Tag: north wales

Mountain Leader Training: Part 2 of 2

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Thursday: Scrambling in the Ogwen Valley

As if repentant for the previous day’s soaking, the weather looked to be dry and sunny – perfect for a day scrambling in the Ogwen Valley. After rushing back and forth to collect my gear from various locations around Capel Tanrallt, I bundled into Graeme’s van and spent the 45 minute journey interrogating him about a trip he’d taken to Greenland.

The route became very scenic as we entered the sweeping Nant Ffrancon valley from Bethesda. Rugged hills rose upwards either side of us and a wide, meandering river snaked between lush green fields along the broad base of the valley. The anticipation of approach grew with the mountains and reached its pinnacle as we rounded a corner into the long Ogwen Valley, which sits between the towering, lumpy Carneddau range and the set-back Glyderau, whose dark, jagged faces – although now quite familiar – never lose their ominous, tantalising mystery. After a short drive along the bank of Llyn Ogwen, we met the others in a roadside car park and walked to the little National Trust centre by Ogwen Cottage.

Lou met us there just after 9am, delivered the sad news that Geoff had developed a cold so couldn’t make it, and introduced us to Dave, who would be in charge of the other group for the day. She then went over some scrambling “theory”, which covered what equipment to take and key considerations when leading a group. We split into our two groups of six and headed up towards Llyn Idwal, with Lou taking charge of my group.

Testing the Group

The walk up to Idwal was as scenic as ever. The great, craggy ridge of the Glyderau towered in a great silhouette over undulating, rugged moraines carpeted in swathes of sandy grass, clumps of heather and a hectic array of boulders, and the morning sun – which hung low in the gap between Tryfan and Bristly Ridge – accentuated the darkness of the mountains against the warm, golden glow of the moors. On the way up we stopped several times at different boulders for little lessons on leading a scrambling group, which I summarise as follows:

  •  Before committing to a route, assess each individual’s ability on technical terrain by watching them move up and over steep-angled, low-level boulders, giving pointers on technique where appropriate
  • Help others on difficult moves by holding their heel and pushing their foot into the rock at a 90 degree angle
  • “Spot” others on steep or insecure sections by standing below them, feet wide, hands out and elbows bent, ready to control their direction of fall in the event of a slip
  • Use games such as “the floor is lava” (a personal favourite in all situations) combined with “race to the lake” to determine the more and less confident members of a group on rocky ground

After lots of practice on various boulders near the path, we reached glassy Llyn Idwal via a floor is lava race, in which Darren indiscriminately charged through the rest of us scattering bodies as he went. This hanging lake is elevated in an atmospheric glacial cwm and has its own fittingly charming (if slightly melancholic) legend, which Lou conveyed very well – we were captivated.

Idwal Legend

Prince Idwal was the much-loved and widely talented grandson of an ancient Welsh king, who was taken to the lake one day by his jealous cousin. His cousin, knowing that the prince could do everything except swim, pushed him in. The prince drowned, the lake was given his name, and to this day no bird will fly over the lake’s surface as a mark of respect.

After scrutinising the sky above Llyn Idwal for signs of avian passage to no avail, we accepted the legend as fact and stopped for “first lunch” (a unanimously celebrated concept) on the eastern side of the lake. As we ate we took in the great cwm, whose vast, craggy faces towered menacingly above us on three sides. On the far side the sinister, black cleft of the Devil’s Kitchen loomed high above the water; mist often emanates from that rocky chasm and drifts around the bowl-like cwm, which means the Devil is cooking – another fact, although harder to verify. Today was clear, and the only mist in sight came as steam from my thermos of interminable stew.

Leading a Scramble

First lunch finished, we walked to the south-eastern end of the lake and stood by Idwal Slabs, which I’d climbed the previous year. We were to scramble up Senior’s Gully, a grade I route that follows a blocky channel up the northern side of Glyder Fawr. We set off upwards and Lou demonstrated how to lead a group scramble. From memory, the notable points were:

  • Choose the safest-looking route, taking into account difficulty, protectability and consequence, but allow confident group members to pick their own route within reason
  • As a leader, station yourself at the crux of difficult sections in a place where you can help group members without getting in the way
  • Help others on technical moves by spotting, holding their boots into the wall and steering them in the right direction by holding their rucksack
  • Ensure you can communicate with (and ideally see) the whole group at all times by staying within calling distance and letting everyone catch up before rounding corners
  • Position stronger group members next to less confident members so they can provide assistance, and place a stronger member at the back of the group

Senior’s Gully

The gully was fairly “technically” easy, with an abundance of good holds and grassy, heathery ledges, a relatively shallow gradient (for a gully) and just a couple of trickier moves up slabs, but although solid the rock was quite wet, which made it slippery and slowed us down significantly. It did, however, mean that we had plenty of practice helping others up the more technical moves, as water dampens confidence as well as rock.

We took turns leading and found that there was significantly more to think about on-the-spot than when leading a hike. Visibility of the gully ahead was often limited to just the next few moves, so the safest route wasn’t always obvious, and it was quite tricky focusing on personal safety, route choice and the rest of the group at the same time. I also found it quite hard to determine the best place to stop and assist others, having never really scrambled with anyone other than Ryan, who is so absurdly confident that I never really think about him.

We reached the top just after 3pm, a couple of hours after setting off upwards. We had second lunch at the edge of the Nameless Cwm, which isn’t actually nameless as it’s called Cwm Cneifion. Google reckons this means “cwm of the tufts of sheared wool” – I prefer the more mysterious (and more pronounceable) title. I celebrated the long-awaited final mouthful of stew and watched enviously as a couple of climbers made their way up Cneifion Arete. After pinpointing our location on the map (we were never safe from nav practice) we started the descent down the steep, winding path that takes a diagonal line down the western flank of Y Gribin.

We wound down the side of the grassy ridge, chatting away and making plans to go to the pub. We reached Llyn Idwal and returned to Ogwen Cottage area on the slabby path we’d walked in, coincidentally meeting the other group right at the end. Lou debriefed our group, which was really helpful as it cemented in everything we’d covered, and we returned to the cars in great anticipation of a good pub meal.

Evening

All twelve of us reconvened in the Black Boy at Caernarfon, a large, quirky, charmingly old-fashioned and necessarily haunted pub set within surprisingly intact, battlemented castle walls. We took two six-seater tables and most of us tucked into a hearty pie and pint, which was too much for Darren, who completely lost all decorum in a mad giggling fit just as the waitress came over – I can’t remember why but it was at Jack’s expense. The merriment continued in Connie’s car and back at the chapel, where Jack produced an elaborate cheeseboard and we celebrated the week over a few drinks with the help of an 80’s classics playlist. I wasn’t ready to leave the following morning, both literally and emotionally.

Friday: Expedition up Yr Aran, Wild camp, Night navigation

After a mad morning doing all the packing I should have done the night before instead of eating cheese and drinking wine, I loaded all my gear into poor Scabbers and – with great sadness – left Capel Tanrallt for the last time. After a relatively dismal 25 minute drive along narrow, winding roads, rain pounding the windscreen the whole way, we all met at Caffi Gwynant, a cosy, elegant converted-chapel-come-cafe nestled in the Nant Gwynant valley.

We had our fill of sausage sandwiches and coffee, then met Lou and Smyrff (the other instructor) in the courtyard for an expedition brief. We were to hike up Yr Aran via a set but undisclosed route, taking it in turns to navigate legs individually using a 1:50,000 scale map. Then we would hike to an overnight camp spot, pitch our tents, spend the evening doing a night navigation exercise and return to the cars the next morning.

