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.
Never is anything so mundane as on returning from the mountains.
Never is the sky so grey nor the land so flat.
Work doesn’t interest me. The dull documents and dull conversations I’m putting off. I’ve voluntarily shackled myself to this slow, safe life but the siren song of freedom pulls my attention to faraway, intangible landscapes. Imagine emancipation from expectations. Imagine aspirational certainty.
Perhaps the taste I had was too much. All I can think of is deep glens, ancient forests and mysterious peaks. I’m captivated and cursed by the bewitching majesty of a place remembered.
The sky tries pathetically to rain but gives up. It can’t be bothered either. It would have rained properly up there, savage, relentless and certain.
The sun tries to penetrate the cloud but can’t. It can’t be bothered either. There’s not much to look at down here anyway.
It’s too warm for February.
—
Time stopped for two weeks and waited for our return. I wish it hadn’t.
Working from home is deafeningly quiet. I wasn’t productive this morning, I just moped.
Amber asked for a walk at lunchtime as she always does. I took her. The path was muddier than before and nature seemed colourless. The road was too loud. I had to fabricate a smile for other dog walkers.
Things that should have brightened my mood only accentuated my absurd misery. Amber’s usually contagious happiness, the warm breeze, the abundant birdsong.
My despondence peaked when I walked over the bridge and looked for the trout who sits there waiting for me and Amber. He wasn’t there. Perhaps he thought I’d abandoned him.
—
Ryan’s text was a subtle turning point. There was a Twix next to the handbrake if I needed cheering up. I did, but the thought was enough. I’ll save the Twix for later as a reward for finishing work, although I’ll need to start first.
Crocuses, snowdrops and daffodils – nice, but it’s too early. Crows, collared doves, a robin, a blackbird, a dunnock. They’re okay.
I see the allotments and look forward to the house we’re buying. A glimmer, small but bright. Once that’s done we can go back to Scotland. I hope time hurries up for a while, then slows again.
I try to get over myself and decide to write down my gloom in the hope of some relief. I think it’s worked, a bit. My walk is over.
Later we need to empty the van and tackle the torrent of admin.
Now I need to do some work.
—
Acceptance is better than denial but worse than contentment. That’ll do me for now. The mountains will still be there.
We woke for the last time in the Dyffryn Mymbyr valley and went straight back to the Moel Siabod café (see my post on the previous day for more about the café – amazing place) for breakfast. I had a vegan full English and Ryan had a normal full English and as before, we were very pleased.
We left the café and drove wistfully back along the lovely A5 valley, joined the picturesque A470 at Betws y Coed and travelled south for about 45 minutes , via Blaenau Ffestiniog (a remarkably grey town), before reaching Coed y Brenin Forest Park. We’d decided to make use of the mountain bikes one more time before heading home and this place prides itself on being “the UK’s first and largest dedicated mountain bike trail centre”, so we decided to try it as it was “kind of” on the way back. We parked up, took the bikes off the van and went to look at the ample selection of trails shown on a board by the large visitors centre.
Ryan was feeling a bit sluggish so he suggested that we do the blue “Minor Taur” trail and see how we get on. This is a 12km loop (which can be shortened to 3, 5 or 9km) through the forest that runs along the sides of the Afon Eden and adjoining Afon Mawddach. As expected of a blue trail it was fairly smooth, flowy and enjoyable, with nothing particularly challenging but a lot of fun nonetheless and a few quick sections. We felt sorry for a man right in front of us whose tyre blew out on a root near the beginning of the trail, but a little relieved as it allowed us to overtake and zip along the fun singletrack.
We were a little confused by the loops at first (the 12km route is made of 4 loops, making each section optional) and nearly went wrong at an unclear signpost, but heard someone explain it to their friend and followed them onto the right track. The forest was lovely – leafy, green and quiet, and riding along next to the river felt quite idyllic. We passed a rushing waterfall, disused gold mine and gunpowder works, which I’m sure have an interesting history but are now just a strange bunch of ruins, crossed a couple of bridges and had a pleasant, easy ride.
We found ourselves back at the car park after an hour or so and, well aware of the 5 hour drive ahead of us, decided resolutely to save the three red and three black trails for another trip. We did, however, have enough time to check out the “skills area”, which consists of four zones:
Training zone – to practise braking, turning etc
Singletrack zone – four short runs graded green, blue, red and black
Freeride zone – a pump/jump track
Drop-off zone – a drop-off slab at the end of the red singletrack that can be taken from various lines
We started at the singletrack zone and had so much fun whizzing along the blue and red runs that apart from a quick go on the black, which was bumpy and twisty to the extent that it was much less fun, we didn’t do the other zones. The red was good but I actually preferred the blue because the lack of technicality meant it was flowy and very quick. The runs were short and we must have whizzed along them tens of times to the amusement of a group having a lesson (we weren’t in their way!) before finally packing it in and heading back to the van.
The last thing remaining on my “things I wanted to do [but Ryan didn’t really]” list was a wild swim, or at least a dip, and fortunately my Wild Guide informed me that there was a swimming place just 10 minutes down the road. We pulled into a quiet, leafy parking spot near the attractive, multi-arched old Llanelltyd Bridge, went through a little gate that led into an open field and walked over to the large, round pool described in the book, which sits under the bridge and forms part of the Afon Mawddach river. After a little customary cold-water hesitation I enjoyed a beautifully refreshing, if brief, swim-float around the cold, clear pool, and Ryan “enjoyed” an even briefer dip before retreating to the stony beach to watch me wallow around like an excited hippo.
