffled on about was on the left, cradling its reservoir, opening out onto swathes of dark green-black forest and sided by the foggily elusive horseshoe peaks. A meandering, river-veined valley was on the right, the gracefully sweeping sides of the ridge were ahead and brothers Pen y Fan and Corn Du watched over the valley from behind. All around, the distance was filled with gentler hills, blacker forests and grassy, green-yellow plains.

We eventually came to the steep “footpath” that cut left down the side of the ridge and back towards the car park. From a distance it looked more like a steep rockfall than a path, but we made it down and into the belly of the valley. We walked past the half-drained Lower Neuadd Reservoir, which was surreal as it was bordered with bright pink rhododendrons and some unknown shrub with vibrant yellow flowers. The air was as still as anything, not a soul was in sight and a derelict dark stone building on the edge gave the place a Call of Duty-esque eeriness, but it was equally serene and beautiful. The late afternoon sun highlighted the tall pines against the distinctive blue silhouette of Pen y Fan, the bushes were every shade of green and the water remaining in the reservoir was black and as smooth as glass. The only sound we’d heard all afternoon – beyond our own voices, the scuffing of walking boots and the click of my camera – was birdsong; not one road or aeroplane.

The track back to the car park was lined by trees and rugged sheep fields. Sitting down and de-booting after a day’s hiking was (as always) wonderful. It was about 7pm and my head was swimming with the thought of pub grub and a pint, so after a brief and picturesque goose chase (we accidentally found ourselves in a Thai restaurant disguised a pub, still in hiking gear – we realised we made a mistake when the waitress lit a candle) we ended up at the Three Horseshoes near the campsite. The steak and ale pie and cider went down way better than the bar karaoke, and I slept like a log. Little did I know that the following day I’d play around in waterfalls and get lost on Lord Hereford’s Knob… Day 3 to follow!

Mapmywalk reckons we did 19.4km in 4 hours 18 minutes, if anyone is interested. Google / walking forums said that similar routes take about 6 hours, but we do maintain a decent steady pace so I wouldn’t say they’re necessarily wrong. Generally we walk briskly but were by no means rushing – I often faffed around taking photos, having a snack or admiring some bit of nature. I have a feeling the app might take that into account, as it felt like we were out longer. Fitbit reckons I did 35,773 steps.35151289_10216632388587715_7897664822563569664_n

Brecon Beacons: 3 Days, 4 Waterfalls, 5 Mountains — Day 1

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This trip concluded in an unusual way: we accidentally climbed Lord Hereford’s Knob twice. I’ve had worse Monday evenings.

There were some strange bits in the middle too: once we ended up in a field with a bull, twice we got lost (not so unusual), thrice we found ourselves in Wetherspoons (even less unusual) and we got swarmed by “f***flies” four times. If nothing else, I learned to count.

We left about 6am on Saturday and got to Go Outdoors Gloucester for when it opened at 9. I could spend so much money in that shop, if I had so much money. We got to the campsite about midday after cursing our way through the Hay-on-Wye festival traffic and were pitched and heading to Brecon within half an hour, hoping to get some afternoon inspiration from the visitor centre. Turned out the visitor centre had moved, but eventually we ended up parking near Garwnant (a lovely eco-tourist-information-car park-café-woodland-centre thing) and planning a rough route over the car bonnet.

We set out at 3ish in the sun, heading South and admiring the serene black water and idyllic fishing spots of Llwyn-on Reservoir. Before long we veered off the road, across a stream and onto a windswept, golden plain. A little way in we realised the path went slap bang through the middle of a group of cows. Having grown up in the countryside, this didn’t faze me until I spotted an enormous “cow” with rippling muscles, a tree-trunk neck and an unmistakeably un-udder-like undercarriage. We thought it unlikely there would be a bull in a field of cows, but there definitely was. To spice things up there were a handful of calves in the melée, and anyone who knows anything about animals will know that mums don’t like blundering, invasive humans getting near their babies.