Morning: wet, windy & very nearly miserable

We set off towards Snowdon on the Watkin path just after 11am. The first section took us gently uphill along the edge of an old broadleaf wood, overlooking the increasingly scenic Nant Gwynant valley, which was green, lush and flanked by thickly forested hillsides set beneath high, oddly lumpy ridges. We were bemused to spot an alpaca chewing nonchalantly among sheep in a clump of copper-coloured bracken, and Darren – who was leading this leg – talked us through the seven S’s of camouflage, which are useful to consider if you need to attract (or avoid) attention in the mountains: shape, silhouette, sound, shadow, shade, shine and speed (movement).

We reached the Afon Cwm Llan after a kilometre and continued on the Watkin path, which ran parallel to the river and climbed steadily up a wide valley. Trees no longer shielded us from the weather and I felt sorry for Mohan, who led this section through torrential rain and relentless wind. Thankfully the scenery was stunning despite the grim sky. The river cut a snaking channel down from Cwm Tregalen ahead, whose towering walls loomed high in the distance, and carved between the sloping sides of Y Lliwedd, Allt Maenderyn and Yr Aran. The water plunged downwards in several places via rushing falls, which were so white they seemed to emit light amongst the swathes of russet-coloured bracken, yellow-green grass and fading early autumn trees.

We rounded a craggy corner and turned left off the Watkin Path onto the Cambrian Way, which was slightly sheltered thanks to Yr Aran’s bulky presence. Connie took the lead and (being a doctor) gave a very useful crash course in first aid, which kept us entertained during a long, steady slog up the side of Snowdon’s south ridge. As we climbed, Lou pointed out a disused slate quarry across the valley, which consisted of some ruined buildings, spoil heaps and great slate terraces forming large platforms up the lower reaches of Y Lliwedd. The steady chatter fortified our collective mood against the miserable weather.

The weather breaks

We stopped for first lunch just below the col between Yr Aran and Snowdon’s south ridge, then tramped up its slippery, slatey side to receive a hearty battering from the wind. We left the path and Jack navigated us south along the rugged crest to a small mound, at which point the rain finally abated and the sun cast an ethereal, entirely unexpected golden glow over the landscape, which now revealed itself as a vast, wild sprawl of lumpy ridges and irregular summits. Old slate works formed a strangely industrial foreground, spread across the flattish area by the col, and the Nantlle Ridge stretched out along the western horizon, its green flanks now bathed in low sunlight above the wide Beddgelert valley. Accordingly, we all took a sudden interest in photography:

Yr Aran

My turn to navigate was spent leading the group down the awkward back of the mound, over a wall, through a bog and up the steep north side of Yr Aran. The others had all given interesting talks on relevant subjects while navigating, which I failed to match with my sermon on the ecological importance of peat bogs. In an attempt to be more interesting I mentioned that George Mallory, the Everest pioneer, trained for the Himalayas on the craggy northeastern side of Y Lliwedd, the vast ridge over to our left. Having exhausted my reserves of tenuously relevant knowledge, I tramped up the mountain with the others trailing behind.

We had second lunch on Yr Aran’s sheltered eastern face, which provided a lovely view of Snowdon under a newly blue sky scattered with pale clouds. We all watched amusedly while Graeme instigated a conversation between a phone recording of a raven and a real raven, which had materialised at the rustle of a bag of jelly babies. Once the croaking had concluded we continued up and over the mountain’s symmetrical top, where I managed to miss the remains of an RAF helicopter that caught fire after an emergency landing a few years ago. Graeme then led us down the western side, a long, grassy ridge, stopping at intervals to crush my peat bog lecture with interactive dissections of fox poo and/or owl pellets, one of which contained the unmistakeable shell of a species we’d learnt to identify while on the Nantlle Ridge hike – the violet ground beetle, which glinted in the afternoon sun.

To camp

Having navigated only a short leg, Lou gave me the cruel job of getting us to a specific, indistinct point on the northwestern slope of Yr Aran. In the absence of features and paths I could only use a bearing, pacing and contours, so was relatively satisfied to be only a few metres out on arrival. After a bit more bogtrotting we rejoined a path and returned to the slate-strewn col, where old spoil heaps, walls and ruins lay vast and still in the hazy, waning light, looking serene and wistful in their abandonment.

We crossed the col and dipped back down the other side, then followed Mohan along a vague path along the base of Snowdon’s south ridge for about a kilometre. We stopped at a flattish grassy area nestled between the hillsides of Cwm Tregalan, which towered above our camp spot on three sides, and busied ourselves by erecting tents, offloading sleeping bags and preparing dinner. Jack joined me while I munched boil in a bag chicken and rice, gave me half his hot chocolate and was unshaken by everyone’s relentless teasing: by sharing Connie’s tent and my jetboil, he’d achieved what was deemed a “lightweight hike” and concluded, quite rightly I suppose, that he’d simply “taken initiative”.

Night nav

Our preparations for a night navigation exercise were interrupted by the arrival of a poorly-looking lamb, which stood very close to Lou’s tent, swaying slightly, and seemed quite unaware of its surroundings. It looked a little forlorn but otherwise happy enough, but it clearly wasn’t well, so Lou texted a local farmer to arrange for its collection. Once this minor drama had been seen to we partnered up and set off in the dark, taking it in turns to lead short but time-consuming legs across the rugged terrain.

Jack and Darren led the first leg downhill, across a stream and to a small stone sheepfold, while the rest of us followed by taking a bearing off the leaders each time they changed direction and counting paces. This was slow and difficult on the rough ground, but it was quite exciting hiking in pitch dark and we were thankful for the lack of wind and meaningful rain (drizzle doesn’t count in Wales). Connie and I took over, took a bearing to a stream then handrailed it up a steep bank, helpfully advising the others not to fall in. We reached our destination – a featureless point on a small hill, denoted by the curve of a contour – using a bearing and pacing, and remarked how different the landscape seemed in the dark. Using contours as visual features was almost useless, as each tiny mound seemed extremely large without the context of its surroundings. This was the key thing I took away from the exercise – focus on bearings and pacing.

Mohan and Graeme led the final leg across undulating mounds and we bumped into the other group, a cluster of headtorches and cheery voices, just before returning to camp. I scouted round for the lamb but it was nowhere to be seen, so – hoping that the farmer would come and look for it early in the morning – we inspected each others’ tents. I admired Darren’s two porches, while he described mine as “palatial”, and I inwardly added “smaller tent” to my shopping list before heading to bed. I certainly do not need a new tent.

Saturday: Return, River Crossings, Debrief

After a good night’s sleep (the rain only woke me once) we were all breakfasted, packed and ready to leave by 8. Gold-lined clouds sat low above the distant hill that spanned the V of our valley as the sun crept above the horizon, making for a spectacular start to our final day. We hiked down the rugged slope for a kilometre, commenting on how near the features from the night nav seemed in daylight, and I quizzed Graeme on the merits of sphagnum moss while Connie recited the lichens she’d learnt.

Back on the Watkin path, the river rushed vigorously alongside us and we passed a small weir which Lou explained forms part of a local hydroelectric scheme (I think these should be widely endorsed). Lou then diverted the conversation back to the ML syllabus and we discussed campcraft, which encompasses various considerations around taking a group on a multi-day expedition such as hygiene, safety, cooking, equipment and environmental impact. Then, just as I was reading an information board about the Watkin Path being the first official footpath in Britain, Lou’s friend the farmer appeared on a quad bike on his way up to search for our poorly lamb, to everyone’s relief. He later reported that it had been found and collected.