Wallowing finished, I shivered into a changing robe and we trudged reluctantly back to the van, steeling ourselves for the impending farewell. Leaving Snowdonia was never going to be easy but the bitter sting of parting was softened slightly by the sunny weather and the pretty drive through idyllic mid-Wales and rural Shropshire before hitting the bigger roads.
And just like that, our busy week in North Wales was all over. We visited so many beautiful places and hiked, climbed, scrambled, mountain biked, road tripped, ate, drank and just about swam. As usual I don’t really know how to conclude, other than the common-or-garden words can’t do it justice, or simply even what a trip. One thing is certain: we’ll be back before long.
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
Following the previous day’s scramble around the Snowdon Horseshoe, we treated ourselves to a lie in and a cooked breakfast in the van before a day of easy-ish sport climbing at Dinorwic Quarry, near Llanberis. We left the Tyn y Coed pub car park in no particular rush and drove along the scenic road that took us past Capel Curig, through the Dyffryn Mymbyr Valley and down the wild, rugged Llanberis Pass. At Llanberis we followed the road along the west side of Llyn Peris and Llyn Padarn, whose murky waters rippled beneath the strikingly grey walls of the huge slate quarries behind them.
We turned right at the end of Llyn Padarn and found ourselves coming back along the other side of the lake on a narrow, bumpy road. After a couple of miles we came to the roadside parking described in our climbing guide. We were trying to fathom how to get to “The Sidings” area of the “Australia” sport crag when a very friendly man who’d just parked behind us saw our van and started talking to us about Mazda Bongos. It turned out that he and his friend (I think their names were Pete and Mike) had come to climb very near Australia, so they offered to show us where it was.
We’re very lucky to have bumped into them because as well as being a short walk from where we parked, we’d have struggled to match up the pictures in the guide with the corresponding bits of crag. We were blown away by the scale of the huge, grey crater, whose hulking back towered high above a deep, wide bowl of greyer-than-grey slate vertical walls and what must have been millions of tons of rubble. Occasional stone huts, miscellaneous bits of steel apparatus and rusty old cables hinted at the quarry’s history as a hive of activity and noise, but it seemed to have become quite a serene place in its abandonment. Looking over to the Llanberis Valley, Llyn Padarn and Llyn Peris took on a kind of cloudy blue colour when viewed from above, and the rugged ridges of the Snowdon mountain range reached towards the sky under a gentle sun that reflected off the land in a blueish haze.
Dinorwic Quarry
Our new friends pointed the way to The Sidings, which was a steep-ish hike up a long, scree-covered ramp. In places the towering quarry walls were divided into several stepped levels, separated by flat platforms which were perfect for belaying. We set up on the second or third level up the north-western side of the quarry, about halfway between the bottom and the top of the crater. Looking over the slatey bowl I saw that tons of loose rock lingered on the nearly sheer slopes, waiting to be released as a hard, grey avalanche. Several huge vertical slabs refused to hold onto any scree and towered over the bowl, looking appealing – if imposing – as multi-pitch trad climbing routes.
The Sidings is a platform about 80 metres long that runs below a near-vertical wall 10 metres high. As we were out of the habit of regular outdoor climbing due to lockdown, we chose this area due to the low grade of its 18 routes, which range from 4 to 6a+. I started off by leading “N Gauge” (6a), which was my first ever climb on slate.
Dinorwic Quarry from the start of The SidingsThe Sidings
I was pleasantly surprised how solid the rock felt. As expected of a slate wall, much of the surface was smooth and bare, but where small edges and cracks did appear they were angular, hard and “trustworthy” – if rock can bear such a characteristic – although I’d later revise this conclusion, as I’ll explain shortly. I enjoyed the mix of fingery, balancey moves, some of which were quite technical, and the lack of large ledges reassured us that we could fall without hitting anything.
We worked from left to right, ticking off N Gauge (6a), Side Line (4+), Derailed (4), Thomas the Tank (4), Not Known (6a), Rack and Pin (5+), Sodor (6a), Being a Bob (5a), “Those who climb clearly marked projects are the kind of people who would steal the chocolate bar from a kid’s lunch box – selfish tossers – who owe the bolt fund cash” (5+, well named) and Choo Choo (5+).
Not Known wasn’t marked in our guide book but was clearly bolted and looked interesting, if tricky, so I led it with trepidation and was secretly very pleased with myself when I made it over the crux move, which involved a very high leg (which defied Ryan on his attempt), a good hip flexor stretch and a lucky high left hand hold. It probably helped that Pete and Mike had joined us at The Sidings, so I had the additional incentive of being watched. Pete suggested that the climb might be graded 7a, so I was quite disappointed to read on the UKClimbing website that it’s only 6a. Regardless, it was good to climb something blind to the grade.
Rack and Pin and Sodor felt quite exposed, but climbing next to a group of 3 or 4 beginners being coached by a guide – again, people to watch us – gave us a reason to ignore any nervousness. Having previously noted the “trustworthiness” of the rock, I was given a shock near the bottom of Rack and Pin when, having only clipped into the first bolt, a tiny handhold broke off suddenly under the pressure of three of my left fingers as I pulled down. I’d climbed above the bolt and was sent sprawling off the rock and swinging awkwardly to the right, but Ryan caught me quickly and I landed against the wall before I’d even processed what had happened. This reminded me that in general, falling isn’t so bad after all.
Once we were satisfied with our day’s climbing, we packed up and walked down into the belly of the quarry for a poke around. We entered through a deep archway cut into a huge slab and stared up at the impossible quantities of slate. Grass, heather and lichen softened the greyness, and we noticed several alluring black openings that suggested that there was plenty of exploring to be done behind the quarry walls.
