Snowdonia, Sep 21: Climbing Little & Big Tryfan (Pinnacle Rib Route)

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What a week. We’ve just returned from an incredible trip to Snowdonia and the mountain blues have hit us like a steam train. Hiking, scrambling, climbing, mountain biking, an island road trip, a smidgeon of wild swimming and several pubs – the last few days have had everything I could have asked for and more.

Friday 17th September

We drove up on Thursday night and stayed in a layby just before Betws y Coed. After a good night’s sleep and eggs on toast for brekkie, we drove west along the A5 through the picturesque valley that cuts through the lush, green Gwydir Forest. Past the trees, the landscape opened out to wild country, where mountains sprawl lazily for miles across rugged land untainted by concrete or tarmac.

Little Tryfan

After a 20 minute drive we parked in the long layby on the A5 just after Gwern Gof Uchaf campsite, nestled in the Ogwen Valley. We fancied a gentle introduction to what we (rightly) anticipated would be a full-on week, so we started with some easy trad climbing on Little Tryfan, where I’d climbed with army cadets a decade ago and Ryan had climbed a couple of years ago. We tramped past Gwern Gof Uchaf and a short distance up the south side of the valley to the huge, slanting rock face, whose gentle angle and solid, grippy rock make it the perfect destination for new or casual climbers.

Most of the wall was being used by a big army group so we walked past them to the far end and climbed “Mossy Slab”, an easy two-pitch route graded HVD. I led the first pitch and Ryan led the second. Some of the gear was good but I found that several of the crack constrictions were “wrong” in that they were V-shaped and didn’t allow nut placements to correspond with the direction of fall, but the climbing was so easy that I was comfortable with running the gear out. At the top we paused to appreciate the stunning view of the Ogwen Valley, then walked down the rightward descent scramble.

We felt that Little Tryfan was one of those “if you’ve climbed one route, you’ve climbed them all” crags, so at the bottom I put forward a case for climbing “big” Tryfan. My arguments were:

  1. the weather was drier and clearer than forecast,
  2. we were part way there anyway,
  3. we’d packed enough equipment to not have to return to the car, and
  4. we’d already discussed climbing it via a certain route called First Pinnacle Rib.

Ryan put up precisely no resistance and insisted that he’d be fine in his battered old Nike skate shoes. It was one of those off-the-cuff decisions that lead to the best days out, and the verdict was unanimous. Off we went.

Tryfan: to Heather Terrace

The first bit involved a steep walk/scramble up to Heather Terrace, the path that runs roughly north-south along Tryfan’s east face and is characterised by uneven rock, unavoidable grey boulders, resolute purple heather and lovely high views over the valley of Cwm Tryfan. Heather Terrace is probably the gentlest and flattest route up Tryfan, a mountain whose summit requires at least a scramble regardless of which way you go.

Once we were in roughly the right place along the path, we searched the rock for the start of the climbing route. We’d eyed up First Pinnacle Rib (also called Overlapping Ridge Route), a classic VDiff multi-pitch that featured in both our new Rockfax book and Kev’s (Ryan’s dad) 1990 Constable guide, which Kev had climbed years before. We couldn’t easily tell exactly where the routes were as the rock to our right was high, steep and looked very much the same, and the photos in the guidebooks were taken from further back – we’d have fallen off the side of the mountain if we stepped back to gain the same vantage point.

After a frustrating 20 minutes or so I spotted “FPR” vaguely etched into a slab. Kev had told us that “1PR” was scratched at the bottom of the route, so we assumed that the “1” had been turned into an “F” at some point and didn’t investigate further. A few days later we spotted in the Rockfax book that FPR actually and misleadingly denotes the start of Pinnacle Rib Route, fortunately another classic VDiff which is next to First Pinnacle Rib, so that’s what we set out on.

Tryfan: Pinnacle Rib Route, the nice bit

We shoed, harnessed, helmeted, geared and roped up and I led the first pitch, an easy line up a big groove with good gear and solid holds. Ryan followed me up and led the second pitch up a rib, again with good gear and holds. I came up and led the third; we weren’t exactly following Rockfax’s instructions as to where to climb/belay, but just doing what looked good and felt right. I paused a couple of times to snack on some wild bilberries that grow on scrubby bushes all over the mountain.

The first slightly sketchy section came at what I thought was “Yellow Slab”, an infamous polished wall. With hindsight and research I don’t think it was Yellow Slab, but I found myself on a flat, vertical face covered in thin yellowish lichen, few holds and fewer gear placements, just past a flat ledge and out of Ryan’s view. I felt strong and confident so I pulled myself up, managed to place a small blue nut which subsequently popped out shortly after I climbed above it, and belayed from just above it – fortunately it was quite short.

We were enjoying the climbing hugely and flying up quickly until Ryan finished the fourth pitch and belayed me up. The sky was starting to cloud over and at one point I was climbing above a rainbow, which was cool. However, Ryan had gone slightly off-piste by climbing in whichever direction he liked the look of, and we weren’t entirely sure where we were. We read something in the book about walking rightwards for 20m and belaying, so we tramped right up some awkward wet, heathery ground and stopped at a slightly ominous-looking corner crack.

Tryfan: Pinnacle Rib Route? The ordeal

For reasons that will become clear, I don’t have any photos of this section. The weather had closed in, the stunning views had gone, we were starting to get damp and Type 1 fun was rapidly turning into Type 2. Looking a little reluctantly at the wet corner, I started up it and quickly realised that opportunities to place gear were scarce. It followed a crack up a corner between two fairly bare slabs which tilted towards each other at a shallow angle, not enough to properly bridge, meaning that I had to trust my shoes to grip the damp rock on tiny or next-to-no holds while I made some awkward upper body moves. The crack itself was slimy and mossy and the gear placements just got worse.

I climbed quite slowly, constantly weighing up whether to carry on or come down. The gear became so run-out that if I slipped it’d have been a ground fall onto the ledge where Ryan was belaying (very supportively and encouragingly despite his soaking wet shoes, to his credit), a fact of which I was painfully conscious. When I was climbing my head was calm, clear and acutely aware of everything, but when I paused to look for a much-needed gear placement I felt genuine fear. I’m not used to that feeling – there’s a difference between the adrenaline-inducing thrill of climbing above a bolt at a crag, flying down a steep mountain bike trail or scrambling along an exposed ridge, or even worrying a little that we’d get back later than planned after a big day out, and real, spine-chilling, one-wrong-move-means-hello-mountain-rescue fear.

Eventually I reached a good handhold where I placed two nuts. I didn’t allow relief to wash through me because the next few metres looked as bare as the previous few. I convinced myself to carry on, then proceeded to put myself through the same torment as before, with a long, run-out, balancey few moves up slippery rock until eventually (another potential ground fall later) I reached a horn of rock, which I threw a sling over, clipped into and fully exhaled for the first time in a good few minutes. From there I clambered up onto another horn, which I straddled tightly and belayed Ryan up from, genuinely relieved to be unscathed.

Ryan followed me up and congratulated me on being alive and unbroken, then led the next pitch up an awkward channel which luckily had plenty of gear placements. I followed him, a bit shaky from my belaying position, and met him at his belay. I was a bit disheartened not to see Adam and Eve, the two adjacent pillars that mark the summit, but after a slightly awkward scramble up a column of rock they emerged through the clag to our immense relief.

Tryfan: summit, descent

Ryan clambered up first and did the famous leap between the pillars to gain the “freedom of Tryfan”. I followed, still a little shaken from that hellish pitch, and jumped across before I could ponder the sheer drop to the left, the wide gap between the rocks or the slippery-looking, uneven surfaces on the tops. Ryan thought it funny to tell me I had to do it again as he’d missed the photo; I did not find it funny. Fortunately (for him) he’d captured it perfectly.

We swapped climbing shoes for Scarpa approach shoes / Nike pumps (joking that Ryan was now “that person” we hate to see up mountains), munched a cheese salad sandwich and walked down the steep south side of the mountain until we branched left and rejoined Heather Terrace. The terrain was awkward, uneven and very rocky, and our knees took a battering all the way down. The clag lifted as we descended, the landscape-defining artery of Nant Gwern y Gof appeared way below us to the right, and eventually the views over the long Ogwen Valley returned.

The Perfect Ending: pub, curry, van

We passed behind Little Tryfan, through Gwen Gof Uchaf and returned to the van around 5.30pm, pleased to see the bikes hadn’t been stolen and slightly amused that we’d only travelled just over 4 miles (2,000ft elevation aside). We threw our stuff in and drove the short distance down the A5 back to Tyn-y-Coed, a nice, welcoming pub Ryan had frequented on a previous trip with his brother. I was revived by a cider and an Irish coffee, then Ryan drove us back along the A5 to a car park by Llyn Ogwen, a wild, peaceful mountain lake overlooked by Tryfan.