By the time we descended into the pretty broadleaf wood we’d passed the previous day, people had started up Snowdon in droves and I was glad for the relatively quiet experience we’d had up Yr Aran. We emerged onto the Nantgwynant Valley road and saw that the laybys we’d parked in were now full, being a dry Saturday morning. With the expedition over, we crossed the road and commenced our final practical exercise of the week – river crossings.

River crossings and emergencies

We found the other group knee-deep in the wide, relatively shallow Afon Glaslyn and made our preparations to get wet. I thought I’d experiment by tying a spare bootlace tight around the top of my waterproof socks, outside my waterproof trousers, to see if my feet stayed dry (they did not). As Glyn led the other group across the river in a loud, military fashion, Lou talked us through how to deal with emergencies in the mountains, useful phone apps/services and demonstrated how to evacuate casualties using firstly a group shelter, then a jacket and hiking poles. After parading each other around on makeshift stretchers, we practised several methods of crossing rivers in a group – I’ll attempt to summarise what we learnt:

  • Choose the safest looking place to cross, taking into account the depth and speed of flow
  • Face upstream, maintain a wide, stable stance and walk sideways like a crab
  • Straight line: the group crosses together in a line facing upstream, one behind the other, holding on to each others’ shoulders/rucksacks. The leading person creates an eddy that protects the others from the brunt of the flow
  • Wedge: the strongest person forms the apex of a wedge and the others form a triangle behind them, all holding onto each other. The smallest/weakest people at the back are protected by an eddy and the group moves sideways together
  • Chain: the group spans the width of the river, holding on to each others arms/bags, and the last person moves from one end of the chain to the other by passing behind the line of people, taking it in turns to move one at a time until the chain reaches the opposite bank

With that done, we wobbled and giggled our way out of the water and back to the cars, wet to the knees, and drove in a loose convoy to Llanberis via the winding Nantgwynant valley road and the ever-scenic Llanberis Pass. I parked by Llyn Padarn and joined some of the others for a coffee and sausage roll in a little café, then we made our way to the previously visited Y Festri village hall.

Conclusion

The final session covered how to record Quality Mountain Days (40 of which are required to pass the assessment) on the online database, QMD requirements, how to navigate the training portal and useful learning resources. Lou gave us feedback and we all parted, slowly and reluctantly, with many promises to meet up for catch ups and QMDs in the near future. Llanberis’s colourful high street seemed uncharacteristically gloomy on leaving Y Festri and I set off on my drive home at 2:30pm, keenly feeling the quiet dullness of unaccustomed solitude after the constant camaraderie of the course.

To conclude, I had an incredibly enjoyable and memorable week making new friends and learning an abundance of new skills. Our group became quite tight in just a few days and we remain in contact – in November I met some of the others in the Brecon Beacons for a lovely hike, and the group chat still pops up fairly regularly. Having already spent a fair amount of time in the mountains, I was amazed at the depth of the syllabus, the variety of useful skills I learnt, and the knowledge imparted by the course instructors – for example, I never expected to come away able to identify an arsenal of plants, mosses and lichens. I plan to book the assessment within the next year or so, but in the meantime I’ll be off to the mountains again – now (hopefully) with corresponding competence and confidence!

Mountain Leader Training: Part 1 of 2

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Becoming an official Mountain Leader has been in the back of my mind for several years, but until recently I’ve elected to spend my finite annual leave gallivanting, unsupervised and unqualified (but not without hard-learned experience), around mountainous areas, sometimes with friends in tow. I just never got round to booking onto a course, and the pull of new, personally uncharted mountains was always stronger than the desire to plod around familiar areas re-enacting my DofE and army cadet days. This unjust premonition of formal mountain training was upended in October, when Ryan’s long-awaited week-long fishing trip to France robbed me of a climbing partner and gave me the impetus to sign up to a six-day Mountain Leader course in Snowdonia with Lou Tully at Freedom Outdoors.

Sunday: Capel Tanrallt

I pulled up at Capel Tanrallt at 4pm on Sunday afternoon, immensely relieved that Scabbers, our beloved, twenty-year-old, peeling, mossy Toyota Yaris, had completed the journey. I’d spent the previous 24 hours wild camping at Llyn Edno and hiking up Cnicht, the “Welsh Matterhorn”, but I’ll write that up separately. I was the first to arrive at the slate grey converted chapel near the small village of Llanllyfni and was greeted with smiles by Lou and her husband, who showed me round the accommodation and kindly found me some clothes pegs to air my tent.

The chapel was spacious, modern, cosy and well-equipped, with three large storeys, several two-person bedrooms, three bathrooms, a drying room, two living rooms and a large communal kitchen, which boasted tantalising views across to the dark, alluring summits of the Nantlle Ridge. I picked a first-floor bedroom adjoining the big living room, keen to not miss out on any social goings-on, and dumped my unnecessarily extensive array of bags by my bed (I’m not much of an unpacker, so the wardrobe remained redundant all week).

The other course attendees trickled in as I laid claim to a corner of the fridge, and Lou left us to settle in. Our first group activity came unexpectedly early, when several of us were summoned up a narrow road behind the chapel to push a van out of a ditch. With one successful team effort already under our belts, the first evening was spent making polite conversation around the long kitchen table, and on my part cooking up an overly large chorizo and chickpea stew. This would become a chore to consume over the next few days and an amusing subject for the group, all of whom refused to help eat it despite my increasingly desperate pleas.

Photo from the end of the week, hence the hastily abandoned beds!
View from the kitchen

Monday: Navigation near Nantlle

We gathered around the kitchen table at 9am for “formal” introductions, a course overview and general group discussion. Lou split the twelve participants into two groups according to where we were sitting and allocated my group to Geoff, the other instructor, who would become our exalted mentor and fountain of all mountain-related knowledge over the following three days. We then split up and shared lifts to our different destinations: Lou’s group went to hike around the Nantlle Ridge, while my group met at an incongruous little car park ten minutes down the road to practise low-level navigation on the western edge of the National Park. Everyone politely declined a lift in Scabbers, a pattern that would continue throughout the week. I’d have done the same, given the option of relying on an equivalently small, mossy vehicle, so was thankful for the lift with Connie.

Map, Compass & Pacing

The first thing Geoff taught us was that everyone has the right to roam, ie. go anywhere on foot regardless of paths, on open access land, which is coloured in yellowish on an OS 1:25,000 map. He then covered the “four Ds” of navigation (distance, duration, description and direction), parts of a compass and pacing – how many steps it takes to cover 100m, counting every other step. We followed a wide path slightly uphill across rugged moorland, counting and testing our pacing. I have an attention span comparable to that of my parents’ young labrador, so in my excitement to be in the hills I miscounted, fell slightly short of 100m and made a mental note to practise at home.