We entered a ground-level shaft about 8 foot high and 6 foot wide, and walked the length of it up a gradual slope along an old railway track. It was about 100 metres long, damp and very dark, and near the end it forked into two openings. They both came out at the side of the quarry and dropped down steeply. We decided that climbing aside, we could spend a day just exploring the quarry; Pete had told us about “Snakes and Ladders”, which is a popular excursion on rainy days that involves climbing – preferably with a rope – up rusty old ladders and shafts inside the quarry walls. In short Dinorwic quarry is an excellent, if perilous, playground.
We left the quarry and walked across to the viewpoint that overlooks Llyn Padarn, Llyn Peris and the bottom of the Llanberis Pass, over which the rugged Snowdon peaks provided a lovely backdrop in the afternoon sun. We marvelled at the amount of loose slate and joked that we could find ourselves a lovely set of tablemats and coasters for our new house – and all our friends’ and families’ houses – without making a dent, then wandered back to the van. We drove to the bus terminal at the end of the road to turn around and were amazed to spot Johnny Dawes, the eccentrically-dressed 50-something year old rock climber famous for his bold ascents and ability to climb hands-free, pulling a rope out of a nondescript car ready to take himself off for a climb. I’m embarrassed to say that we gawped like fangirls.
Looking left towards Llanberis Pass and Snowdon……and right towards Llyn Padarn and the Menai StraitJohnny Dawes
Keen to find somewhere for food and a drink, we drove back into Llanberis and found ourselves at a pub in the middle of town, “The Heights”, which was big and cheap and cheerful enough, if a little dated. We sat on a bench outside and shared a large, very satisfying plate of nachos, then agreed to go back up Llanberis Pass to try the Vaynol Arms. On arrival I was quite disappointed to find that since I’d last been in a couple of years before, its lovely old tartan-patterned ceiling had been painted white and the fascinating old mountaineering paraphernalia that was hung above the cosy fireplace has been dissipated around the now much colder looking pub.
We considered eating in the pub but being mid-week, there wasn’t much of an atmosphere so we had a drink and left. We drove back up the Llanberis Pass, turned left and dipped into the wild Dyffryn Mymbyr valley. We parked in the overnight spot we’d stayed in on Sunday, I cooked a surprisingly tasty improvised dinner of bulgur wheat, tinned soup and whatever-else-I-could-find-in-the-cupboard stew, and we drifted into the blissful kind of sleep that can only be achieved in the wildest places.
Another year, another fluctuating labyrinth of lockdown restrictions and uncertainties. Like most of my projects I’m behind on the blog, although I did manage to do a bit of catching up earlier this year – who cares if I write about my January 2020 Alps trip 18 months later, with the wistful knowledge that – to my contemporaneous blissful ignorance, the reminiscence of which is bittersweet – the following 17 months would be spent in varying levels of lockdown?
It’s been a whirlwind: I’ve been rejected from a couple of jobs, spent a lot of money fixing the van, lost my beloved dog and a funny, kind uncle, missed family and friends, experienced the stress of buying a house in complicated circumstances and regularly questioned what I want to do with my life. But I’ve also qualified as a lawyer, got my first full-time permanent “proper” job, started the process of buying a house and juggled work with regular running, hiking, climbing, cycling and mountain biking, as well as a few art projects, an ongoing environmental project and this blog, and a bunch of other, less regular activities. Swings and roundabouts.
In keeping with the focus (or lack of) of this blog, here’s a summary of my year in adventure:
January/February
The deep, dark depths of winter lockdown. I saw no family or friends and my only solaces were the comforting buzz of activity at Hill HQ, running, cycling and walking (notably a 15-mile hike one grey January weekend) in and near the New Forest, a bit of snow towards the end of January and wildlife-watching.
March
Lockdown eased very slowly. Ryan’s powerkite gave me an unsolicited flying lesson one windy afternoon, we built and slept in a shelter in Godshill Wood (a very uncomfortable night but stubbornness prevailed), went coarse fishing locally, climbed at Hedbury on the Dorset coast, attempted and failed to surf and paddleboard at Christchurch and saw my parents for the first time all year. I became a fully fledged lawyer.
April
We managed a van weekend in the South Downs, which involved a good hike and a trip to mum and dad’s. We celebrated Ryan’s grandad’s 80th birthday with a “day at the races” fancy dress party and went to the pub for a drink on the day it reopened. Ryan rescued a baby squirrel (Cyril) from a road at work and we released it into the wood. We visited Monkey World in Dorset, met my parents at a campsite in the New Forest and visited Bucklers Hard.
May
The first “proper” van trip – we climbed at the Devil’s Jump on Bodmin Moor and at Sennen cliffs, visited Porthcurno and Lands End and explored Padstow and Port Isaac. We started weekly indoor climbing sessions with our friend Luke, visited Shaftesbury, both fell off skateboards, had a Hill family fancy dress Eurovision party, saw more friends and family and celebrated our birthdays – Ryan’s with a climbing session followed by pub lunch, driving range and barbecue, and mine with a party and a visit to the local raptor and reptile centre.
June
A sunny weekend van trip to the Dorset coast saw us climbing at Winspit, snorkelling in the cold, clear water over a “coral reef”, exploring Corfe and visiting the naturist beach at Studland. We explored pretty Warwick and impressive Warwick Castle with Ryan’s family and saw more of my family. We spent a few days in the van in Cornwall again, this time climbing at Cheesewring Quarry on Bodmin Moor, surfing, beach exploring, drinking and “rave in a cave”ing at Perranporth, and visiting Newquay, Bodmin Jail and Tintagel Castle. Started a week-long holiday in Pembrokeshire with my parents and brother.