Regardless, we gave them a wide-ish berth, survived and came across our next, often-frequented challenge: the elusive, disappearing footpath. As usual we took a blasé approach and headed in “roughly the right direction”, North West across the knee-deep tufty, grassy, boggy, extremely untrodden plain (I had flashbacks to my last Dartmoor trip). I nearly lost them to the suctionney, hidden, black mud a few times, but apart from that my trusty flip flops served me well.

The sun was warm and despite some haze, the visibility was pretty good. Although frustrating to cross, we’d found an extremely picturesque bit of Wales. Pen y Fan and its horseshoe-shaped brothers lay to the North East, ahead and on our right, and an anonymous green ridge sloped and curved protectively behind us and to the West. Black forests broke up the rugged, green mountainsides and we were surrounded by the rippling, golden (deceptively deep and tufty) grass of the open plain, interrupted only by a few anomalous trees and whispering streams. I spent a while fiddling with my Nikon, trying to capture an arty close-up of pretty little pastel pink flowers which cropped up occasionally, alone and peaceful.

I think we crossed the Nant Ffynnonelin, the Garwnant Fach and the Garwnant Fawr streams, as well as about 2km of this wild, beautiful, slow and hugely irritating terrain, before we reached the A4059 and plodded a few kilometres North along the roadside and past a lot of (surprisingly photogenic) sheep.

We’d hoped to be able to cut down into the forest to the East via one of the footpaths marked on the map, or even over the fence and down a firebreak, but the map was a few years old, the fence looked a few years new, it looked like new trees had been planted and naturally we couldn’t see even a trace of a path. It was coming up late afternoon and the pub had been beckoning for a while; it wasn’t the first time I’d half-formed a plan ready for if/when we were lost, hungry, miles from anywhere and facing a cold, dark night.

We ended up pulling away from the road, cutting across more nasty ground and down a steep hill to the East, right along the North-Western edge of the forest that had been taunting us for over an hour. Halfway down the valley, it was a huge relief to find a gate and a disused-looking track heading back into the forest, criss-crossed by fallen pines and lined by half-uprooted trees whose earthy, rooty bases yawned and groaned as the wind pulled the branches back and forth.

Having kept half an eye on the mist that had been creeping up the valley from Pen y Fan way, we pulled waterproof coats on when we felt the sudden, pre-rain temperature drop and stillness of the air. Fortunately it didn’t materialise and we followed the track a long way through the forest, straight back to the car. 13km and just under 3 hours later (it felt like longer, bearing in mind we’d expected to do half that) we headed to the pub, dizzy at the thought of a pie and a pint.

Unfortunately it wasn’t that simple – several pubs had stopped serving food by the time we arrived (to our horror), so we had to backtrack to Brecon and resort to Spoons. It’s not often I feel underdressed in a Wetherspoons, but half the population of the town seemed to be dressed up and congregating in there while I sat and people-watched in my second hand hoodie, outdoorsy trousers and flip flops. Nevertheless, it hit the spot and saved us enough pennies to warrant returning for breakfast the next morning… Adventures of Day 2 to follow!

Tip of the day: as any other ex-army cadet will tell you, a map is only accurate to the day (the minute, in fact) that it’s drawn!

Overlooking the reservoir
Bluebells by the road
Just before we left the road…
Planning
Spot the bull
In the middle of the plain
My reliable flip flops
It took AGES to get a crisp shot, thanks to the wind
Baaaa
Trying to get some good photos…
An inquisitive foal
Arty, striking etc
Looking out towards Pen y Fan
Heading downhill towards the forest
Halfway down the hill
We found a path!
Wild
Take note, Mammut
Found this along the path
Gwnant centre, love the moving solar panel
At peace

Dartmoor, March ’18

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This was the first time I put a tent up in the middle of a bog, at night, in the snow. Conditions weren’t ideal but without the bitter wind it might have been almost comfortable.