Bearings

Once fully ensconced in the rolling, hummocky moor, the topic turned to bearings. Many of these techniques are most useful in poor visibility but we’d been blessed with clear, still, sunny weather, which was helpful for practising. For ease of recollection I’ll summarise my learning in bulletpoints:

  • Basic bearings: starting from a wall, we each hid an object, shared a bearing and distance with a partner, and went to find each other’s hidden items. I lost Jack’s bottle and he lost my apple, until we realised that our proximity to a metal gate was skewing our compasses. We were reunited with apple and bottle respectively after some searching.
  • Back bearings: once at the apple/bottle, we returned to the starting point by rotating the compass 180 degrees so the south needle was in the “red shed” of the bezel, then following the direction arrow while re-pacing our steps.
  • Boxing: we learnt how to “box” around a smallish obstacle by adding 90 degrees to a bearing, pacing until at the edge of the obstacle, continuing on the original bearing until past the obstacle, subtracting 90 degrees from the original bearing and re-counting paces back to the path. Sounds more complicated than it is.
  • Aiming off: on approaching a linear feature (eg. river, path, or boundary) perpendicular to our direction of travel, Geoff taught us to take a bearing to either side of the point we were aiming for, then – on reaching the feature – to turn left/right and “handrail” it until reaching the desired point. I’ve used this in the mountains several times before and was reassured to discover that it’s an official technique.
  • Handrailing: a simple favourite, with no bearings required – this means following a linear feature until reaching a destination, eg. walking along a path.
  • Attack points: this technique involves taking a bearing to any feature that is more obvious than, but near to or in line with, the destination and navigating towards that feature so the destination becomes closer and easier to find.

Duration

As we tramped across the moor, Geoff explained how to use duration as a rough gauge of distance. He estimated that we were moving across the undulating ground at approximately 4kph, so 1km every 15 minutes, plus about 1 minute for every 10m elevation gain (ie. every time we went up a contour on the map). He then demonstrated aiming off by taking a bearing to an imprecise spot on a wall ahead, to the left of a crossing point. We followed that bearing off the path and down a tufty slope, then stopped for lunch at a little rocky outcrop by the wall.

Practice

After inhaling the first of many PBJ sandwiches I’d consume that week, we handrailed the wall right, then crossed it, hopped over a stream and divided into pairs. Each pair took turns leading the group around the rugged ground, which was flanked by the steep, sweeping sides of the Nantlle Ridge to the south and east, and sloped down towards the villages of Nantlle and Talysarn to the north and west. One at a time, Geoff instructed the pairs to navigate to a pinpoint location on the map, usually denoted by some vague feature (eg. a slight hump shown by a contour, as opposed to an obvious trig point), and the others would follow and deduce the exact location on arrival.

We wandered around the rough ground in this way for the rest of the afternoon, taking turns to lead. It was an excellent way to practise navigating and to get to know each other; I learnt that my partner, Darren, was already maddeningly competent with a map and compass, so it was helpful to discuss with him which techniques were best for each leg. All three groups successfully reached their various destinations using mainly timing and handrailing, given the good visibility, although we noted that timing was particularly unreliable on the steep, rugged sections – at one point Mohan and Graeme were tasked with leading us down a steep slope covered with knee-high bilberry bushes, which everyone took appropriately slowly, with great humour and only a couple of slips.

Our route took us across open, undulating moorland to a vast re-entrant beneath Mynydd Tal-y-mignedd, a neat, grassy summit topped by a distinctive obelisk, then along the base of the Nantlle Ridge’s hulking Craig Cwm Silyn and Garnedd-goch. Their sheer, craggy faces towered menacingly above us as we hugged the lowest contours to minimise bog contact, then we skirted around the pathless southern edge of glass-like Llynau Cwm Silyn, wading through shrub and clambering over walls. The balmy afternoon sun cast long shadows which accentuated the ruggedness of the landscape, and the dark, flat water stretched temptingly below us. There was nobody else around and it was blissfully quiet.

There’s an obelisk up there somewhere
Craig Yr Ogof

After a short climb we walked along a bank that followed the curve of the lake and rejoined the grassy path back to the car park. To me, this long, gentle downhill section felt almost dream-like. Ahead of us a flat strip of fields, hedgerows and villages separated our peripheral moor from the wide, hazy blue sea, and in the distance the dark, isolated peaks of Gyrn Goch and Gyrn Ddu floated serenely above a sublime cloud inversion. We got back to the cars at 5pm and returned to the chapel along a tiny little road.

Mountain Weather

Back in the kitchen, we found the other group spread out in front of a projector, full of excitement about the cloud inversion they’d experienced on the Nantlle Ridge and raring to absorb a crash course in meteorology. Lauren distributed cups of tea while we settled into chairs – I don’t think the two kettles were ever cold the entire time we were “at home” that week – and our lesson kicked off with a Met Office video explaining synoptic charts, which we unanimously agreed was crushingly fast-paced. Thankfully Lou translated the video and delivered an interesting session covering forecast sources, mountain weather, pressure systems and fronts. It’s been a long time since I learnt so much in a day.

The rest of the evening was spent attempting, unsuccessfully, to make a dent on my stew and talking in the kitchen with my new friends. I thrive in a group environment and the camaraderie made it feel a bit like being (many years) back at an army cadet camp, but with very interesting, experienced outdoorspeople, rather than a rabble of kids – although we were quite apt at performing that role, too. I was in my element.

Tuesday: Hiking the Nantlle Ridge

With Scabbers judiciously excluded from the group carpool, Graeme gave Mohan and I a lift to Rhyd Ddu the following morning, where my group met Geoff at 9am in a layby. The plan for the day was to hike up and along part of the Nantlle Ridge, covering various topics on the ML syllabus and practising navigation skills along the way.

Following the same format as the previous day – taking turns navigating in pairs to a pinpoint location – Mohan and I led the first leg up the grassy side of Y Garn (633m), the easternmost summit of the Nantlle Ridge. Shortly after being assured by Geoff that this was a quiet part of the National Park, being further west and significantly less well-known than the Snowdon area, we bemusedly stood aside as dozens of uniformed soldiers trailed past us in large groups. Geoff accepted our gentle ribbing but was otherwise right – we barely saw anyone else that day.

Local Folklore: a floating fairy island

As we climbed, Geoff told a fascinating story about the little lake nestled in the valley to our right, Llyn y Dywarchen. The small island in the middle was once thought to be floating, driven around the water by the wind, a fancy that was “verified” in 1698 when the astronomer Edmund Halley swam out and purportedly steered it around like a boat. The island is also known in folklore as the place where a man once joined a fairy dance and, on awakening from his enchantment, discovered that he had been dancing non-stop for seven years.

Llyn y Dywarchen, with Snowdon on the right

Y Garn

We reached the grassy plateau of Y Garn after a sustained climb, snapped a couple of photos by the summit cairn and took in the landscape, which had opened out behind us in a broad sweep of valleys and layered mountains that sprawled, blue-grey, through a thin veil of haze. Just across the wide Nantlle Valley the bulky mass of Snowdon dominated the surrounding peaks, its long, sandy green flanks stretching down to rugged hills and its dark, craggy western cwm accentuated by the shadow of a low autumn sun. Over the top of our ridge, rough slopes flattened to fields, villages and finally a wide, blue sea. Once again we’d been blessed with good weather.

Scrambling

We continued south on the knobbly spine of the Nantlle Ridge towards Mynydd Drws-y-coed, a vague summit gained by a delicate hike along a lofty strip of protruding boulders. The left side of the ridge sloped a long way down into the valley like an enormous grassy slide, while the craggy right side dropped vertically into a vast, shadowy bowl. As we approached the unmarked top, hugging the less perilous left side, the gradient increased and provided some short, straightforward scrambling sections, where we learnt how to assess a scramble by gauging its difficulty, protectability and consequence. We practised assisting others by spotting – standing below, ready to control their direction of fall in the event of a slip – and by pushing their boots at 90 degrees into any dubious footholds.