July
Pembrokeshire continued – we visited Castell Henllys Iron Age village, explored St David’s and Whitesands Bay, hiked across the Preseli Hills, had a barbecue on Newport Sands, tombstoned and swam in Blue Lagoon at Abereiddy, kayaked and paddleboarded at Llys y Fran, walked along Newgale Beach, visited Pembroke Castle, explored and powerkited at Broadhaven beach, climbed at St Govan’s Head, visited Stackpole gardens, surfed (unsuccessfully)/bodyboarded in fierce waves at Freshwater West and came back via Cardiff National Museum. Back home we watched England lose the Euros final, went bouldering at St Aldhelm’s Head and swimming in Chapman’s Pool, visited Blue Pool near Wareham, swam in the river Hamble, trad climbed at Subliminal cliffs (including the Avernus blowhole) and took the van to the Forest of Dean/Wye Valley.
August
Forest of Dean/Wye Valley weekend continued – we looked for wild boar, mountain biked the red trail at Coleford, explored Clearwell Caves, walked into Wales without realising, spent a day canoeing along the Wye from Ross-on-Wye to Symonds Yat and walked up to Yat Rock. Locally we powerkited, swam and paddleboarded on Bournemouth beach (the day before a “large marine animal” was sighted in the water), went clubbing in Chichester and hiked, cycled and indoor climbed. We took the van to the Brecon Beacons, where we mountain biked the epic “Gap” route, did the Four Waterfalls walk at Ystradfellte and trad climbed at Llangattock escarpment. On the last bank holiday weekend we took our friend Gus to the Dorset coast, where we frequented the Square and Compass, paddleboarded from Winspit to Swanage, swam and climbed at Winspit, night-hiked back to the van from the Scott Arms and mountain biked at Puddletown Forest.
September
We put in an offer on a house and the seller promptly passed away (still buying, still awaiting probate). We mountain biked at Queen Elizabeth Country Park and the New Forest, celebrated Ryan’s dad’s 60th, went coasteering at Dancing Ledge, barbecued at Poole Harbour and went to Snowdonia for a week. Here we trad climbed up Little and Big Tryfan, took a road trip round Anglesey (including Beaumaris town, Baron Hill abandoned mansion, Din Lligwy ancient site, Parys Mountain copper mines, Holy Island and South Stack lighthouse), explored Betws-y-Coed, mountain biked the Marin Trail, hiked/scrambled the Snowdon Horseshoe – Crib Goch, Garnedd Ugain, Snowdon and Y Lliwedd, sport climbed at Dinorwig Quarry, hiked/scrambled up Bristly Ridge, Glyder Fach and Glyder Fawr, mountain biked at Coed y Brenin and wild swam/dipped near Dolgellau.
October
We explored the aquariums, museums and pubs of Lyme Regis in west Dorset, climbed up Golden Cap hill, met my parents’ new puppy, I went on my friend’s stag do near Bath, which involved clay pigeon shooting, paintballing and drinking, we visited Gilbert White’s museum and the Oates exhibition (notably the Antarctic section) in Selborne village, fished unsuccessfully at Todber, walked around the New Forest and went to the local pub for a Halloween party.
November
I played rugby for the first time since before lockdown, visited the puppy as much as possible, went to a best friend’s beautiful wedding in the New Forest, spent a day exploring Bradford on Avon, took the pup to Meon beach and tried to keep up with a heavy workload. We spent a weekend in Brecon with some friends, which involved completing the Pen y Fan horseshoe hike (Fan y Big, Cribyn, Pen y Fan and Corn Du) in below freezing 70mph gusts and drinking enough to write off the next day.
December
Suddenly Christmas loomed. We walked the pup (and my parents) up the zig zag at Selborne, I went for a tough 32 mile mountain bike ride across the Forest in freezing winds and explored Bristol after a practically unheard of day in the office, we mountain biked the blue and red routes at Swinley Forest, bouldered and climbed at Portland with Ryan’s younger brother Adam, rode our bikes at Moors Valley with Gus, had a Christmas climbing social and have spent Christmas seeing a lot of family and getting (quite frankly) fat and drunk.
And so ends a turbulent year. I think I’m getting better at keeping my life in order – occasionally I tidy my room now and I’m sure I eat more spinach. Progress is progress. I’m never really sure which direction I’m going in, but wherever it is I just have as much fun as possible along the way, and although sometimes idiotic I try to be a good person. I’m not yet rich enough to travel the world or influential enough to stop climate change, but I’ll keep trying – maybe next year.
Endnote: I’ve kept it to one photo per month for the sake of my ebbing sanity, and that was tough enough… read my other posts for more pictures!
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
Being a Sunday and having no urgent plans for the day, we lay in until about 9am, had breakfast in the van in Betws-y Coed, then cycled into the town for a potter around before heading out on the Marin Trail.
Betsy (sorry locals, that’s probably a gross abomination of the name – it’s really pronounced bettus-ee-coyd) is one of my favourite towns. It’s a small place with attractive, straight-sided buildings of slate-grey stone that sits nestled in the Conwy Valley, whose high banks covered in swathes of dark green forest on every side of the town give it a self-contained feel, as if the outside world doesn’t exist. The A5 runs along the main street, which is lined on one side by hotels, bar/restaurants, outdoor shops and a couple of little convenience stores, and on the other by a large, central recreation ground and the wide, clear Afon Llugwy River. Mature broadleaf trees flourish everywhere – it’s probably the greenest town I know. An old-fashioned train station runs along the bottom end of the recreation ground, with a picture-postcard platform on the far side and a variety of small shops and cafes on the other, facing the small town car park that backs onto the rec. Almost always bustling, it really is a lovely place.