Several vans were already parked up and there were no signs so we decided to settle for the evening. I cooked a Thai green chicken curry which was admittedly pretty good, especially after the day we’d had, and with hindsight, we could (almost) laugh about the strange route we’d taken up the mountain. We slept very well.

Cornwall, May 2021

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May bank holiday meant a free three-day opportunity to get away in the van, our first proper trip post-lockdown easing (excepting a quick foray in the South Downs). We left on Friday evening and found an excellent, out the way overnight spot on Bodmin Moor, the car park at Crowdy Reservoir, and spent the night under a jet black sky full of stars.

Saturday 1st May

I was up at 6am to go down to the water and watch the sunrise over the reservoir, which was very tranquil in the morning mist. After a lovely little walk I went back and badgered Ryan to get up, then we ate breakfast (a Subway salad we didn’t eat the night before, not even sorry) and drove along tiny, twisty roads to the discrete parking spot for the Devil’s Jump crag just west of Bodmin Moor, near Helstone.

Climbing at Bodmin Moor

We followed the instructions in the Rockfax guide to get to the crag, which took us uphill along a path and through a farm, over a wall (in slightly the wrong place, but we worked it out) and over open moorland past a bunch of cows. We approached the crag from above and saw what looked like a nest of crows on the left hand side of the rocky outcrop. We got a bit closer, realised to my excitement that it was actually a raven’s nest, and scrambled down the steep, overgrown bank to reach the bottom of the rock face.

While gearing up at the bottom we felt a few drips and realised that we’d been pooed on by a raven, which – if anything – added to the experience. We climbed the two-pitch, 24m VDiff South East Climb, the only route in the Rockfax guide. Ryan led the first pitch up the solid granite and I led the second. It was straightforward trad climbing up an obvious crack, as far as I can remember (I’m writing this three months late), which was a good thing as we were a bit out of practice post-lockdown. I belayed Ryan up to the top of the slabby face while enjoying stunning views over a long, wooded valley. At the top we jumped across a disconcertingly wide gap, clambered down the back side of the outcrop and scrabbled back down the bank to retrieve our stuff.

Porthcurno beach

We stopped at Asda in Bodmin to do a supermarket shop, then headed south west to Porthcurno. We’d considered stopping for an explore in Penzance and Mousehole, but the former was too busy and the latter was too awkward to park in. The car park at Porthcurno is set just above the beach, which is narrow and quite deep, nestled in between two  rocky, grassy headlands. The water was Mediterranean blue, the sand glowed in the sun, and we’d found a new favourite place. We sat against the rocks on the right side of the beach and I pottered around the rockpools, considered a dip in the sea (but got no further), people watched – although it wasn’t too busy – and played Ryan at beach chess.

After a while we walked up the steep, grassy cliff on the other side of the beach and sat admiring the view on an old wartime pillbox. The bay in front of us was dream-like, with the deep blue water on the horizon fading gradually to clear azure as it stretched in to touch the yellow-grey rocks and nearly white sands of the small beaches. Having been in some form of lockdown for what felt like an age, we were so pleased to taste freedom again. With evening approaching, we walked back to the van and drove to Lands End.

Lands End

We parked on the grassy area towards the back of the large, mostly empty car park and after chatting to some other van people who’d decided to stay overnight, walked through the tourist complex to see the heathery cliffs of the UK’s most southwesterly point.. It was a very attractive place and I liked the whitewashed First & Last House sat alone against the wide sea and wild moorland, but in my opinion it was slightly spoilt by the visitor attractions, which include a Shaun the Sheep and Arthur’s Quest experience, eateries and gift shops. We took an obligatory signpost photo and went back to the van for stir fry. A bit later on we went back to watch the sunset over the sea, which was beautiful.

Sunday 2nd May

Climbing at Sennen Cove

In the morning we drove the short distance along the coast to the pretty village of Sennen, set overlooking the long stretch of white sand that is Sennen Beach. We parked in the harbour car park, grabbed our climbing gear and walked up the hill to an old coastguard lookout. The descent down to the climbing area was a steep, rocky scramble, and at the bottom we followed the large ledge around to the easy-looking climbs of Golva area on the right.

We spent the day ticking off some very easy grade climbs, including the Diff grades Junior’s Route, Senior’s Route and Staircase. We alternated leading, seconding and scrambling back down to go again. The rock was solid and the lines we took were up wide cracks – it was good to get back into the swing of trad climbing after so long, but we felt quite out of practice. Just being there was lovely after lockdown, and for a few hours the world was reduced to a high, grey-brown rock face, the deep blue sea stretched across the horizon and just us sandwiched in the middle under a clear blue sky.

Sennen Cove beach

The crag started to get busy by early afternoon, so we topped out and walked back down the hill to the van. We had lunch then walked along to Sennen Beach via a roundhouse gallery where I bought a map, and a tourist-type convenience shop where Ryan the child bought a couple of snorkels and a stunt kite.

The whitish sand sweeps across the curve of the bay in a long stretch between gentle green cliffs, and towards the back of the beach is a boulderfield made from large, sea-smoothed rocks. I spent a while collecting plastic from crevices between the rocks, mostly old rope and fishing line, and was amazed (and saddened) by how much there was.

We went back to the van, had a gin and decided to squeeze an evening climb in – I think it was the mod grade Sinner’s Route. We were pleased that the crag had emptied and glad for the late sun. Back at the van we spent the night talking, cooking (or watching Ryan cook, on my part) stir fry and playing chess. The harbour car park allowed overnight stays, so we tucked the van in a corner and slept peacefully by the sea.

Monday 3rd May

We’d hoped to go snorkelling but the sea was grey and choppy, so we thought better of it. After a good explore of the rock pools just below the harbour car park at Sennen, we started making our way slowly home.

Padstow

First we stopped at Padstow, a very pretty old fishing village on the north Cornish coast. Annoyingly but not surprisingly as it was bank holiday Monday, it was heaving with people. We parked by the lobster hatchery (sadly closed at the time) and walked the short distance to the small harbour, which is surrounded on three sides by quaint pubs, cafes and shops selling fish, chips, coffee, boaty-type clothes and a hundred million varieties of pasty. We walked round to the far side to look at the fishing boats, then headed up the narrow, bustling streets to look in some of the surf-type shops. This time Ryan the child bought a skateboard, which we’ve both since fallen off quite spectacularly.

Port Isaac

Feeling a bit peopled out, we left Padstow and drove north east along little roads to Port Isaac, where Doc Martin was filmed. We parked at the top of the hill and walked down the steep slope into the village, the majority of which sits in a tight little bowl connected to the sea by a narrow opening in the harbour wall. It was another very pretty, quaint and cosy place, with steep, narrow streets lined with a mix of quirky stone, whitewashed, painted and slated cottages.

We walked up the hill on the other side of the harbour to Doc Martin’s house (just to send a photo to Ryan’s mum) and poked around some back streets to find “squeezy belly alley”, which was once recorded as the world’s narrowest thoroughfare. Charmed by the timeless little streets, we grabbed a drink from an outdoor bar on the harbour, sat and watched the seagulls and reluctantly traipsed back up the hill to the van (via the Co-op for road snacks to dampen the back-to-work-tomorrow feeling) and headed home, refreshed in equal measures by the sea air and the taste of freedom.

Dorset Adventures, August Bank Holiday 2021

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Friday 27th August: The Square & Compass

We drove down in the evening and met our friend Gus in the car park near the Square and Compass pub at Worth Matravers. This pub is something special – I’ve mentioned it before but on reflection it deserves its own post, so I won’t go into detail. We turned up, ordered three Kiss me Kate ciders and drank in the garden, enjoying the mild summer air and sea views.

Once we were a pint or so in and approaching the giggly stage, a Spanish band started playing from a small gazebo next to us. We didn’t understand a word but appreciated some post-covid, impromptu live music, especially when the keyboardist came out with an impressive solo and the singer donned some bright yellow, horizontal-barred sunglasses with flashing rims which had no business being designed, manufactured or worn, but somehow added to the slightly trippy atmosphere.

My hazy memory suggests that we chatted to the singer and came away with some random band stickers, listened to a mind-numbingly repetitive encore song which had approximately two chords and precisely two lyrics – te and amo – , stayed until (and a bit beyond) last orders, got unintentionally drunk and (on my part) threw up outside the van. I’m not proud, so I’ll move onto the next day.

Saturday 28th August: Paddleboarding Winspit to Swanage, 6.5 miles

Gus slept in the pop-top roof of the van and reported that it was surprisingly comfy, although I suspect he’s too polite to say anything less. We had bacon and sausage sandwiches for breakfast, packed a day’s worth of paddleboarding stuff and walked the mile-or-so down the beautifully green, wild valley to the sea-level ledge at Winspit. After some exertion, the three paddleboards were pumped up and launched.

Section 1: Winspit to Dancing Ledge

We paddled away from the shore and looked back on the sheer limestone cliffs that dominate the long Purbeck coastline, topped by rolling green fields under a blue sky punctuated by fluffy, harmless-looking white clouds. The weather was dry and the sea was fairly calm, but an annoying north-easterly headwind hampered our progress and disturbed the water enough to make travelling in a straight line very difficult for me, as I’d borrowed Tom’s short-finned river/lake paddleboard.