The scrambley bit ahead
The group holding Jack up

Mountain Weather: a live demonstration

After the innocuous summit we descended a short way to grassier terrain, following a flattish path that hugged a contour and afforded far-reaching views across the broad valley to distant, easterly peaks. The panorama was briefly interrupted by a white mass of cloud, which blew in and hung dramatically over the dark green swathes of Beddgelert Forest that filled the great basin below. As we rounded a corner we were treated to a real-life demonstration of the previous evening’s lesson on mountain weather: a relentless southerly wind whipped up the long, green Cwm Pennant valley then, on hitting the narrow ridge at its head, sent low clouds streaming almost vertically up and over the steep ground. It was fascinating to watch.

This ridge was all that stood between us and lunch, so we wasted no time in heading for the distinctive obelisk – which we’d looked up at from Llynnau Cwm Silyn the day before – at its far end. The middle section was narrow and scrambley, with a disconcertingly steep drop left into a bowl-like cwm. We hugged the windward side, which meant that we took a fair battering the whole way across but couldn’t be swept into the even steeper right hand cwm, then climbed a grassy slope and stopped by a wall for a relatively sheltered lunch. Geoff talked us through the requirements of a Quality Mountain Day for ML assessment purposes, then we returned along the narrow ridge.

Coming back along the narrow bit

Triangulation

At the end of the ridge we turned right and headed south down a long, grassy spur, which provided lovely views over Beddgelert Forest and across rugged hills to the sea. We stopped halfway down the spur and learnt how to triangulate as follows (this probably sounds more complicated than it is):

  1. Find a landmark identifiable both in the landscape and on the map, eg. an isolated peak
  2. Take a bearing to that landmark
  3. Transfer the bearing to the map by placing the long edge of the compass on the location of the landmark and (without turning the bezel) orienting the north-south lines with those on the map
  4. Draw a line along the edge of the compass which is long enough to represent the distance between you and the landmark
  5. Repeat twice more with different landmarks – your location is where the three lines intersect

Flora

We traipsed down and along the undulating foot of the spur, still taking it in turns to navigate to vague pinpoint features, and turned left into Beddgelert Forest. All day Geoff had been educating us on flora, and we were all captivated; he taught us to identify several types of moss, lichen and wildflower, and we learnt (through the medium of poetry) about sedges, reeds and grasses. Each species came with an interesting anecdote about its properties, characteristics and historical uses, and I learnt far too much to capture in this blog post (which I had intended – and have already failed – to keep quite brief). I may attempt to recite these in a later post.

Sedges have edges
Going into Beddgelert Forest

A Neat Conclusion: weather, flora, fauna & mythology

We followed a gravel track which wound through the forest between thick, mossy swathes of spruce. After a mile or so we emerged onto a rugged moor at the base of Mynydd Drws-y-coed, crossed a stream that had carved a wide groove in the side of the ridge, and – now out in the open – noted the darkening sky. An ominous, hazy grey curtain was approaching us from behind, so we quickened our pace and were slightly relieved when the cars came into view. Geoff’s teachings did not stop despite the looming cloud; on this final section we ate wild sorrel, examined the dazzlingly purple shell of a violet ground beetle and learnt that the rocky lumps I’d mistakenly taken for quartz, which were strewn sporadically around the landscape, were actually remnants of the skin of a white dragon that had been defeated at nearby Dinas Emrys by the very same red dragon that features on the Welsh flag.

The rain came in as soon as Mohan and I had downed our rucksacks and clambered into Graeme’s van. To conclude, it was an outstanding hike, a great social and the very best kind of school day.

Pub

Respecting the fact that all good hikes should end in a pub, we drove a short way to the Cwellyn Arms at Rhyd Ddu and reconvened over a nice, cold pint (and waited for it all to blow over). However, it wasn’t time to switch off just yet: Geoff adorned the table with an interesting assortment of literature covering the ML syllabus, local flora and fauna and first aid, then launched into an interactive lesson on mountain hazards. We covered the multitudinous ways in which a group can be afflicted by terrain, weather and animals, came to the conclusion that mountains accommodated a disconcerting number of things that should be rigorously avoided, and decided – on my part – that no amount of peril could put me off a PBJ sandwich on the summit of something (with proper risk management, obviously).

We left the pub just as two sodden hikers entered and returned to the chapel bone dry, by the skin of our teeth, for another very pleasant evening spent chatting, drinking baileys hot chocolate and eating – once again – the interminable stew.

Wednesday: Weather, Legal stuff, Ropework – Llanberis

The weather forecast for Wednesday was fairly miserable, so Lou had arranged for the twelve of us to have a morning classroom session in a community centre in Llanberis, half an hour’s drive from Capel Tanrallt. Once again Mohan and I jumped in with Graeme; we parked by a grim looking Llyn Padarn and walked to Y Festri up the wet but resolutely cheerful high street, with its colourful painted buildings and quirky shops and cafes, and although it was nice to be back in the village I was saddened to see Pete’s Eats (the well-known outdoorsey café) still closed.

RIP Pete’s Eats

Y Festri

We sat in the old chapel, which had a cosy, classic “village hall” type feel with its wooden floor, wainscotted walls and PE benches, and started off with a session that built on the weather lesson we’d had on Monday evening and covered forecasts, synoptic charts and the geostrophic wind scale. Lou then led an in-depth discussion on the various administrative and legal aspects of being a Mountain Leader, such as training requirements, how to demonstrate experience, risk assessments, insurance and professional memberships. We then moved on to ropework, which involved a talk about helmets, gloves, equipment care and appropriate rope types for leading a group hike in the mountains. For my own reference, Geoff uses (I think) a 30m long, 8mm diameter Beal twin rope.

The weather did not improve when our time at Y Festri was up. We returned to the cars, drove a short way up Llanberis Pass, met in a large layby and donned full waterproofs for an afternoon ropework practical. Lou and Geoff led us up a steep, grassy, rocky bank above the eastern end of Llyn Padarn, where we split back into our two groups and paired off. The first exercise was “confidence roping”, which is used to help a nervous walker descend a slope.

Confidence Roping

I paired up with Graeme, who was as sure-footed as a goat and clearly not at all nervous, but I’ll use his name (rather than repeating “the other person”) to recall what I learnt:

  1. Tie a waist-sized loop in the end of the rope using an overhand knot
  2. Get Graeme to step into the loop and pull it up to his waist, then adjust the knot if need be – the loop should be secure but not too tight
  3. Tie another overhand knot to stop the rope slipping through your hands, close enough to make Graeme feel secure but far enough to allow him to move freely (roughly a full armspan)
  4. With your downhill hand just below this knot, thumb at the top, stand directly uphill from Graeme and assume a stable stance – facing sideways, legs at least shoulder width apart, elbows bent, with your uphill hand holding the rope above the knot
  5. Keeping the rope taut, lead Graeme diagonally downhill, switching the hand below the knot as you change direction
  6. “Bend” the rope into a Z-shape to gain additional leverage with both hands if need be
  7. Maintain tension on the rope and reassure Graeme that there’s a pint waiting for him in the Vaynol Arms at the bottom of the slope

We found that maintaining tension while changing direction was surprisingly awkward over rocky terrain, and even more so over loose scree, so this is on my “to practise” list. With thanks to Graeme, who had the grace to act nervous.