We bought an OS map from the Cotswold shop in the middle of town as we wanted to use the mobile app to navigate the Marin Trail (our previous maps were too old to have a scratch code). The shop had the most extensive collection of outdoor literature I’ve ever seen, and it’s a wonder we managed to leave without bankrupting ourselves. Pleasantly surprised by the sunny weather, we had a late morning drink in the garden of the Y Stablau bar next door and pored over the map.
The Marin Trail
We left the bar around 1pm, crossed the beautiful stone Pont-y-Pair bridge over the rocky Afon Llugwy and cycled a good couple of miles along the narrow road that ran parallel to the river, away from the town and up – quite steeply in places, and a sustained climb throughout – through lush, green forest towards the trail.
The mountain biking route – now called Gwydir Mawr a Bach – is described as a “must-do” classic red trail for “any serious mountain biker”. It’s a varied 15-mile loop through Gwydir Forest Park which is very well marked by about 75 wooden posts – there was no need for us to buy the map or use the OS app. We joined at post 51 as we decided it would be easier to start from Betsy, rather than taking the van to the “official” start car park.
The first section was through forest along undulating singletrack and involved some fun, technical, twisty bits and some frustrating get-off-and-push steep rocky-rooty uphill bits. My gears weren’t behaving at first and my poor old brakes were soft to say the least, but my otherwise dependable 13-year old Specialized Rockhopper took every bump and jolt in its stride.
Gwydir was such a lovely place to ride. Hundreds of varieties of mature broadleaf and evergreen tree made the forest overwhelmingly green, and when we paused to take it all in the quietly chirping, buzzing white noise betrayed the unseen abundance of wildlife. Sometimes a wider forest track would emerge onto views over thickly wooded valleys under an un-forecast clear blue sky, and once we found ourselves at the tip of a long, narrow lake, Llyn Parc, whose glassy surface reflected yet more thriving vegetation. We pedalled on blissfully, feeling like the only people on a timeless Earth.
The real downhill riding started a few miles in at about post 70. We were cycling side-by-side along a mixed-use gravel track when the forest broke in front of us and the landscape opened out to reveal a long stretch of hazy blue mountains on the horizon, behind several layers of thick forest in shades of green that ranged from Granny Smith to near-black. It was lovely and so still, but the tranquillity was quite literally shaken off when we took a sharp right turn off the path down a steep, narrow singletrack. Suddenly quick downhill riding was made technically challenging by awkward rocks, routes, twists and berms, which threatened to throw us into trees and down sheer banks at any second. It was terribly fun.
This went on for quite a while, and by the time it levelled out my brakes were close to non-existent and my hands, which had been gripping the bars for dear life, felt like I’d been riding a pneumatic drill. We were thrilled. The next bit was a long, gentle climb along another wide forest track surrounded by thick vegetation noisy with birdsong, which allowed us to recover, followed by some singletrack across a more open, heathy bit of forest with stunning, clear views of the blueish mountains ahead.
Another rooty, rocky bit of singletrack took us back down into thick forest, and from there the way back to where we’d started was a mix of sociable forest track, the odd technical section and some awkward, rocky uphill switchbacks, which necessitated the get-off-and-push approach a couple of times. The afternoon sun cast a dream-like, glowing light over the leafy tops of the trees in the valley below and all around us, and after a final unexpected flowy, bermy section, we found ourselves back where we’d started at post 51, about 4pm.
The ride back to Betsy along the road we’d come up was lovely as it was long, smooth and downhill all the way. We slowed a couple of times for walkers but otherwise flew along, not bothering to pedal, appreciating the lovely valley on our right and feeling thoroughly immersed in the forest.
Evening
We crossed back over the bridge, locked our bikes up in the town and went into the Glan Aber hotel bar for a drink and a snack. We flopped into chairs in the back room by the pool table and guzzled down a cider, bag of crisps and a Snickers each, only just realising how hungry we were having eaten nothing all day except a poached egg on toast for breakfast. Enthralled by some weird racing programme on TV and pleasantly tired after a great afternoon absorbing the forest and concentrating hard on not ending up in A&E, we were reluctant to leave.
Refuelled, we went back to the van, left Betsy and drove a few miles north along the A470 to a petrol station near Llanrwst to pick up a steering lock I’d ordered (I’m like an over-protective parent). This drive gave us another lovely view of the forested valley from a different angle, and once again we seriously considered whether we really need our jobs down in southern England.
We planned to hike the Snowdon Horseshoe the next day as the weather looked good, so after picking up the steering lock and some snacks we drove back through Betsy and along the A5, which follows the Afon Llugwy through the picturesque, forested valley that eventually leads to Tryfan (see previous post about climbing that old chestnut). We turned left at Capel Curig onto the A4086, another attractive road that cuts between the high, wild peaks of Y Foel Goch and Moel Siabod, and stopped in a tucked-in layby set below the level of the road with stunning views towards Snowdon. Ryan cooked burgers while I did some van admin and watched as the sun set, bathing the heathy wilderness in golden light. Undulations cast long, dark shadows which accentuated the rugged ridges either side of the valley, and to the west the dramatic peaks of Y Lliwedd, Snowdon and Crib Goch were silhouettes softened by yellowish haze in front of the ebbing sun. It was one of the most beautiful evenings.
We agreed to have a “rest” day following the excitement (and mild trauma) of the previous day’s climbing excursion up Tryfan. Neither of us had been to Anglesey before so we decided to embark on a road trip around the island, stopping at various places recommended by our Wild Guide – shoutout to Angus (my long-suffering brother) for an excellent birthday present, although I know it was probably mum’s idea.