A kayaker passed us and asked if everything was okay, which we perhaps should have taken as a warning. I told him we were fine and enjoying our trip from Winspit to Swanage and he looked at me as if I was positively mad.

After a frustrating half hour Ryan and I swapped, realised to my amusement that he was heavy enough to submerge the board, then both jumped on the family-sized board that Gus had lent us. We paddled along happier, towing the other board, speaker blaring one of my questionable Spotify playlists. Gus flew ahead at an impressive speed on his racing board, which cut through the water like soft butter.

We passed some big caves, resisting the temptation to take a closer look as we realised that reaching Swanage might be an ambitious task. Hedbury Quarry seemed to take forever to pass, and eventually we reached a very busy Dancing Ledge after about an hour and a half.

Section 2: Dancing Ledge to Durlston Lighthouse

Lunch at Dancing Ledge was a good idea as it broke up the journey, lifted our spirits and gave the tens of people sitting and swimming there a chuckle as we attempted to beach and re-launch the boards over the sharp-barnacled, uneven rock ledges. Ryan’s homemade Scotch eggs went down a treat – I think he’s finally found his calling.

The wind seemed to die down along this section, which was by far the most pleasant. We paddled happily along the calm surface as the sun warmed our skin, and even when it clouded over the air was still mild. “You’re Beautiful” came on the speaker and Gus fell in the water, presumably due to James Blunt-induced overexcitement, and we watched a handful of climbers making their way up the blocky limestone cliffs. It was interesting to see the areas we usually climb from this angle because the abseil-in trad climbing at Swanage tends to feel quite lonely, as if there’s noone else on the rock, but there were quite a few people fairly close together who wouldn’t have been able to see each other.

Section 3: Durlston Lighthouse to Peveril Point (AKA Peril Point)

After another hour along the long, straight section of cliffs we reached Anvil Point and Durlston Lighthouse, which had taunted us for so long by not appearing to get any closer. This stretch changed our course from due east to north-east, so the land no longer sheltered from the chilly northeasterly wind.

It took us a painfully long time to get past some people fishing at Tilly Whim caves, then along to Durlston Head. We stoicly rejected the offer of a tow from a jetski, paddled hard as the strange little turrets of Durlston Castle on our left barely moved at all, and fought the frighteningly strong currents around the corner between Durlston Bay and the open sea.

Eventually, after some soul-destroyingly slow progress, we made it around the headland and into the less-windy-but-still-quite-choppy Durlston Bay. This was tough news to swallow as I’d forgotten that this bay lies between Durlston Head and Swanage, so had expected to turn the corner and see the finish line. Exasperated but kind of bemused, we pushed northwards along the wild, empty bay using land reference points to check that we were actually moving, watched enviously as Gus made the whole thing look easy, and regrouped just before Peveril Point to agree how to approach the treacherous-looking thin, rocky spit.

Section 4: Peveril Point to Swanage beach

Acutely aware of the lookout station directly to our left and the numerous people observing our plight, probably with a mixture of concern and amusement, we adopted a plan to paddle aggressively past the rocky finger as if striding confidently into battle. Gus went first and again made it look easy, although he later confessed that his life had flashed before his eyes and he thought the end was nigh.

Ryan and I reached the choppy water, which looked as if a frenzy of sharks were feeding just below the surface, and paddled hard. I thought things were under control until I glanced left at the rocks and realised that we were making absolutely no progress whatsoever. I irritably expressed my concern when Ryan decided to point out (using his paddle, which at that moment should have been being used as a paddle) how mesmerising the calm water ahead of us was. Recoiling at the telling-off, he returned to paddling and we made it past the choppy section, thinking we were in the clear.

As it turned out, I was right to be suspicious about the rolling, mesmerisingly calm water that appeared abruptly beyond the choppy bit. We quickly realised that the flattest sea was in fact the worst, where the currents are strongest, and I watched hopelessly as the water pulled us effortlessly back. Ryan said something along the lines of “let’s go as hard as we can”, I refrained from sarcastically replying “you reckon”, and we paddled our sorry little shoulders off to get out of the current. The paddleboard we were towing was pulling us back and it took nearly everything we had to paddle fast and hard enough to escape, but by some miracle we eventually made it out before muscle fatigue set in.

From there it was plain sailing through the gentle water of Swanage Bay. We paddled triumphantly past the people watching us near the lookout station, between the moored up boats, under the pier and onto the southern end of the busy beach. Relieved to feel solid land beneath our feet, we checked in with Gus to make sure he struggled with Peveril (later named Peril) Point too – he reassured us that he did – and we packed up our stuff.

A few celebratory drinks

We traipsed through the busy streets of Swanage and quickly found ourselves in the tucked-away garden of the White Swan with a cold pint each. The customary post-adventure, post-near-death-experience debrief ensued and we laughed about how – with hindsight – oddly enjoyable the journey had been, and how – even with hindsight – it wasn’t quite all enjoyable. A combination of all day sun, exposure to the elements, hunger, fatigue, relief and on my part lightweightedness meant that the alcohol got to us quite quickly.

We caught the bus from Swanage to Acton with our big paddleboard bags and walked a mile across a field and along a quiet road back to the van. To the others’ delight I managed to flick a big dollop of wet sheep poo up the back of my legs, thanks to my April to October flip-flop policy. We met Tom and Cam (Tom’s girlfriend) in the car park, had a discrete barbecue as we watched the sun set, then returned to the Square and Compass to while the night away. After last orders we came back to the van to talk more rubbish and play card games, but I don’t remember much of that.

Sunday 29th August: Snorkelling and climbing at Winspit

Sunday was comparatively relaxed. After breakfast the five of us walked down to the sea-level ledge at Winspit and had a dip in the sea, with varying levels of reluctance. On jumping in I dropped my snorkel mask, which was thankfully retrieved by Ryan. The others messed around while I snorkelled over colourful rocks covered in all kinds of barnacles, anemones, plants and algae, underwater forests of long, gently swaying seaweed and fish, including large, tropical-looking red, yellow, blue and green wrasse.

We sat talking, eating, drinking and people/dog watching on the flat, rocky ledge, enjoying the sun. Around mid-afternoon we persuaded a reluctant Gus to try rock climbing, so we walked up the bank to Winspit west Quarry and Ryan led Bread Knife, a grade 4 sport climb up a corner crack with a couple of tricky-ish moves for the grade. I belayed while Gus trembled his way up (in Vans as Ryan’s shoes didn’t fit him, poor boy), until he reached a difficult section and decided that the most sensible option was to come down. He did a good job of putting on a brave face – we only realised his genuine terror once he was back on the ground.

I toproped the climb, came down, then toproped again to clean it once we realised Gus wasn’t getting back on the wall. Having successfully managed to put him off climbing, we walked back up the valley to Worth Matravers, all jumped in Tom and Cam’s van and went down the road to the Scott Arms at Kingston for dinner.

We were pleased to find that their outdoor Jamaican shack was open and serving food for the first time since we’d been there, so we found a table in the busy garden overlooking Corfe Castle and ordered various jerk dishes. We were all starving and the food seemed to take an age to come, but it was so worth it once it did – I’ve never had proper Jamaican food before and it was lovely – sweet, spicy and incredibly satisfying. We enjoyed the evening sun and the lovely view (but not so much the occasional sewage smell coming from a drain in the garden) over a couple of drinks, then Tom and Cam went home ready to work the following day.

The remaining three of us walked 3 miles back to Worth Matravers as the sun was setting, through a cattlefield and along a wild, narrow, steep-sided wooded valley on a path filled with slugs and stinging nettles. I’m glad I took a headtorch because it was absolutely pitch black when I turned it off. We emerged in a field at the back of Worth and walked to the Square and Compass via the cobbled village. The rest of the evening involved mead, jelly snakes, deep conversations, admiring the mustard walls and eclectic décor and a visit to the pub’s fossil museum.

Monday 30th August: Mountain biking at Puddletown Forest

We got up, packed up, had a classic van breakfast of eggs in purgatory and headed about half an hour west to Puddletown Forest, where Gus knew some mountain bike trails.

Puddletown Forest is a large area of Forestry Commission leased woodland interspersed by bridleways, firebreaks and footpaths. It’s quite hilly and after a climb up a sandy, gravelly track, we emerged from the trees onto a high, heathery ridge. Mountain bikers have carved natural trails through the heather and the first section we did was very narrow, overgrown and scratchy, which woke us up and started the adrenaline pump.

From there we went to find a couple of bombhole-type bits with flowy jumps and steep drop-ins. I’m confident downhill but very much in the learning stage of jumping a bike, so I messed about on my own while the other two flew around all over the place. Some of the jumps looked crazy – way too ambitious for any of us – and I wonder how on earth people manage them. The ground was nice, compact dirt, but the tree roots were a bit annoying as they threatened to throw wheels off course at the most inconvenient moments.