Anchors

Once we’d got the hang of it and finished giggling at the others, who resembled strange, role-playing dogwalkers, we moved on to selecting and attaching the rope to anchors for the purpose of belaying and abseiling. The principles are familiar as I use them when trad climbing – find something that is:

  • big enough to easily hold a person’s weight, eg. a boulder, rock thread or tree trunk (at least thigh-thickness),
  • the right shape, ie. not tapered in such a way that the rope could slip off, and
  • in line with the person on the end of the rope,

and secure the rope to it by wrapping it round and tying the end to the “live” rope with an overhand knot.

We practised on rocks, fence posts and threads, then – to our relief – Geoff announced the arrival of lunchtime. We huddled into his bothy, relieved for the momentary respite from the cold, relentless rain, and I was (for once) thankful for some hot stew.

Apologies to Connie & Darren…

Body Belaying

Fed and warmed, we reluctantly left the bothy and tramped over soggy grass to a short, steeply angled rock slab, where Geoff taught us how to belay somebody up a steep section of a route using just a rope. He roped himself to a large boulder, sat near the edge of the slab and demonstrated how to pass the rope under one forearm, across the lower back and around the other forearm, which provides enough friction to hold a person’s weight. He then showed us the belay motion, which is similar to climbing in that the rope should always be held securely in at least one hand while the belayer takes in the slack. We took it in turns to have a go, and it felt quite intuitive once I got the hang of the repetitive motion. We also briefly covered belaying using an object, eg. a boulder (no sharp edges), for friction.

Llanberis Pass

As we waited our turns, we amused each other and took in the exquisite view up and down Llanberis Pass. To our right, the little whitewashed village of Nant Peris looked miniscule between the pass’s hulking shoulders, whose dark, rocky slopes climbed steeply into a thick, white cloud layer that hung suspended in the valley. To the left, swathes of copper-coloured heather swept down towards the eerily still, glassy surface of the huge Llyn Padarn, across which the vast, overwhelmingly grey slate terraces of Dinorwic Quarry rose into the fog like a literal stairway to heaven. The weather’s saving grace was the lack of wind. Occasionally the cloud would part, exuding wispy limbs that drifted in and out at random and revealing windows of slate and rock at improbably high elevations, which gave the impression that the valley sides stretched endlessly upwards. It was incredibly atmospheric and incredibly bleak, and I was glad to be below the cloud line.

Body Abseiling

The final part of our ropework lesson involved abseiling down the rock slab, again using just the rope. We learnt and practised the “traditional” and “South African” methods; the traditional abseil involves passing a single strand of rope behind one leg, over the chest and one shoulder, under the other shoulder, over the forearm and into the hand, while the South African crosses both strands around the lower back to the front, between the legs and a single strand goes around each leg into each hand (or a single leg into one hand, but I didn’t like that as much). A lot of rope-body contact means lots of friction with which to control the descent, which was exacerbated by the wetness of the rope. Once again it helped to have climbing experience, as a lot of crags require a controlled descent, and I enjoyed the novelty and simplicity of rappelling using minimal equipment.

A Cosy Evening

Despite another excellent day, I think we were all glad to return to the warm, dry chapel. Graeme stopped for fuel on the way back and I grabbed a newspaper to dry my boots, which was – in hindsight – a good decision. I couldn’t face the thought of more stew so I had tinned chicken soup for dinner, along with a variety of random snacks, and shared with Connie, Jack and Mohan the delights of Baileys hot chocolate with marshmallows (courtesy of Mohan). We fired up the wood burner and spent another lovely evening sharing stories, speculating whether Jack’s too-good-to-be-true second hand jacket would actually turn up (it didn’t) and generally talking rubbish. I was dreading the end of the week already.

The drying room, pushed to its limits
Just missing Chris & Alice!

March 2022: Snowdonia Group Trip – Idwal Slabs, Tryfan, Moel Siabod & Coed y Brenin

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Friday 25 March

We were raring to go for a social weekend in North Wales. My old friends Dave and Charley had planned a group trip up with the intention of climbing Tryfan and celebrating Dave’s birthday way back in 2020, which – like most other things in 2020 – was thwarted by covid. Excited by the prospect of a long overdue reunion and double excited by the prospect of a long overdue reunion in the mountains, we were up and on the road by 04:15.

We collected Lee on our way up, another old friend and (as we soon found out) an excellent travelling companion totally unphased by most things, including waking up at silly o’clock to set off on random activities. We had a clear run of traffic and crossed the border by 9am. Concrete and tarmac turned into steep, forested, river-bellied valleys, and we stopped at picturesque Betws-y-Coed (a lovely little town whose praises I’ve sung previously) for a snack and a leg stretch.

From “Betsy” we drove along the familiar A5 for 20 minutes, already feeling absorbed by the thick forests and rugged valley sides that tower over the sweeping road. The sky was clear and the sun was already warm when we reached the roadside car park opposite vast, dark Llyn Ogwen, backed by the hulking mass of yellow-green Pen Yr Ole Wen (which is quite high on my to do list). We threw on our already-packed rucksacks, walked along the road to Ogwen Cottage and went through the gateway to the Glyderau mountain range.

Climbing at Idwal Slabs

The path up to Llyn Idwal is well-walked and well kept, and we were pleased to pass a big school group enjoying the sunny outdoors. The unmistakeable, stegosaurus-scale form of dark Tryfan dominated the view to our left and the high ridge of Glyder Fach and Glyder Fawr loomed ahead, curving round via the wide, black crack of Devil’s Kitchen to the equally intimidating Y Garn and Foel Goch on the right. The dark, high lake sat thus in a huge, rocky, ancient bowl overlooking the stunning Ogwen Valley. I’ve previously written about this area in more detail – see here for more of that kind of waffle.

Idwal slab is a huge rock face that lies at the head of Llyn Idwal and forms part of the south face of the towering Glyder Fach/Fawr ridge. Its sloping angle, grippy rock and solid cracks makes for good, low grade climbing, so as well as wanting to try it ourselves we thought it’d be good for Lee, who hadn’t really climbed before. We planned to do the classic route “Tennis Shoe” (HS 4b) but there were climbers already on it, so we opted for the easier “The Ordinary Route” (Diff), a “classic” that was recorded as a route way back in 1897.

We roped up and Ryan led the first pitch up a wide, easy crack. Lee followed and I cleaned the gear. Having an extra person was nice because the belayer always had someone to talk to, and I was amazed at how quickly and easily Lee picked it up – I’d been a little worried that a big multi-pitch trad route might be a bit ambitious for a new climber, but I’ve never known anyone so unfazed. Ryan and I alternated leading the route and as we climbed higher, the view of Llyn Idwal and the Ogwen Valley became increasingly impressive and the lake seemed to turn from deep black to a cool blue that contrasted with the bright, sandy yellow of the mountain grass. I could drawl on about the scenery and the captivating wilderness for a long time, but I’ll use some photos instead:

The climbing was straightforward all the way up, with the occasional slightly spicier move, and we didn’t bother changing our approach shoes for climbing shoes. It would have been quite a comfortable free solo until reaching the last couple of pitches and looking down the steep face. The gear placements were generally good (sometimes too good – I spent a good few minutes retrieving one nut) with the occasional weird bare bit where the rock seemed to change, and my last belay point was slightly dubious – I’d got to the end of our 40m rope and ended up pinning myself into an outward-facing seat by slings tightly attached to a nut and a horn either side of me. It was interesting having a third person because we had to choose belay points with space for him to sit or lean, which is something I don’t usually think about.