After watching the morning mist rise above Llyn Ogwen, scrabbling down to the water’s edge for a refreshing face wash, sorting out various bits of van admin and appreciating the beauty of the valley over breakfast, we set off northwest, between the hulking mountains that tower over the A5. We drove through the greyish town of Bethesda, past the outskirts of Bangor and across the attractive, stone-and-steel Menai suspension bridge, which spans the Menai Strait to connect Anglesey to the mainland.
Anglesey is kind of egg-shaped, with a big shark’s fin sticking out of its eastern side and a smaller lump of land barely attached to its western side by two bridges. We planned to drive around it anti-clockwise and our first stop was Beaumaris, a small, seaside town on the shark’s fin. The short drive there was along an attractive coastal road looking across the Menai Strait and back towards the dark, fog-shrouded mountains of the mainland, and our first impressions of the island were of a clean, pretty and peaceful place.
Beaumaris town
These impressions were confirmed when we reached the town’s quaint, pastel-painted streets and parked in an empty car park which seemed to be shared by the community, leisure and medical centres. We walked past a moated, compact and nearly-intact castle onto a small square where we found the Old Court House Museum, which was – to my considerable disappointment – closed.
We wandered through a small street to the seafront, where a large grassy car park charged £5 a day, a kiosk advertised boat trips, a long pier and adjacent small, triangular beach jutted into the water and people ambled lazily along the promenade. It was quietly busy – there was enough bustle that it didn’t feel like a ghost town, but not so much that we were peopled out.
As usual Ryan was after a snack, so we cut through an alley onto the high street. The buildings were attractive and of varying styles, and we particularly liked a tiny old beamed cottage – now an estate agent’s – dating back to about 1400. It claimed to be one of the oldest houses in Britain and it had a door which only just came up to Ryan’s shoulders.
We found a lovely old-fashioned butchers/deli a short way down the colourful street, where Ryan treated “us” to a small lamb and mint pie, a scotch egg and a bottle of dandelion and burdock. We ate it back at the small square by the castle, then went back to the van to continue our island tour.
Baron Hill abandoned mansion
As I started writing about Baron Hill, I realised that it deserves its own post which you can read here. This is a shortened account.
We found Baron Hill in the Wales Wild Guide, which describes it as “an extraordinary and completely overgrown ruined country mansion and gardens”. As it was nearby we thought we’d look for it, not knowing what to expect. We parked in a housing estate on the edge of the town and followed the book’s obscure directions across a road and over a shoulder-high wall into a wood thick with mature trees, shrubs and near-impenetrable rhododendron.
We stumbled across the old garden first, which was made up of several strange, waist-high old greenhouse foundations hidden in the thickets. A large walled garden appeared through the trees, nearly absorbed by Jurassic-Park-esque vegetation. Tiptoeing tentatively along the length of the high wall, struggling to imagine this overgrown jungle as a once-productive, bright, blooming courtyard, we found the stables and servants’ quarters.
Five or six large, symmetrical arches beckoned us down a long corridor lined by overgrown, roofless stables and servants’ rooms. Patterned tiles clung desperately to the walls, and the occasional fireplace, horse stall and water trough served as a slightly unsettling reminder of the place’s forgotten grandeur. Ivy crept everywhere and undergrowth hid most, but not all, the detritus from the broken rooms.
Then we found the house. We stepped out of the corridor and our eyes were drawn upwards, just above the tree canopy, to the corner of an enormous, neo-classical mansion rising above the jungle, well into the process of being devoured by ivy. Fascinated, we approached the three-storey building, which been thoroughly reclaimed by nature. Huge, frameless windows and doors granted access to the inside, which was empty of all the things that should be in a house but full to the brim with vegetation, detritus and the eerie caw of crows. It was devoid of humanity, a shell of a once-glorious home, yet abundant with life – plants, mosses, lichens, birds and insects.
It was an extraordinary place. For more descriptive waffling [shameless plug alert] I urge you (again) to read my separate post about it.
We tore ourselves away from the towering walls and after a quick go on the rope swing we found around the back of the house, fought our way through the thick wood and back to the van.
Din Lligwy ancient settlement
We drove 20 minutes northwards along the east side of Anglesey to the roadside parking at Din Lligwy, a trio of ancient sites. We missed out the first one – a Neolithic burial chamber – in the interests of time, as we’d poked around Baron Hill for longer than planned and wanted to see the rest of the island. A short walk across a grassy meadow took us to the second site, a pretty, compact 12th century chapel ruin with a lovely view over fields that stretched down to the sweeping curve of Lligwy Bay.
A bit further on we found the third site surrounded by leafy woodland. Din Lligwy is a small Romano-British village dating back to the Bronze or Iron Age, whose huge stone foundations mark the positions of several round and rectangular buildings. I imagined the bustle of the old walled settlement, the fires that would have been lit to warm the huts and the simple (if perilous) lives people once lived, and I tried to work out how on earth they manoeuvred those enormous rocks around.
The short walk back to the van was pleasant, through wood and meadow and past a sheep field. Anglesey had impressed us so far, with its rolling green hills, well-spaced towns, smooth roads and air of quiet self-containment.
Parys Mountain copper mines
The next place of interest was another 20 minute drive north. Parys Mountain is a huge copper mining site set high up on a hill with panoramic views of the Anglesey countryside. We parked in the large, free car park and walked up a large bank of loose, orange-brown gravel. As we climbed, the excavated landscape opened out around us: an enormous plateau of hillocks, banks, ridges and dips made of compact earth and rock covered in shale, which seemed to span the colour spectrum from reddish brown through several shades of pink to bright orange and yellow. It was like we’d wandered onto another planet.