We spent the rest of the afternoon riding around looking for more trails, which cropped up either side of the bridleways and provided some lovely singletrack riding. Some of it was quite committing (mainly because of the loose ground, roots, steepness and drop-offs) but we made it round fine. The trails have been named but the location feature of Gus’s Trail Forks app was playing up, so we had no idea where we were or how to get to each one; instead we ended up riding along until we saw something that looked good. One trail in particular had a lovely section of flowing, S-shaped berms, and another had some fun, technical rooty downhill.

I felt quite sluggish after a long weekend of exertion, drinking and a less-than-ideal amount of sleep, but I really enjoyed the riding and I’ll definitely come back. It’s the kind of place where you have to spend time to work out how to get around, but I’m sure that once you do it’s easier to link the trails together and cut down on the firebreak/gravel track riding.

Tired and hungry, we accepted that the weekend had to finish at some point and made the unanimous decision to soften this blow with a team McDonalds. We packed the bikes up after 3 hours of riding and met at Ferndown Maccies, where we ate naughty food and agreed that we can’t leave it too long until the next adventure… and so concluded a pretty epic weekend.

North Pembrokeshire, June 2021 (2/2)

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Thursday 1st July

Newgale Beach

The fog was still thick around our wild camping spot on the Preseli Hills when we woke up. We were due travel to South Pembrokeshire for the second half of the holiday and had arranged to meet mum, dad and Angus at Pembroke Castle at 1pm.  We spent the morning driving down via Newgale Beach on the west coast, with a view to seeing as much of the national park as possible.

We dropped down into Newgale after an hour’s drive through pretty farmland and parked at the large beachfront car park. Newgale is a small village in a basin that opens onto St Brides Bay, with a large, lively-looking campsite set just across the road from the beach. The beach is long, sandy and scattered with smooth pebbles. The weather was strange – still, warm and bright, but grey sea mist stopped sunlight penetrating and gave the sea and sky a serene, dream-like quality. We walked along the shore until we reached some cliffs and caves at the southern end, explored for a little bit and headed back to the van.

Pembroke Castle & Town

We stopped at Morrisons in Haverfordwest for shopping and fuel, then met the others in Pembroke early afternoon. Pembroke is a small, bustling town that still seems to revolve around the castle, which has high, well-preserved walls that tower over a long pond on one side and the high street on the other. Inside, the large, grassy courtyard is contained by walkable walls and several towers which house a lot of interesting information about the castle’s history, including some realistic mannequin scenes and the room where Henry VII was born. It has a “proper” castle feel, with its huge keep (sadly closed), dungeon room, herb garden, scattered flowerpots, battlements, towers and high walls. Definitely worth a visit.

After a thorough poke around the castle we  wandered up the high street, where we looked round an old fashioned convenience store and a tiny shop that sells handmade, surfwear type clothes. I bought a pair of yoga shorts with a honeycomb pattern and a couple of headbands, all made in the shop with organic cotton – would recommend, see the website here – https://www.iseasurfwear.co.uk/. Ryan and I then went on to the Watermans Arms pub and enjoyed a cold cider on the deck, which is raised on stilts over the edge of the pond and has a lovely view over the water, the castle and the town. We watched in amusement as a single, angry-looking swan chased a group of at least 30 much more passive swans around.

Camping, Kiting & Broad Haven South Beach

We drove a little way south along tiny roads to the new campsite, Trefalen Farm, late afternoon. This is another lovely site with sea views, basic facilities and a really remote feel. The first thing we did was find an open field near the cliffs and fly Ryan’s powerkite, as so far the weather had been record-breakingly non-windy (for Wales) and having felt a slight breeze, we were very keen to get it in the air. There wasn’t lots of wind but there was enough to have some fun for half an hour or so before going back to the van and cooking fajitas for tea.

After eating we all tramped down the hill to Broad Haven South, a deep, attractive sandy beach with dunes set way back from the sea and impressive rocks and caves on either side. We walked and footballed our way to the far side, where we explored narrow caves and clambered around on the rocks. Angus was introduced to the slimy delights of large, light-hating cave lice and we found some random sea junk wedged high in damp cave systems, including ropes, buoys, jerry cans and a tyre. Satisfied with a day spent poking around castles and caves, we went back to the campsite and played some stupid card game Angus bought at the castle gift shop, which became hilariously long-winded.

Friday 2nd July

Climbing at St Govan’s Head

Ryan, Angus and I set off from the campsite to climb at the nearby coastal crag of St Govan’s Head. We walked west along a wild section of the Pembrokeshire coast path which had lovely views of dramatic cliffs towering over little rocky beaches and coves filled with clear blue water. We’d definitely chosen the right day for it as it was dry, still and kind of sunny, kind of cloudy, so not too hot or cold. We arrived at some abseil stakes by the edge of a cliff near a military training zone and after a little bit of faff, worked out the right stake to abseil off.

We set up the rope, took what gear we needed and one by one, abseiled over the edge of the cliff. As always the most awkward bit was going over the lip, where your legs go from vertical to horizontal against the wall. The abseil was really fun – about 30m high and against a pleasantly sheer wall, with some free space to hang into in the middle, and with dramatic views of the wild, intimidating cliffs and calm sea below.

The climbs were graded quite high and described as high in the grade, so we went for easy stuff. Angus hadn’t trad climbed for ages and Ryan and I hadn’t done much at all during a year of lockdown. First Ryan led “Exit Corner”, a straightforward VDiff up a blocky corner, I seconded and Angus toproped. We abseiled down again and I led “Lemming Way”, a Severe route up another corner with a fairly exposed, awkward section which had a disconcertingly damp crack where I faffed around with some tricky gear placements.

I belayed the other two up and we abseiled down again. This time Ryan picked “Centurion”, a Severe line up a nice-looking crack with one difficult looking move under an overhanging block. He got to that move without much difficulty but got stuck there, so he came down and I had a go without any real expectation of getting any further. It was an awkward and fairly bold move involving a high right leg and some dubious holds, but I committed to it and to my surprise pulled up over the block. The finish was quite loose but otherwise fine, and I belayed Ryan and Angus up (using a munter hitch as I’d given Ryan my belay plate) feeling quite pleased with myself. As I was doing so I watched a little nervously as a cow approached and sniffed another belayer’s rope anchor at the edge of the cliff –  I didn’t want anyone to have to contend with curious cows while belaying, and I definitely didn’t want a cow to fall off a cliff. Luckily the cow lost interest and wandered back to safety.

Trad climbing always takes longer than you expect, especially when you’re a little out of practice and there are three of you. By this time we’d only done three climbs and three abseils, but it was mid-afternoon and we were getting hungry (having overlooked the value of packing lunch). We were satisfied with our taster of Pembrokeshire climbing (although Ryan and Angus slightly more so than me) so we packed up and headed for the nearest pub.

We walked west and took a detour via St Govan’s Head chapel, a tiny, ancient limestone chapel down steep steps built into the side of a cliff and perched above a small cove. It’s a striking building which merges into the cliff quite naturally, as if it’s always been there, and some of the etchings on the stone altar suggest that it’s drawn interest for a very long time.

We climbed back up the steep steps and walked north for half an hour into the village of Bosherston and found the pub, the St Govan’s Head Inn. Dad had left me a voicemail saying that he’d booked the five of us in for dinner at (unhelpfully) “the local pub” and nobody had any phone signal to find out which pub it was, so we had a couple of drinks there and after a bit of phone-waving, I received a text suggesting that we were in the right one so we stayed.

Mum and dad turned up about 6 and true to form, I was decidedly wavy after two or three ciders while Angus and Ryan were fine. The pub was lovely inside, with wooden beams and low ceilings, and the food was very good – I had dressed crab and some chocolate thing for pudding, and my only complaint was that Ryan promised me one of his prawns but ate them all before I could get there. We split the bill between Ryan, Angus and I and walked back to the campsite along a narrow, hedge-lined road, happy with a good day’s climbing and pubbing.

Saturday 3rd July

Stackpole Gardens

It was mum’s turn to pick something to do, so we ended up at Stackpole Walled Gardens. Entry is free and a lot of the gardening is done by adults with learning difficulties as part of a charity thing. It’s a nice place to go, with long greenhouses, strange plants and sculptures, and it had lots of little corners to explore. Our favourite part was the rows of fruit available to pick for free, including strawberries, raspberries, gooseberries, blackberries and tayberries. We were there for an hour or so, until we ended up getting drizzled on while waiting for mum to finish bumbling around.

Surfing at Freshwater West

Taxi of dad then took us to Freshwater West beach, where we just about found a parking spot. Ryan and I changed into wetsuits and took the surfboard and bodyboard down to the long, sandy beach just down from the car park, and waded into the rough sea. We didn’t get far at all before being batted back by the waves. The surf was beyond our skill level in that we couldn’t even get the surfboard out far enough to catch the longer waves – the ones close to shore were short and ferocious, crashing high above our heads and pulled quickly back from under our feet.