From the last belay point we scrambled left across less steep but rocky, slightly muddy terrain towards the misleadingly named “walk off”, which took a while to find thanks to the unhelpful description in our Rockfax guide. Eventually we spotted a couple of arrows etched into big rocks and I’m glad we did, as we wouldn’t otherwise have guessed that the way they pointed constituted a “walk”. Fortunately Lee was unfazed once again and we downclimbed a short, steep, rocky scramble that the book suggests is often abseiled. Doing so with a prawn sandwich in one hand probably wasn’t my smartest move, but I’d stopped at the top to put the book back in my bag and came across the irresistible, handy snack.

We reached the bottom unscathed and walked down the sloping bank to rejoin the path alongside Llyn Idwal. We traipsed back to the car the way we came, down the hill that climbs up to Idwal (a glacial “hanging lake” set quite high up), past Ogwen Cottage and a short way along the A5, tempted by a dip in the cool, clear water of Llyn Ogwen and once again blown away by the stunning views and the unbelievably lovely March weather.

A Yaris tour along the North Coast

We left the car park to go and find the holiday cottage via a supermarket. It was six and two threes whether we went back the way we came through Betwys-y-Coed or carried along the A5 and followed the coast around, so we opted for some new scenery and went north west along the valley to the greyish town of Bethesda, then around the top of the national park via the North Wales Expressway, a smooth, wide road that runs along the north coast with the calm, blue sea on one side and hills rising hazily on the other. It felt like we were in a foreign country or a car advert, although poor, peeling Scabbers the Yaris would never make it into one of those.

We stopped at an Asda in Conwy, although it had little right to call itself an Asda – it was barely bigger than a Spar. I was more stressed out by the prospect of shopping than I had been halfway up the rock face, so we collected various fajita ingredients and assorted alcoholic refreshments and scarpered. We found the holiday place about 20 minutes south of Conwy in the middle of nowhere (where nowhere is an agricultural paradise of grassy hills, sprawling fields and long hedgerows), reached via some remarkably steep, narrow, twisty, bumpy country roads.

The House and the Reunion

We rolled onto the wide gravel drive and realised that Charley, the friend who planned the trip, had spoilt us all. We were looking at a beautiful, long, stone barn conversion with a lovely wooden extension and a huge porch. It fronted onto a slate-pebbled yard with lovely countryside views, and had its own open barn containing a hot tub, ping pong table and gas barbecue. It had four double rooms with a shower each, two living areas, a large central kitchen, a fancy staircase, lovely stone floors and a curious way of feeling both cosy and spacious. We saved the master bedroom (complete with balcony and en-suite fit for royalty) for Dave and Charley, Lee took one of the upstairs doubles and Ryan and I had the downstairs double, for alcohol and staircase-related safety reasons on my part.

The three of us unpacked the car and relaxed on comfy sofas until the others arrived. Dave, Charley and Cooper the dalmatian turned up after about an hour, Ryan and I cooked fajitas and we agreed not to drink too much that night – we had to climb Tryfan tomorrow, and it’d be better to save ourselves for Saturday night. Then Matt turned up.

He was earlier than expected and having not seen each other for such a long time (Ryan excepted, who met everyone that day), we must have gotten overexcited because everything took a turn for the worse. Drinks flowed (everywhere) as we caught up with each other, and – although my memory is hazy at best, utterly blank at worst – I think it’s probably a good thing we had the hot tub to contain us.

Saturday 26 March

I woke at 5am on a sofa, which is strange considering Ryan had put me to bed. I woke again about 8am thanks to the delightful sound (which I’ve missed for so long) of Matt cleaning the kitchen. I stood up, fell over for no reason, woke and whinged to Ryan about my bleeding knee, wandered out to say hello to Matt and Dave, and promptly returned to bed. I woke more successfully after about an hour and went to try and make myself useful, although the boys had already removed all traces of Friday night. Someone cooked bacon and somehow we were all in Dave’s car around midday.

The drive to Tryfan was harrowing. There was no avoiding the twisty country roads from the house, but after being on the main road for a while sat nav took us off and along the Gwydyr forest track instead of through Betws-y. It was a sorry excuse for a road, especially in a car full of six hungover people. I’m quite sure it’s the twistiest, bumpiest, narrowest, steepest, roughest road in the whole world, and Charley – who was the worst of all of us – looked like she’d perish at any minute. After about four calendar years we reached the Ogwen Valley and were relieved beyond words to bail out of the car.

Tryfan

Sadly poor Charley was a write-off. She made the sensible (if inevitable) decision that she’d consumed far too much gin to be on a mountain, so the five of us left her in the roadside car park with a window cracked open and trudged off towards the steep north ridge of Tryfan.

The first section involved a lot of rock-hopping and scrambling, and our senses began to clear. The summit is barely a kilometre from the car park as the crow flies and the path follows a fairly straight line, but over 600m of ascent meant that the “walk” was very steep and hands-on, requiring very little progress “across” and a lot of progress “up”. Fortunately there’s no hangover cure like cool mountain air and an imminent risk of death, so we were in good spirits before long. We followed the vague path, guessing the way up every time it stopped at bare rock and taking enough breaks to fully appreciate the incredible views up and down the long, pale golden Ogwen Valley, with dark Llyn Ogwen in its belly, the rugged curve of Y Garn and Foel Goch at its head and lofty Pen yr Ole Wen forming the opposite ridge. We couldn’t have hoped for better weather – the clear skies afforded the best views I’ve ever seen of the Glyderau and Carneddau mountain ranges and the gentle breeze kept us cool.

We stopped at the self-explanatory “cannon” for an obligatory photo, rolled eyes at the false summit and scrambled up the steepening rocks, which became a little exposed on the east side. We hauled ourselves up an extremely photogenic gully, traversed some large gaps and discovered a second cannon, which we decided was even better than the first in that the drop off the edge was much more dangerous, therefore much more irresistible. We decided that standing on it ourselves was fine, but watching the others do the same was extremely nerve-wracking as the faller wouldn’t really have to deal with the catastrophe. Once Matt – probably the most giraffe-like of all of us, and the last one to go up – made his way down from that rock, we all breathed a sigh of relief.

From there it was a fairly short but awkward way along and up, and at the top Adam and Eve appeared like effigies on the rocky summit plateau. Suddenly the view was panoramic and we were delighted, not in the least bit hungover. We did the jump between them to gain the “freedom of Tryfan” (again, watching was much worse than doing, and both were much more comfortable than last time Ryan and I did it in climbing gear and claggy weather), fed off Lee’s magic rucksack full of miscellaneous confectionary, debated why there were eggshells on the ground until deciding that hard boiled eggs are actually an excellent mountain snack, and walked the rocky but less steep and more sociable way down the summit’s sunnier south west face, enjoying the new views over to the Glyder ridge, Y Gribin and the lovely tarn of Llyn Bochlwyd.

The rocky terrain became decidedly boggy and we did our best to avoid the worst bits (especially the deep, sudden, ankle-sized holes) until we reached the well-kept path that goes from Ogwen/Idwal Cottage up to that high lake. We amused each other, notably with stories of snakes, pheasants and bits of badger-related law (thanks Dave), and felt fully recovered from Friday. Eventually the descent levelled out and the walk to Ogwen Cottage was very pleasant, except when – to Matt and Lee’s delight – a passing dog kicked a lump of mud in my hair just as I crouched to examine some frogspawn.