We spotted an old stone windmill tower and walked towards it through the alien landscape along a yellow-orange track. It was dry and desert-like except for the swathes of coarse brown heather that grew everywhere in large patches, somehow finding nutrients in the loose, pinky-orange ground. The windmill was on a high point and we looked around at the Anglesey countryside. The sleek white wind turbines and rolling green fields contrasted strangely with the arid plateau where we stood.
After reading about the old copper mines, we wandered down another track and came to the top of what I can only describe as a small canyon, a bathtub-shaped hollow over 200 feet deep that was formed by the excavation of 3.5 million tonnes of rock by 1,500 men in the late 18th century. It looked as if the land had been gorged out by a giant ice cream scoop, and it was amazing to think that humans had created this vast landscape by hand. The steep banks were a rich yellow-orange-pink colour and dark heather blanketed patches of the dry, loose rock. It was very wild west, like we’d just walked into a cowboy film, and it reminded me of pictures I’ve seen of Utah or Arizona. Hard to believe it was rainy old Wales.
We squeezed through an irresistible gap between some large orange-brown rocks, found another bit of canyon on the other side, then started heading back around the giant bathtub towards the van. We spotted a cave halfway down one of the steep banks and obviously scrabbled down to investigate, disappointed to discover that it was just a hollow in the rock as opposed to the old mine shaft we’d hoped for. We walked all the way along the long edge of the gorge, took a last look at the incredible scenery, scrambled back over the loose mounds and got back to the van just as it started to drizzle, our minds slightly blown by the other-worldliness of the place and the travesty that we’d never even heard of it.
Holyhead & South Stack
The next section of the road trip was a 40 minute drive around the north and west of the island. This took us through swathes of lush farmland and across a tidal spit to Holy Island, a small, sticky-outey lump of land halfway down Anglesey’s western edge, until we reached a big petrol station on the outskirts of the town of Holyhead. We refuelled the van, grabbed a few bits from Tesco and drove through the busy, slightly shabby-looking streets towards South Stack.
We found the car park a couple of miles west of the town along a narrow, twisty, dead-end road. We wandered up to the clifftop and spent a good few minutes just looking at the view. To the south, sheer grey cliffs dropped into the flat water, grass and vegetation breaking up their hardness in all the nooks and crannies where roots could take hold. The coastline was far from straight like the long stretches of the Dorset coast where we usually climb, but “squiggly”, as if an imaginative child had drawn the line between land and sea and chosen to embellish it with lots of little headlands, inlets and sticky-outey bits. This made the cliffs look wild, rugged and very intriguing, and we watched slightly enviously as a couple of tiny climbers clung to the rough rock faces. Behind them a finger of land jutted out into the sea, and behind that the blue haze of the mainland mountains resembled the scaley back of a sleeping dragon.
South Stack is a tiny island attached to Holy Island by a footbridge, which is accessed by climbing down a lot of zig-zagging steps. We didn’t fancy paying to go over, so we just climbed down a few steps for a good view of the iconic white lighthouse perched on the grassy, rocky hump. It was a stunning, bleak clifftop view. The dead calm, blue-grey sea took up most of my field of vision, stretching an impossibly long way to the crisp horizon which itself seemed impossibly wide, and the soft grey sky looked like strokes of a watercolour brush.
We heard a few people making a fuss about something and looked over to where they were pointing. It was worth visiting South Stack for the next couple of minutes alone. I watched through my binoculars as a group of dolphins drifted lazily around the bay to the right of the lighthouse, five or six dorsal fins appearing and disappearing above the surface at once. I’d never seen dolphins before so I was very excited, and I watched them until a couple of jetskis appeared and they dived down out of sight. We also saw a bulky grey seal bobbing in the water near the rocks of South Stack and a lot of choughs, whose bright red beaks and legs contrast with their jet black feathers.
We wandered back up the steps and up the hill to a lookout hut, took in the brown, heathy, wild clifftops and hills to the north, and agreed that as much as we’d love to keep exploring, we were also keen to see Betws-y-Coed on a Saturday evening.
“Back to Betsy”
We hopped in the van and drove back to the mainland along Anglesey’s south side. I’d wanted to explore Newborough Forest nature reserve and some of the beaches but we were pressed for time as we wanted to eat out in Betws-y-Coed, so we admired the sand dunes from the van and decided to come back another time. We crossed the bridge, slipped back into the mountains and made it to the town with plenty of daylight left.
We found a discrete parking spot, wandered onto Sappers Suspension Bridge to look at the river, then went to find somewhere to eat. An ultramarathon had finished on the grassy rec in the middle of town that day, so everywhere was rammed. Hangin’ Pizzeria had an hour’s wait, the queue for Y Stabblau pub snaked way back into the Cotswold car park and Gwydyr Hotel had stopped doing food, although we had a drink there. We decided to go back to the pizzeria and drink through the wait. It was so worth it – out of all the pizzas I’ve ever eaten, this came second only to pizza from a renowned pizzeria in Italy (featured in this post, not sorry), despite being vegan. After food and a couple of drinks on an outside table, we watched bemusedly as the heavens opened around the canopy we were sheltered under, hammering water down with the unrelenting fury of Welsh rain clouds. Somehow we managed to get across to Y Stabblau for a drink and then back to the van wet, but not quite drowned.
This was going to be part of my upcoming Anglesey-in-a-day post recounting the second day of our recent Snowdonia trip, but I think it deserves its own.