We were washing machined around for a while, which involved getting hit multiple times with the boards and noting that a hard surfboard is considerably more painful than a foamie. One such collision (with my thigh) resulted in one of the three fins snapping off the surfboard and from then our attempts at proper surfing ceased. I’d managed to stand twice, both times in the shallows, and both times for a record-breakingly short duration. Body boarding was good fun though, and less calamitous.

After about an hour of being battered by the sea, we tramped back along the beach. Dobby’s grave, consisting of a lot of stones all piled up, was up on the sand dunes to the left – apparently it’s where the scene was filmed (spoiler – Dobby dies). The sea, and our attempt to find some surfable waves, had dragged us quite a long way to the right, and annoyingly we noticed on our way back that the surf to the left had calmed down a lot to the point where surf schools had started eyeing it up.

Feeling half-starved, we grabbed lunch from the famous Café Mor burger van in the car park. I had the vegetarian burger and Ryan had the classic Mor burger with chips. The people were really friendly and the burgers were amazing, served with some kind of seaweedy pickles and relish.

Powerkiting at Broad Haven South

We went back to the campsite via Pembroke so that mum could grab some bits from (ie. spend an inordinate length of time in) the shop. We helped pack up the awning and for tea mum cooked a strange but very nice mix of bits that needed using up, which included buckwheat, mackerel and salad.

That evening we wandered back down to Broad Haven South beach to show the others Ryan’s powerkite. There was practically no wind but we just about managed to get it up and give dad and Angus a go. It was nice to fly it on the beach regardless and the only downside was that in my enthusiasm to take the mountain board despite the lack of wind, I graunched my heel on the axle while scooting along and it bled quite a lot.

On the walk back up the hill the heavens opened. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was like a tropical storm – we were dry one minute and drenched to the bone the next, so much so that it stopped being annoying and became funny. Once back at the vans and changed into dry clothes, we all huddled in dad’s van and spent the last evening chatting away.

Sunday 4th July

National Museum & Cardiff

We parted and left, a little sad, quite early on Sunday morning. It was grey and wet and we counted ourselves lucky that the Welsh weather had arrived just as we were leaving. Ryan and I came back via the National Museum at Cardiff as I was keen to see the city, having never been before, and thought the museum would be a good rainy day activity.

We parked in the city centre quite cheaply – £5.50 for 4 hours – and walked the short distance to the museum, through an attractive, leafy park and past the grand university and court buildings. Entry was free and it was very interesting. The ground floor was all about the natural history of Wales and housed an incredible collection of rocks and meteorites, dinosaur and prehistoric animal skeletons and information about plants, fungi and habitats. After a lot of reading I sensed Ryan’s growing impatience and we moved upstairs to the art floor.

This had lots of cabinets filled with pottery which was, in our untrained opinion, of uncertain aesthetic value. It was a bit of a labyrinth, with different rooms housing works of photography, paintings and sculptures. The work ranged from very old-looking portraits of heavy-eyelidded, curly-wigged posh people to modern paintings in blocky colours with dubious justifications as to what makes them worthy of gallery status. One exhibition featured huge paintings by a couple of artists which I thought were excellent and very poignant, having read about their cultural backgrounds, but I can’t remember their names.

After a couple of hours we left the impressive building through the large marbled, columned foyer and went for a wander around Cardiff city centre, pleased that the weather had cleared up. I thought it was a very attractive and clean city, with a young, lively atmosphere and lots going on. There were all sorts of shops, cafes and bars in a very small area and the castle was impressive, set near the centre with high, well-preserved walls. After a quick excursion to a phone shop so Ryan could sort out a new phone contract, we grabbed a subway and headed back to the van.

And so concludes our holiday in Wales. We had a lovely, busy week and it was really nice spending some time with my family, especially after lockdown(s). The two van, one tent setup worked well and we got to see a lot of Pembrokeshire, although there’s definitely more to see. I have a feeling we’ll be back…

North Pembrokeshire, June 2021 (1/2)

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This blog post (1 of 2) tells the tale of the first half of a week campervanning in Pembrokeshire, a coastal national park in west Wales, spent with Ryan (boyfriend), Mum (mother and chef), Dad (father and taxi driver) and Angus (not-so-little brother).

Ryan and I drove up as soon as he finished work on Saturday evening and we found a quiet wild camping spot near the village of Newport, where we’d be staying. The van was fully loaded with climbing gear, surfboard, bodyboard, mountain board, power kite and other miscellaneous toys, so the week was looking good.

Sunday 27th June

Parrog & Newport

We joined mum, dad and Angus at Tycanol campsite, a basic site with lots of green space and stunning views over the wide, sweeping Newport beach. First on the agenda was a walk along the Pembrokeshire coast path, conveniently accessible from the site, down to the quaint old port of Parrog. It was a tiny, pretty place, where little boats sat moored in a calm quay cut off from the sea by a sand bar and green hills perched above the cliffs and dunes across the bay.

We walked a short way up the hill to the bigger village of Newport, where the busy streets were lined by attractive stone houses, shops and cafes. We grabbed some supplies and walked back along the main road to the campsite, where we took advantage of the wind and flew Ryan’s stunt kite.

Castell Henllys

After a ploughman’s lunch, we all got into dad’s van and went to Castell Henllys Iron Age village. It was worth the £7.50 entry fee – the walk up to the village took us along an ancient stream, through leafy woodland and past the resident pig. The roundhouses were very authentic and the three talks/demonstrations on food, village life and battle were excellent. To my delight, we had a go with the slingshots and I took great joy in lobbing a lump of dough at dad. Remarkably, he still treated us to a drink and a cake at the café.

Nevern & Preselis

On the way back we stopped at a timeless hamlet called Nevern to see the bleeding yew, a remarkable, 700 year old tree in an atmospheric little churchyard which oozes blood red sap. It was simultaneously eerie and serene, a strange combination, and the sap smelt nasty on my fingers. A brief excursion across a stream and up a wooded hill took us to the site of an old motte and bailey castle, now reclaimed by nature, where only earth mounds disclosed its human past.

Still keen to explore, dad then drove us back through Newport and a little way into the Preseli Hills, where the four of us (minus mum, who had a bad knee) walked the short distance up through heathery moorland to the rocky tor of Mynydd Caregog. The plateaued landscape reminded me of Dartmoor, with its distant rolling peaks and scattered granite outcrops, and there were spectacular views over the sweeping blue curve of Newport Bay, tucked between strikingly green Dinas Head to the left and pasture-topped cliffs to the right.

Realising that it was 7pm, we hurried down to Parrog and arrived just in time to order fish and chips. After a long wait and some impatience on my part, we ate them in the van – delicious – then went back to the campsite for some drinks.

Monday 28th June

St Davids

The weather looked wet in the morning, so we decided against strenuous activity. After another bimble around Newport we drove 40 minutes west to St Davids, the smallest city in Britain with a population of 1,600. Grey stone houses and shops lined its bustling streets, which were pretty despite the overcast sky, and the old cathedral was incredible, with flagstone floors, carved and painted high ceilings and perfectly symmetrical stone arches. Ryan and I walked back up the hill to the stone cross at the city(!) centre, queued for ages to get lunch (chicken baguette and a pasty), and met the others back at the modern information centre by the car park.

Whitesands Beach

We realised that we hadn’t planned beyond St Davids, so decided last minute to visit Whitesands Beach just up the (very narrow, twisty) road. An archaeological excavation was going on at the site of an old chapel just above the beach, which is being threatened by erosion. We peered down, fascinated, on people brushing dust from thousand-year-plus old human skeletons, including that of a baby. See https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-57685284 if you’re interested.

While mum and dad sat on the beach, Ryan built stone towers, Angus pottered around the rockpools and I went to explore a rocky promontory. The vertically layered slate was awkward to walk on but the excursion was worth it for the deep, coral reef-like rockpools, sea-filled tunnels and wild, remote scenery. I went over the other side of the big rocky lump, away from the beach, and looked out on a small, empty beach, wild headlands and a calm sea under a moody sky. There wasn’t a boat in sight and all that interrupted the horizon was a few small, hazy islands.

I clambered around the rocky lump and made my way back to the beach via a rockpool-bottomed tunnel, which required a short climb out the other side. We regrouped and went back to the campsite for the evening, where mum cooked vegetarian curry and we sat planning the next day’s hike.

Tuesday 29th June

Hiking in the Preseli Hills

In the morning Ryan, Angus and I were dropped off on a roadside near the village of Crymych. Our plan was to walk the bridleway that runs east to west across the spine of the Preseli Hills (sometimes – dubiously in my opinion – called Mountains) and get picked up from a pub on the other side. Meanwhile, mum and dad went to a woollen mill, much to mum’s delight and dad’s indifference.