 

I love Dartmoor for its sand-coloured plains, rocky tors and open ruggedness. Although you’re never more than a mile or so from some kind of settlement in Southern England, this place feels really wild – like you could be anywhere. As you enter the National Park there’s a stark, knife-edge contrast between the cultivated green fields of Devon behind you and the vast, untouched moors in front, and then you’re plunged into a bleak, beautiful expanse of wilderness.

 

The main roads through the middle can get busy, particularly during summer, but it’s easy to park in one of the many roadside spots and slip away into the moors. Most visitors don’t venture far from picnic spots, viewpoints and tors within bimbling distance of the car.

 

This time I arrived as the daylight was fading and parked in a Princetown residential road. Dartmoor has a climate of its own, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that it was snowing heavily despite being grey and muggy when I left Hampshire a couple of hours before. I set off NE towards the mast (a hugely useful landmark) which towers over the town, following a roughly pre-planned route.

 

The wind was bitter and the blizzard was relentless, but I was glad for it. Night navigation was much easier with the snow reflecting any kind of light; I could distinguish treelines, tors and hill brows, which I wouldn’t have been able to do without the white-black contrast. A couple of hours into tramping through mean, rocky, slippery terrain, I found myself on track but in a nasty patch of boggy, wet, undulating ground. The snow wasn’t so helpful here, as it hid what was under my feet rather than illuminating it. I found a semi-flat bit of ground that was slightly sheltered by a low grassy mound; although keen to press on, I conceded that I’d rather camp in a dry-ish spot, so settled down onto my cheap Quechua sleeping mat after a bitter fight with the wind, snow and my cheap Eurohike tent.

 

Top tip: if you’ll be sleeping on snow, spend more than £4.99 on a mat. I should have learnt that in Scotland last year, but investing in a self-inflating mat is still on my to-do list. Fully clothed and curled into two cheap sleeping bags (spot the pattern?) I was still cold, but I survived.

 

Top tip #2: if you think you might be getting a blister, no matter how cold you are, right now is the time to sort it out. This was me half an hour after fight no.2 with cheap Eurohike tent (the weather didn’t ease overnight, by the way). Fortunately Great Mis Tor offered some shelter as I reluctantly stopped to shove a blister plaster on each heel, and I didn’t have any further issues despite wearing my shiny new Salomon Quest 2 4Ds for the first time.

 

It took a while to warm up, but once I did I could finally appreciate Dartmoor in all its rugged glory. After stumbling happily down a windswept slope, I realised that I couldn’t follow my route as a “stream” was less crossable than I anticipated, probably due to a combination of heavy snow and poor planning. I didn’t fancy a) getting myself and my 70l backpack wet, or b) drowning, so I followed it upstream hoping to find a place to cross. I was unsuccessful, so re-routed and ended up slogging through the most awkward, humpy, dippy, tufty, boggy ground I’ve ever walked across. This went on for a while, and despite it being a Saturday in the middle of the Easter Holidays, I didn’t see a soul.

 

After another uncrossable river, a few sketchy traverses across rock edges perilously close to said river and a glute-achingly steep, rough valley climb, I found myself at Lydford Tor and in the MOD danger area (having checked firing times beforehand – please do this). With the original route out the window and the smell of mum’s promised roast lamb filling my head, I adjusted my course  to arc back towards Princetown, using the map as a rough guide and aiming vaguely for the big mast. The weather had finally relented and the hike back was pleasant but uneventful; the landscape opened up and I could see the Beardown Tors, dark woods towards Two Bridges and the ominous granite walls of Dartmoor Prison.

 

I made it back to the car unscathed and, true to form, went straight to the pub (I should probably sort out my spending priorities). I recommend the Plume of Feathers in Princetown – it’s welcoming, cosy and does great steak pie. Fed, thawed and thirst for adventure temporarily quenched, I trundled back to Hampshire just in time for Sunday roast lamb.