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A highlight of my April 2006 visit to the UK was a trip down ‘memory lane’: a nostalgic pilgrimage to Gelli Iago and Nantmor, which still hold their place among my favourite ‘inlaid jewels’ of
this planet.
The look of surprise on Tony Tatford's face – on realising that the ‘prowler’ he saw peering into the ‘hut’ was none other than myself – was itself another highlight (somehow he had recognized me in spite of my cunning disguise of white hair and a liberal scattering of wrinkles).Tony very kindly gave me a ‘tour’ of Gelli Iago and I was delighted to see that – apart from a few comfort-enhancing additions – so little had changed since I was last there some 30 years ago.
As a result of the visit, I renewed my connection with Nantmor, and was prompted to write this epistle.
Nantmor became, for what was a significant period of my life, a lodestone, and even now, thirty years later, generates a mental kaleidoscope of still-colourful and startlingly vibrant images. Please allow me to share some of these memories; they are in no particular order, and perhaps their highly personal nature will evoke similar memories for the reader.
First and foremost, of 1969 vintage, the Mountain Leadership Certificate training course stands out, along with the privilege of knowing and being inspired by Arthur Stow, Brenig Garrett and – through them – Jack Henson. This formed my introduction to Nantmor, and I'm certain it is no coincidence that several of the people who figure prominently in the annals of the Nantmor Association (including the editors of this Newsletter) were also participants in the MLC introductory courses.
‘Somnambulism’ is the word for ‘sleep-walking’; I do not know the word for ‘sleep-cycling’, but there must be one – the English language contains a word for almost everything. For example, ‘the fear of having peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth’ is arachibutyrophobia; ‘a sudden breaking off of thought’ is aposiopesis; and ‘the urge to look into the windows of houses you pass’ is crytoscopophilia.
A particularly strong memory is that of setting off from Bromsgrove for Nantmor on my bicycle, at 9pm (like many things during that phase of my life, it seemed a good idea at the time). By the time I reached Capel Curig I was somnambulistic (perhaps someone can tell me the word for sleepcycling); just turning the pedals became an impossible challenge.
On seeing lights in a window of the Plas-y-Brenin centre, I had the cheek – fuelled by desperation – to knock, and was saved by a large mug of tea and some toast, proffered by a couple whose late-night canoodling I had disturbed. Then, thus fortified, I experienced the nightmare of freewheeling down from Pen-y-Gwryd in a sudden, torrential downpour, at a velocity I could not control, with the brakes not working and sparks flying from the pedals when they
scraped the road on the bends.
I finally arrived at Gelli Iago at about 4am, slept on the table (the very same of the infamous crawl), there being no other suitable space, was woken up for breakfast at 7am on a clear, sunbright day, and took a group of students up Snowdon via the Watkin Path the same morning.
That night, after dinner, standing outside the front door, as my gaze was inexorably drawn to Snowdon, the mountain exerted her siren charms on me once more, and inspired by the prospect of a full moon I somehow found myself, alone this time, on the summit again at 1am.
That week I went up Snowdon five times. Those were the days!
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Never having had a car while I lived in England, hitchhiking up to Snowdonia was the preferred option. The magical moment was being dropped off in Nantgwynant, at the bottom of the lane, and immediately being struck by the silence, or the sound of the streams loud in spate, as we strode up the midnight lane. I remember going through the gates, cresting the rise of the hill, dropping into the moonbright valley, descending and passing through the slate quarry workings, crossing the little bridge, the final stretch up the track, the last gate, the loud tumbling stream
filling the air, the night air redolent of sheep and gorse, and then – finally – the welcome lights and front door of Gelli
Iago, and friendly voices.
Hitchhiking from Bromsgrove, via Kidderminster, Bridgnorth, the Shrewsbury roundabout, the A5, Langollen, Corwen, Betws-y-Coed, Capel, (the route is etched in my memory, too) became a weekend ritual. In my memory, departure was always late on Friday, thus increasing the risk of not arriving that same night. However, thanks to the women I persuaded to accompany me (my long hair, as it was in those days, would have otherwise put off any
well-intentioned soul), I was always successful.
Other flashbacks include: walking, several times, back to Gelli Iago at night (instead of returning in the minibus) from the ‘Brondanw Arms’ (or ‘Y Ring’). Writing in the signing-out book under ‘destination’ – this was rebelling somewhat against always letting people know
where I was going: ‘Beyond the Southern Star’. The Twin Lakes, at night, one of the most romantic places on earth ..Romantic with a capital R...
Instructing rock-climbing on the outcrops above Gelli Iago, and on Yr Arddu below Cnicht, rekindles strong memories. So does my falling off,
soloing, after a day of instructing (and warning people of the perils of climbing without a rope), and gashing my arms so badly I had to hide the wounds in order that a certain BG would not discover what had happened (but of course he did, later, learn the truth). That night in the ‘Saracen’, with stiffness setting in, I could not lift my pint of orange juice the necessary distance to my mouth.
Particularly memorable, too, is climbing up the miniature stream gorge above Gelli Iago, at night, in pitch darkness, without a head-torch, guided only by the feel and sequence of imprinted foot- and hand-holds, and the heightened roar of the water. Having worked out all the sequences during the daytime (and some sections were at least VS, above daunting drops), the challenge was to complete it at night.
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