We found Baron Hill in the Wales Wild Guide, which describes it as “an extraordinary and completely overgrown ruined country mansion and gardens”. We were in Beaumaris anyway and as the place was nearby we thought we’d look for it, not knowing what to expect. We parked in a housing estate on the edge of the town and followed the book’s obscure directions across a road and over a shoulder-high wall into a wood thick with mature trees, shrubs and near-impenetrable rhododendron.
Garden
We wandered through the thick vegetation along narrow, criss-crossing paths. We were a little dubious until we came to a strange, rectangular structure made of waist-high stone, like the bottom half of a long room. I thought it might have been some kind of water tank or outdoor pool until we found several others nearby, all nestled in the trees. I’m still not entirely sure what they are and can’t find much about them online, but my guess is that they were the foundations of greenhouses or similar outhouses.
Next we came across a long brick wall with shallow, symmetrical alcoves and an arch leading into a large, extremely overgrown courtyard garden. Nearly every inch of brick had been consumed by ivy, the floor was smothered by ferns that looked straight out of Jurassic Park and skeletal greenhouses retreated shyly into leaf cover. It was enchanting. I looked at Google Maps on satellite view to guide us to the house, as its straight walls are easily visible from above as a fascinating, overgrown floorplan nestled in the trees.
Stables & Servants’ Quarters
It was hard to believe that we’d actually find anything as the vegetation was so thick, but suddenly we were standing in front of a building with high stone walls and an open corridor formed by several large, rectangular, perfectly repeating arches. It was obviously a big building but it was difficult to tell where the architecture ended and nature began, as the two had seemingly fused into one inseparable whole. What little was left of the roof had fallen to the floor and mostly been absorbed by roots, leaves and tendrils.
We walked along the corridor and looked curiously into the large rooms that lined its left hand side. Through the ivy, ferns and now-resident trees we saw the remnants of colourful, patterned tiles, strange semi-circular recesses set into the walls and what looked like a rusty, once-elaborate metal divider of the type used for separating horse stalls. This object, along with the large arches, occasional fireplace and several water troughs stationed along the corridor, suggested that this building – despite its apparent bygone grandeur – was perhaps just the stables and servant’s quarters.
Mansion
At the end of the corridor we turned right and our eyes were drawn instantly upwards, just above the canopy of trees. If this were a novel I’d say we found ourselves rooted to the spot with dropped jaws, rendered speechless by astonishment. This is not a novel so I’ll leave out the embellishment, but the sight of the enormous, ancient-Rome-or-Athens-esque building rising from the jungle in front of us, well into the process of being devoured by ivy, really was like nothing I’d ever seen before. We approached it almost apprehensively, instantly struck by the eerie juxtaposition of lavish grandeur and ruinous dereliction.
The house was three high-ceilinged storeys high, with huge windows that were empty apart from foliage, birds nests and the occasional remnant of a wooden frame. Stone doorways granted access to the inside, which was full of wild plants and building detritus, some of it teetering precariously against walls. The main entrance was a bit further on and on the same side, framed by four enormously high, ivy-covered columns and a colossal doorframe. Inside, only the basic structural elements were left to imply the house’s size and magnificence, with the occasional stubborn detail left as a strange reminder that this place was once a home. Bare walls (save for some graffiti) towered around us under an uncovered grey sky that seemed disproportionately small, particularly in the claustrophobic corridors, where the multitudinous wires of an old servant calling system hung suspended in an inextricable tangle. Thick RSJ beams spanned the huge rooms like bones, impervious to the decay of the grand floors, carpets and furniture they once supported. A staircase fell away to nothing after a few steps then started again a bit higher up, and trees grew from first and second floor iron fireplaces which were strange to view from below. We were captivated.
We explored the house with fascination and a little trepidation, well aware of its obvious structural un-soundness. We padded around the old rooms, crossed a plank of wood over a gap that hinted at a basement, and marvelled at the way nature had slowly, effortlessly and almost entirely reclaimed the land. The slightly sinister cawing of several nearby crows seemed to fill the walls, but otherwise it was completely still and pin-drop silent, as if time had stopped. The atmosphere is hard to describe; it felt like a place of contradictions – majestic but ruined, peaceful but eerie, benign but dangerous, neither dead nor alive, and constantly as if we were being quietly observed. A stark demonstration that where humanity ceases, nature thrives.
We could have explored all day but were conscious of time, so after a cautious poke around we went through to the other side of the house, where more window and door frames towered high above us and the remains of a huge trellis spanned all three storeys, seemingly held up only by the ivy that grew thickly on it. The place is clearly well-known by local kids, evident from the graffiti, the odd bit of rubbish and the rope swing that I couldn’t resist before we ducked and weaved our way back through the thick vegetation to the wall we’d clambered over about an hour before. Carefully avoiding the low barbed wire fence, presumably installed as a half-hearted way of preventing access to the private land, we dropped down over the wall and back into the real world.
I now fancy myself as the next Indiana Jones.
Endnote – the History
I can’t find much detail on the history of the place, but Wikipedia reliably tells me that the ruined mansion was built in 1618 by politician Sir Richard Bulkeley and has been in the family ever since, although it was reconstructed in its current style in 1776. During World War I, death duties (inheritance tax) depleted the Bulkeley fortune so much that they could no longer afford the upkeep and the house became used to station Royal Engineers. In 1939 the government requisitioned it to temporarily house Polish soldiers following the outbreak of World War II, but they found it too cold and started a fire in the hope they would be moved somewhere warmer. The fire destroyed much of the interior and the soldiers were removed – to tents in the grounds, ironically – and the abandoned mansion was left to nature.
curiousgnome 