Return

We reached the bottom of the path, grabbed some snacks from the kiosk at the little visitor centre and made our way back along the A5 to Charley, not sure what condition we’d find her in. Luckily sleep had revived her, but the 40 minute drive to a big Tesco near-ish the house was enough to return the rest of us to our sluggish, hungover state, and once again I didn’t enjoy the shop one bit.

Back at the house Dave and Charley cooked lasagne and we spent the evening in a more acceptable way than the previous night, although it did feature the most hectic game of beer/ping pong I’ve ever played (involving six people, five bats, a washing up bowl and ball-repellent cups) and another, more chilled dip in the hot tub.

Sunday 27 March

Moel Siabod

After a lie in and breakfast rolls, we set off about midday for Moel Siabod, a mountain known as a lovely hiking destination that has been on my list for a long time. Once again we drove into the A5 valley through Betws-y, this time parking at the Tyn y Coed pub. We walked a short way along the road, then branched off up a very steep track (a substantial warm up) which eventually brought us to a sheep-spangled moorland covered in high yellow grass. The majestic, sweeping slopes of the mountain lay ahead of us and we enjoyed a near-panoramic view over rugged, rolling peaks, which were broken up into a golden-brown-grey-green patchwork of rock, grass, heather and forest.

Thankfully the path was clear and the gradient eased, so we talked our way up to the base of Moel Siabod’s rocky northeast ridge. A large, dark tarn appeared on our left as the land rose above us on our right, and we continued on feeling a bit fellowship-of-the-ring like until we reached some ruined quarry buildings and a small, deep-looking, almost perfectly round tarn with a sheer back wall. We threw a few stones in (we’re only human) before everyone else’s feeble tosses were put to shame by Lee’s rocket launcher arm, and we carried on along the base of Moel Siabod’s long, steep southeast face through grassy, rocky, heathery terrain until we came to another, larger tarn, Llyn y Foel, the hazy blue-peaked landscape opened up in front of us, and the path disappeared.

After some careful bog avoidance we stopped at the base of the Daear Ddu ridge for a snack, then began the technical part of the ascent. We’d planned to go straight up via Daear Ddu, a grade 1 scramble, but decided at the bottom it’d be safer for us all (especially Cooper) to follow what looked like the more trodden path to the left, which was effectively a scramble up a steep boulderfield away from the ridge’s sheer drop. It was awkward in places, particularly with a slightly nervous dalmatian who wasn’t used to hopping from rock to rock across big, dark gaps, but luckily he was very agile and made it up with some persuasion.

After what felt like a long time we pulled up over the edge of the mountain’s rocky south face onto the summit plateau, which was covered in large lumps of scree and dry, hardy grass. Cooper, who was relieved to be back on solid ground, had the cheek to bound off ahead as if he’d just finished the warm up while the rest of us tramped up to the trig point. Dave in particular did a lot of tramping, as I’d spent a portion of the ascent sneaking rocks into his bag (birthday beats are so 2009), which he only discovered right at the summit. He took it like a champ, and we all gawped at the now fully panoramic view until chilled by the breeze, pointing out the distinctive shapes of Tryfan and Snowdon and the uncountable surrounding peaks, which ranged in colour from hazy grey-blue to golden-yellow to brown and dark green.

The way down was more sociable, involving a walk across to the other side of the plateau, a little bit more scrambling and Cooper-herding across rocks, then joining a clear path through rugged grassland that signified the end of the most awkward terrain. As we made our way down Siabod’s less-steep northwest face the huge, dark blue-lilac forms of the Glyderau mountain range dominated our view to the left and the golden-green Dyffryn Mymbyr valley stretched out ahead of us with its random undulations, which were sometimes rocky, sometimes heathery and sometimes foresty.

We reached an evergreen forest after a long, straight “down” section and only one snack/admire-the-view break. It had that surreal, tranquil quality only found the wildest, remotest woods. Trees, birds, shrubs, spring flowers, mosses, even the stream – everything seemed to thrive in a quiet, old, unimposing way. We walked along the forest track until we reached the bottom of the hill, where the Afon Llugwy flowed white over the fascinating rock formations it had carved. We crossed at an old bridge and walked a short distance along the road back to the cars.

Chinese n Chill

The bar at Tyn y Coed was closed but we made up for it with a drink at Y Stabblau pub in Betws-y-Coed, where we’d eaten after completing the Three Peaks Challenge three years ago. Someone had planted the Chinese takeaway seed which meant the matter was not open for negotiation as we all fancied it so much, so we went back to the house, showered and regrouped in the big kitchen. After some faff trying to find a fairly nearby takeaway that was open and answering the phone, we sent Dave and Ryan off to collect the treasure after what felt like a 10-year wait. That Chinese tasted so good.

Before we ate Charley broke the wonderful news that she’d managed to get the following morning off work, so they could stay the night rather than driving back. We had a lovely evening playing ring of fire and cards against humanity (which was particularly memorable thanks to Matt’s unrepeatable answer to the “you can’t put *blank* inside *blank*” card), talking in the kitchen for ages and polishing off an unholy amount of leftover takeaway. Once again I stumbled into bed, but thankfully this time I managed to stay there all night.

Monday 28 March

Dave and Charley left early and again Matt took the lead on cleaning up the house. We had breakfast, packed up, said bye to Matt and left at 10am. Lee, Ryan and I wanted to make the most of the day without getting home too late, so we headed through the heart of the national park to Coed y Brenin forest park and set off on the 4-mile Gain Waterfall hiking trail (but not before a quick visit to the mountain bike shop and an avowal to come back for those trails another time, having only ridden the blue Minotaur trail previously).

Gain Waterfall trail

It was a lovely, well-marked route along a gravel path that took us through high, fragrant pines, across a shrubby, heathery plain overlooking the distinctive Rhinog mountain range, down a twisty valley and along the fairytale-like Afon Gain and Afon Mawddach rivers. We passed the ruins of an old gold mine and some stunning, high waterfalls which tumbled and rushed into copper-coloured plunge pools. Like the woods on the way down from Moel Siabod it was almost absurdly tranquil and timeless, and neither a dinosaur, a medieval vagabond nor a Victorian gold panner would have looked out of place in the old forest.

Home

After a sandwich and a drink in the visitor centre, we set off home. We talked for the full four or five hours, only stopping once in a pretty town with a funny hybrid petrol station/co-op/garden centre place to get petrol and cannonball-sized scotch eggs, and the sunny drive back through the Welsh/English countryside was way better than the motorway.

All in all a top weekend with top weather, top scenery, top accommodation and top people. 10/10 would recommend.

Snowdonia, Sep ’21: Coed y Brenin MTB, wild swim

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Thursday 23 September

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:

  1. Training zone – to practise braking, turning etc
  2. Singletrack zone  – four short runs graded green, blue, red and black
  3. Freeride zone – a pump/jump track
  4. 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.

Snowdonia, Sep ’21: Climbing at Dinorwic Quarry

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Tuesday 21st September

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 Sidings
The 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 Strait
Johnny 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.

The Heights
The Vaynol Arms
The Van

Snowdonia, Sep ’21: Mountain Biking the Marin Trail

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Sunday 19th September

Betws-y-Coed

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.

Snowdonia, Sep ’21: Day trip around Anglesey

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Saturday 18th September

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.

An Abandoned Welsh Mansion: Baron Hill

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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.

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.

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

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Sat 2nd Feb – Llangollen56664564_2300276663626783_9008059420726263808_n

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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