The forecast was dry and overcast, but there was a distinctly wet-looking fog hanging over the hills as we approached. We went through a wooden gate which marked the eastern boundary of the Preselis and instantly deviated from the bridleway to climb Foeldrygarn, the first hill – a big, green, rocky lump looming in front of us – that sits slightly north of the path and is topped by a trig point, which we decided made it worth a visit. It was steep enough to break a sweat and once at the top we messed around on the rocks (at one point I got stuck a little too high and needed a spot from Angus) while Ryan experimented with his new gimbal video thing.

We rejoined the main path and headed west across the undulating moorland plateau, which was full of sheep, fog and rocky outcrops. We spotted an enormous red kite (questioning at one point whether it was a lost eagle) and a few skylarks, but it was otherwise quite barren. We stopped to pull on raincoats on account of the wet fog that engulfed the hills and thwarted what was probably a stunning view over north Pembrokeshire. The next four miles was oddly enjoyable and consisted of bleak fog, the occasional bog and passable banter.

We stopped for a strange lunch of pork pie, cheese, lamb pasty and mugshot pasta (I can’t recommend a Jetboil enough) by the edge of Pantmaenog Forest, then headed south away from the main bridleway towards Foel Cwmcerwyn, the highest peak in the Preselis and the last hill of the hike. The sun had started to burn through the fog and it was quite clear by the time we reached the top. The view was incredible, stretching out over miles of quiet valleys, green fields and dark forests, and we looked back to see the Preselis still shrouded in the isolated layer of thick white cloud we’d just emerged from.

The walk down was reminiscent of the hobbits leaving the Shire, with abundantly biodiverse meadows and verges on either side of us filled with all kinds of grasses, wild flowers and trees. In front and to the left was a heartwarmingly pastoral view over peaceful Welsh fields rolling way into the distance, and behind was the lush, fir-lined edge of Pantmaenog Forest.

The path dropped down through a sheep field into the village of Rosebush, where our 8.5 mile hike ended at the Tafarn Sinc pub. The community-owned pub is worth a mention in itself, with its purple corrugated iron cladding, sawdust-scattered floor and timeless décor, which includes various mysterious agricultural implements and several legs of ham hung up to cure. We had a drink while awaiting our taxi, then another when it arrived bearing mixed reviews of the woollen mill.

Newport Beach BBQ

The taxi (dad) drove us onto Newport beach, where we kicked a ball around and explored rockpools, shallow caves, a small waterfall and grassy sand dunes. Ryan and I watched England beat Germany (much to our surprise) on my phone, in terrible quality as signal was bad, while dad cooked the barbecue. We had sausages, burgers and salad (to which my contribution was foraged sea beet and dandelion), washed up in the back of the van and went for a walk along the long stretch of sand towards Parrog, which was cut off by a deep stream. The beach was practically empty and the sunset was lovely.

Wednesday 30th June

Tombstoning at Blue Lagoon

The forecast was good so we decided to get wet. We went west along the coast to Abereiddy, a tiny, pretty coastal hamlet with a small beach and a disused slate quarry which has become a hotspot for swimmers, paddlers and ledge jumpers. The quarry is called Blue Lagoon, which is a lovely if unimaginative name as it’s effectively a large bowl of clear blue water connected to the sea by a narrow channel. On the far side are two man-made platforms, once used as part of the quarry, which drop straight down into the water.

The three of us (mum and dad chose to stay at the beach) walked down into the bowl, changed and clambered over the rocks and into the cold water. We swam across to the other side, dodging swimmers, paddleboarders and a huge jellyfish, and climbed out and up to the platforms. There were a lot of people queuing for the lower one, which is about 4 or 5m high, so we went straight to the higher one, about 12m – nearly the same height as three double decker buses.

Peering straight down into the dark water below was adrenaline-inducing enough, so without hesitating we checked it was clear and one-by-one, jumped off the edge before reluctance could take hold. It’s the highest thing I’ve ever jumped off and the feeling of weightlessness was exhilarating, if a little terrifying – my instinctive fear response sent a “what the hell are you doing” type message through every fibre of my being and it felt like I was falling for an age. I hit the water the right way but it was still quite an impact due to the height of the drop, and – relieved to be alive – I swam to the surface grinning, retrieved the terrible wedgie, and hauled myself out onto the rocks like an ungainly seal. For some reason, I did it several times more.

We were probably in the water about an hour before deciding we should get back to make our pre-booked 2pm kayaking spot, so we swam back across the lagoon to our stuff on the beach. I shivered my way into my changing robe, which provided immense relief, and we walked the short distance around the coast back to the van, parked just behind Abereiddy beach.

Kayaking & Paddleboarding at Llys-y-frân

I’d booked a canoe for dad and Angus, a paddleboard for Ryan and a kayak for myself at Llys y Frân, a lake and country park at the foot of the Preseli Hills. After a brief altercation – I think the only one of the holiday – about washing up and being slightly late, we were out on the water in the warm sun. It was incredibly quiet, wild and peaceful. First we paddled up the smaller, left hand “arm” of the lake, past lush green banks with trees overhanging the water and over roots visible through the shallows – it could have been prehistoric. The only people we saw were a couple picnicking in a clearing at the end and the safety man in his powerboat.

Ryan and I swapped, then we paddled back to the bigger, wider arm of the lake, which gave a good view of the Preseli hills. It was less sheltered here and we were fighting the wind, which was fun as it was quite hard work. On one side the bank was crammed with thick, leafy trees and on the other a grassy slope was occupied by people fishing, walking and sitting on benches. We paddled as far as we could go given the 2 hour hire time, then turned around and came back. Angus treated us to a drink at the clean, modern café, then we headed on to the pub for a meal.

Tafarn Sinc & Bessie’s Pub

The food at the Tafarn Sinc was lovely and service was good, considering how early we arrived. It was a simple, proper pub menu with nothing fancy or unpronounceable (apart from the Welsh side). After a meal and a couple of drinks we headed back to the campsite via Bessie’s pub, properly called the Dyffryn Arms, nestled in the thickly wooded old valley of Cwm Gwaun.

I’ve never known a pub so cemented in time. The bar is a tiny hatch in a room with a tiled floor and granny-style floral wallpaper, filled with a hotchpotch of chairs and decorated with what would be, if hung up anywhere else, a naff old bunch of pictures (including a painting of Queen Elizabeth in her 20s, probably the most modern object in the pub). They do approximately one ale and one cider, mysteriously extracted from somewhere behind the hatch, and the unlit outside toilets are charmingly ancient, cold and dark. Our pints just about stayed upright on the wonky bench as we overlooked the field, stream and woods on the other side of the narrow valley. I think it’s one of those places that should never change.

It was our last night in North Pembrokeshire and the end of the first half of the holiday. When we got back to the campsite, Ryan and I packed up our stuff and went wild camping for a night on the Preseli Hills, where we found a small, pull-in car park hidden in thick fog. We watched Jeremy Clarkson’s Farm on my phone and planned the next day, where my next blog post begins…

Alps 2020, Day 7: Return via Switzerland

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We packed up our stuff and left our cosy Italian apartment, sad to be homeward bound. The first part of the drive took us along a road flanked by magnificent, snowy peaks,  out of Italy via the Great St Bernard tunnel. We climbed up to it in our little VW Polo hire car, paid the toll and emerged in Switzerland 6km later.

We wound down the equally mountainous road on the other side, marvelling at the Swiss Alps. The roads were wide and smooth and large chalets made up towns and villages, boasting hotels, amenities and ski-related things. We stopped at the Relais-du-St-Bernard, a service station on the edge of a town called Martigny. It was nice to stretch my legs after an hour or so of having to concentrate on the road, rather than the stunning surroundings, but we were amazed (not in a good way) at the price of food at the service station.

The next bit of the drive took us north along flatter ground to Montreaux, a large town on the eastern side of Lake Geneva. We parked on a roadside close to the edge of the lake and got out for a wander. It felt like a well-kept place, with benches, trees, clean pavements and an attractive marina. We walked down to the lake and just stood there for a while, taking in the breathtaking view of the rippling water backed by high, jagged, snow-scattered mountains under a moody sky.

We got back in the car reluctantly and headed to Geneva along the long north side of the lake, bypassing Lausanne and hoping to get there with enough time to drop the hire car off and have a little explore. I’m writing with hindsight and I don’t remember anything notable about the drive, until we got to Geneva.

Our Air BnB and the car drop-off point was near the airport, north west of the city centre. We had quite a long, stressful time finding a petrol station and returning the car. We got to the busy part at what must have been rush hour and Google maps wasn’t being particularly helpful at finding us a petrol station. Angry Swiss drivers exacerbated the situation, so Ryan became a stressed and (sorry) fairly unhelpful passenger while I navigated the difficult-to-understand roads, conscious that there were probably Swiss driving etiquettes to which I was oblivious. Eventually we managed to fill up and return the car to the multi-storey car park drop-off point on time.

Loaded with all our stuff, we set off on foot to find our Air BnB, a very basic, student halls type apartment in a not-particularly-nice area that we’d chosen because it was within walking distance from the airport and relatively cheap (about €60, which was ridiculously expensive compared to our lovely French and Italian accommodation). We dumped our bags and, starving, didn’t bother to change before setting out to find some food.

We’d hoped to see the city centre but were exhausted and hungry from the stressful drive, so we found a bar along a main road within walking distance of the apartment. From memory this part of Geneva wasn’t anything special – I remember wide roads, slightly run-down takeaways, peeling posters and a lot of overhead wires. The bar was lovely though, a proper “local” where nobody spoke a word of English, and the wine went down a treat – as did the complementary cheese savouries and cured meats.

After a couple of drinks we found a restaurant called Da Vinci’s, just down the road. It was too posh for our salopettes and base layers but we didn’t care. For starters Ryan had porto soup, a thin broth made with port and beef stock, which was absolutely nothing to write home about – unless to warn against ever ordering porto soup. I had snails in garlic butter which were chewy but tasted nice. For mains Ryan had pasta carbonara, which was lovely, and I couldn’t resist my favourite treat – prawn cocktail. Afterwards we sat at the bar for some drinks and were pleasantly surprised when the bartender cut into a huge wheel of cheese and handed us complementary snacks, including lots of olives (another favourite).

Eventually we left the bar and went back to the apartment, exhausted and sad that the holiday was nearly over. Our flight was early the next morning and we were up at an unearthly hour, lugging bags to the airport. The bag weighed in a few kilos too heavy (always anxiety-inducing) but luckily we had a friendly baggage attendant, so Ryan put on his heavy mountain boots and we layered up even more, somehow reducing the weight to under the 20kg limit. Everything else was unremarkable; we hung around at the airport for a bit, mournfully watched Switzerland disappear through the plane window, and got picked up early from Bournemouth Airport by Ryan’s brother.

We were lucky to get abroad in 2020, given the pandemic that shocked the world just a month after we set foot in Switzerland. I’m writing 14 months late due to various diversions, so may have missed a few things out, but I’m relieved to finally have finished my Alps blog. Definitely a place to return to, as often as possible. In hindsight, even losing control of the hire car along a steep, icy back road makes a good story. 10/10 an excellent adventure.

Alps 2020, Day 6: Aosta Valley, Italy

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I’m writing this a year and four months late, which is quite poor even by my timekeeping standards. A lot has happened since then (global pandemics etc) and other diversions have meant that I’ve neglected my blog terribly, so consider this my effort to catch up.

We woke in our cosy Italian Air BnB, breakfasted on cereal, made coffee on the hob with a saucepan and ladle (no kettles in Italy) and drove off to find somewhere to hike. I can’t remember why we went where we did – maybe we Googled local hiking spots – but after a short drive we ended up parking in a pull-in halfway up the side of a mountainous valley. The weather was kind of grey and snowy, but visibility wasn’t too bad and we loved the remoteness of the location.

We waded through deep snow towards a forest, following what vaguely resembled a path. When we reached the trees it was as if we were transported into a winter fairytale. Dark green firs, pines and spruces towered above us, branches laden with thick snow, and as we got further in the tracks faded and the white ground ahead became pristine. It felt like we were the first people to ever set foot in the forest.

We played around, shaking snow from branches, throwing snowballs, falling over, climbing bits of rock, drinking from a stream and shuffling along the trunk of a fallen tree. It was surreal, like noone else existed. We ate feta and salad sandwiches under the shelter of a rock and, childish impulses satisfied, headed back to the car the same way we came.

I drove cautiously along the winding roads, down the side of the valley and into the town of Aosta. After a brief altercation with an uncooperative, non-English speaking parking meter, we managed to get a ticket and wander round the town. Neither of us had been to Italy before so we found it really interesting.

Aosta is an ancient place which has largely retained its Roman foundations, including thick city walls, an amphitheatre, some old gates and a regular, blocky street plan. On approaching the centre we walked through a couple of stone arches and were bemused by the juxtaposition of thousands-of-years-old architecture with modern, raised walkways and handrails. Despite this contrast the town didn’t feel fragmented or piecemeal in any way – it felt simultaneously old and new, “then” and “now” inextricably woven together and brought to life by a vibrant buzz of people, flags and shop fronts. We weaved along cobbled streets lined by four and five story buildings painted yellow, orange and beige, populated by all kinds of shops and pizza, pasta and gelato places.

We left the buzzing high streets and found the cathedral, a towering neo-classical building fronted by tall white columns topped by intricate carvings of crucifixes, wreaths, figures, books and ornaments. Set back under the large front arch is a wood panelled door surrounded by a colourful display of painted biblical scenes, framed by golden columns and another arch containing delicate statues with painted robes and faces cast upwards. I cant do it justice with few words, so here’s a picture:

We explored the side streets, intrigued by intricate architectural details and the simple, timeless elegance of the place. Snow-scattered, mountainous valley sides rose above rooves and chimneys, giving the town a self-contained, cosy feel, and statues (notably of Neptune, huge trident in hand), arches and an abundance of churches hinted at Aosta’s long, rich history.

We wandered back to the car feeling satisfied with our cultural immersion, only to find some paperwork under the windscreen wipers and a couple of police officers lingering on the street. Hearts sinking, we realised that the road was being closed for the “Fiera di Sant’Orso”, some kind of festival that had been advertised on banners around the town but which we’d paid no attention to, nor had we seen road signs warning of closures (not that we’d have understood them anyway). One of the police officers said something semi-irately in Italian, to which we replied quite uncomprehendingly in English, and she took back the paperwork and let us drive away after a bit of gesturing and what was probably a bit of a telling off.*

A 20-minute drive through the valley took us back to the Air BnB, where we had a camembert snack and researched places to go for dinner. We wanted to try proper Italian pizza and we found a pizzeria called Le Vieux Bourg in a small town called Etroubles, 15 minutes from the apartment. We got there about 7pm, found a tiny shop and picked up a couple of cartons of €2.30 wine (always classy) for later, then waded through snow to get to the restaurant.

I’ve never had pizza like it. It was perfect – a thin, light base, just the right amount of tomato sauce, melty, gooey cheese, perfectly cooked toppings and not greasy at all. I had the “Twin Peaks” (sausage and onion, I think) solely because I liked the name, and Ryan had something meaty. Prices were very reasonable – more than passable wine at €2 a glass – and the waiter was friendly, as well as English-speaking. We had gelato for dessert, which we didn’t need as the pizzas were so big, but we wanted to try it and it was also very good. I can’t emphasise enough how good the pizza was, we still think about it to this day. 10/10 would recommend. I’ll stop now as I’m getting hungry.

I drove us back to the apartment and we spent our last night in Italy drinking cheap wine and trying to get over how good the pizza was. We like Italy.

* We’ve since received a parking fine in the post (14 months later) which we’re contesting. Fun & games.

Edinburgh: Scotland Day 9, Sep ’20

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We woke in an Edinburgh hotel, excited to explore the city. Covid dictated that indoor activities would require advance booking, and we aren’t exactly “advance booking” people (we’re more “last minute”, “impulsive”, “on a whim” people), so annoyingly two of the places I’d wanted to go most – the National Museum of Scotland and Edinburgh Castle – were fully booked. I’ve been before but I know that Ryan would love both, so at least we have good reason to return.

Instead we went to the Surgeons’ Hall Museum, which was even more interesting than it looked online. Jars of every body part imaginable lined hundreds of shelves in an impressive columned, balconied hall, and we learnt about an incredible array of diseases, injuries and body-snatching stories. It was fascinating and irresistibly grotesque, and I’d recommend it as an excellent couple of hours’ excursion for anyone who isn’t squeamish.

After lunch in The Advocate pub on the high street of Edinburgh old town, we spent the afternoon exploring the city centre on foot. Of all the cities I’ve been to, I think Edinburgh, with its hilly topography and incredible architecture, is my favourite. Standing at the top of the high street, the castle feels like the centrepiece of a bustling, timeless metropolis, with clean, cobbled streets lined by tall, straight-edged, regular-windowed buildings made of attractive yellow-grey stone. Pay attention and you notice the intricately carved details on window frames, corners, rooves and chimneys. Intriguing alleyways entice you in, staircases carry you to different levels of the city and monuments boast of its illustrious history. It feels like a place of paradoxes – colourful but classy, old but impeccable, stately but quaint.

After a good poke around, we had a couple of drinks in a Wetherspoons and walked the half hour back to the hotel to drop off the presents we’d bought to atone for being in Scotland on Ryan’s brother’s and dad’s birthdays. The walk took us past the towering Scott Monument, the columned Scottish National Gallery, the busy green Princes Street Gardens, a bunch of tourist shops and some lovely, posh-looking residential streets lined with tall, (I think) Georgian townhouses.

We changed clothes and walked back into town for dinner. We went to the old and incredibly charismatic Deacon Brodie’s Tavern on the high street, which was painted white, black and gold and adorned with an eye-catching array of hanging baskets and window boxes. It was quite striking inside, with dark walls, panelled ceilings and mahogany furniture, but for all that it was also cosy and inviting, and it definitely felt like a proper pub. It was named after William Brodie, a respected and wealthy Edinburgh cabinet maker and locksmith who, by night, copied the keys he had made for his clients and stole their money. He was caught and hanged in 1788, and his double life inspired Robert Louis Stevenson to write the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

We ate upstairs and I performed my signature move of drinking half a pint of cider and knocking the other half over. The food was divine and very reasonable – we shared a fish platter, then I had Balmoral chicken and Ryan had a burger. Not quite finished with Edinburgh, we left and went to Biddy Mulligans Irish bar at Grassmarket for another drink (or maybe two, I can’t remember). We walked back to the hotel totally enamoured with the city and already eager to return.

And so ended our trip to Scotland. We had an incredible nine days, fell in love with pretty much everywhere we went and did a whole load of cool stuff. It’s taken me an age to get round to writing about it, but now it’s done and I can get on with catching up on everything else.

To the land of glens, bens, tartan and thistles… we’ll be back.

Climbing Benny Beg, Stirling Castle: Scotland Day 8, Sep ’20

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Our day started in the van on the edge of Braemar, with a conversation about climbing Lochnagar. Ryan’s knee was quite sore so after much deliberation we decided that instead of hiking the White Mounth loop, which takes in five Munros in the southeast Cairngorms, we’d head towards Edinburgh and find somewhere to rock climb.

A quick Google search later pointed us in the direction of Benny Beg, a small crag about 2 hours south of Braemar, between Perth and Stirling. We drove away from the immense, rolling peaks of the Cairngorms quite reluctantly, through miles of open farmland, and found the crag car park behind a small garden centre.

A one minute walk along the footpath at the back of the car park took us to the wall, a long section of bare rock face about 10m high that seemed to be plonked very randomly (and very conveniently) in the middle of a fairly unremarkable landscape consisting mainly of crop fields.

The climbing was really enjoyable – a series of easy single-pitch routes on solid rock. The bolts were nicely spaced (ie. very close together!) and there were plenty of low grade routes, which suited us as we didn’t fancy anything particularly hard. We alternated leading four or five climbs, from 3c to 4c, before the rain crept in and we made a hasty escape back to the van.

I’d recommend Benny Beg to anyone in the area, largely because it’s so easily accessible from the road. It would be a great place to learn to climb or to take kids because the grades are easy and the bolts are forgivingly spaced. The downside is that I imagine it gets busy at peak times in good weather.


Having decided to spend the next day exploring Edinburgh, we meandered south towards the city. We’d booked a cheap hotel and had a few hours of the afternoon left, so we took a minor detour to Stirling Castle. As castle locations go, this has to be one of the best: perched on a high rock plateau whose sheer faces rise high above the forest below on one side, and which towers over the attractive, ancient city of Stirling on the other.

I have a soft spot for castles, perhaps because every childhood holiday incorporated at least one, or perhaps it was inherited from my dad (who I tease for being a medieval relic in his own right). Stirling didn’t disappoint – it had towers, turrets, battlements, dungeons, a portcullis, a (dry) moat, a (famous) bridge, a keep, a great hall, a church, cannons, mountain views, walls you can walk around – it ticked all the castle boxes. The only shame was that most of the indoor bits were closed due to some pesky pandemic, so it’s definitely one to return to.

We got to Edinburgh in the evening, checked into the hotel and planned the next day. The van is small enough to park in a city centre car park without any fuss, but also small enough that washing facilities are very limited, so we were particularly grateful for a hot shower that night.

Mountain biking Glenlivet, Braemar village: Scotland Day 7, Sep ’20

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We spotted a poster in our overnight lay-by advertising a mountain bike trail on the nearby Glenlivet estate. The drive there was twisty but very picturesque, through seemingly endless rolling hills covered in green fields, brown heather and dark pine forest. We arrived quite early and had a bowl of soup and a bacon roll in the lovely log cabin café, which was surprisingly busy considering it was halfway up a hill in the middle of nowhere.

We set off on the trail and for a while, were a little underwhelmed. After a long, gradual climb up to “Gauger’s lookout” there was some nice, flowing singletrack along part of the blue trail through “Spooky wood”, then some flat pedalling along a gravel track to join the red trail. Then came a very long uphill section along the “Forest road”, which gave us a chance to admire the majestic pines, firs and spruces that towered above us, growing thickly on either side. It felt like we were newcomers to their ancient forest domain.

After what felt like a long time, we reached the top of the hill and the landscape opened out, spoiling us with views of rolling, sun-dappled moors, fields and rich green forests, with layers of hazy blue mountains in the distance. We stopped to run up to the viewpoint at the top of the hill, stare in awe at the vastness of everything around us, and get blown around by the wind.

The Cairngorms is a different kind of wilderness to the West Highlands, where we’d come from. Mountains roll lazily over and around each other in the distance, huge green fields hug hills where farmers have managed to tame patches of soil and brown, heather-covered moorlands stretch out to the edges of old forests where trees huddle secretively in huge, ancient communities. The rivers are wide and calm and the whole panorama gives the upland plateau a strange sense of three-dimensional enormousness, stretching both vertically and horizontally as if it was its own complete, self-contained world.

Once I had satisfied my poetic inclinations with these observations, we remounted the bikes and set off on the downhill section of the red route. Our dubiousness of the Glenlivet MTB evaporated in an instant. The next few miles were an incredible mix of very (and sometimes very, very) quick, smooth singletrack which started down the side of the open, heathery hill, then zigzagged through an immense forest, punctuated all the way by black graded features – drop-offs, jumps and steps. It was probably the longest continuous downhill section both of us has ever ridden, and we flew down it feeling high as kites.

We swapped bikes for a little bit at one point and I was reluctantly sold on the smoothness and handling ability of Ryan’s new full suspension Giant, in contrast with my 2008 hardtail, but to its credit the old Rockhopper handled everything the trail threw at it (apart from the biggest jumps and drops, which I was too chicken and probably too inexperienced to try). Having said this, the brakes were very weak following the harrowing Torridon loop that we’d completed a couple of days previously.

After what felt like a blissful age of zipping through the trees, the gradient finally levelled out and we rejoined the gravel forest road back towards the car park. I was buzzing so much from the descent that I don’t remember much of the ride back, apart from that the trees were lovely and the moorland was lovely and that if it weren’t for the gargantuan climb and the fact that we wanted to explore some other places, we’d do that downhill section again in a heartbeat.

The last noteworthy bit of the trail was back in the forest near the car park, where there’s a 1km orange section consisting of wide, smooth, flowing, huge jumps and berms, which I rolled along (admittedly quite quickly) wishing that I’d learnt how to jump before I got there. Then we were back at the cabin café, where we did a celebratory couple of laps of the little pump track before loading the bikes onto the van and leaving, a little reluctantly, for Braemar.

Braemar is a village in the middle of the Cairngorms National Park, about an hour south from the Glenlivet MTB centre. The drive was very picturesque, through the heart of the landscapes I described above (am I getting lazy?), and some of the hills were so long and steep that we had to stop a couple of times to let the van’s engine cool down, poor old thing. We drove past the Balmoral Estate where I was delighted to see my first red squirrel of the trip, then instantaneously distraught as it ran across the road and got hit by a car. It was very sad, but so quick that it wouldn’t have felt a thing. I, on the other hand, was mildly traumatised.

I’d been to Braemar a couple of times before and I wanted Ryan to see it. It’s a timeless, picture-postcard old village with some kind of royal history, nestled in the heart of the Cairngorm hills and just big enough to have a bustling atmosphere. It has a handful of independent shops, a couple of pubs and hotels, a castle, a castle ruin and a Highland games centre.

We parked in the central car park and went for a wander. We found a really interesting shop called McLean of Braemar full of traditional Scottish gifts and homeware-type bits, like antler-handled knives, drinking horns, celtic jewellery and all sorts of tartan and tweed. After a good poke around we decided that being mid-afternoon, it was time for the pub. We tried The Flying Stag but it was full, so we ended up in Farquharsons Bar and Kitchen, a lovely pub on the river right by the car park.

Covid restrictions meant that we had to sit down at a table and couldn’t end up chatting to locals at the bar, like we usually would. Nevertheless, the staff were very friendly, the cider was cold and the food was lovely. It was nice to be in a pub after a few days eating and drinking in the van, especially as lockdown had meant that we hadn’t had many pub-going opportunities all year.

We left the pub (reluctantly) and went off in search of a suitable overnight spot. We found an excellent, discrete place near a duck pond, just a few minutes out from the centre. It overlooked the village, which was tucked neatly in a bowl surrounded by high, heather-covered hills. We spent the evening relaxing with a few ciders, munching on van snacks and drunkenly expressing our appreciation of how lovely Scotland is. That night the sky was jet black and crystal clear, and the stars were breathtaking.