|
Setting off from Gelli Iago to sleep on the summit of Snowdon one very, very cold winter's night (along with IW, another Mountain Leadership contemporary), with an old and woefully-inadequate ‘Icelandic standard’ sleeping bag and a thin blue polythene laundry bag to protect me from the elements, is still remarkably vivid in my memory. It was so cold the air crackled, and bare fingers stuck to rock.
Waiting, shivering, for the dawn, which was heralded by the sun exploding above the horizon and miraculously (it seemed) reflecting off every tiny lake and stretch of water as it climbed into a cloudless sky. Descending to Pen-y-Pass and drinking
five pints of tea, one after the other in rapid succession, and then being rescued by a very generous Tony Tatford, who
had braved the icy roads to pick us up there.
Is it possible to ‘lose’ your way on such a wellpaved highway as the Llanberis (Tourist) Path ? Embarrassingly, I can claim such a dubious distinction. Some years later than the previous episode, during a period when I found intense enjoyment rock climbing alone, I had spent the morning and early afternoon soloing in the ‘Pass’ (Llanberis Pass).
I had climbed on an almost deserted Dinas Mot before crossing to the cliffs of the south side. It was winter, but the Great
British weather had so far been surprisingly amenable. However, its true character began to reveal itself, and by late afternoon, just as night was falling, the characteristic and menacingly-dark clouds had steamed into the valley like a flotilla
of immense battleships, and rain and sleet had set in. I retreated to Llanberis.
For some reason, Llanberis never was, for me, a welcoming place (and in those days there was no ‘Pete's Eats’), and the café which existed then, and the pub later, felt cheerless, and the thought of spending yet another night in the disused railway shed, along with the sheep, even more so. So, at 10.30pm I took the perfectly logical decision (I was young, foolish and utterly invincible once – weren't we all ?) to walk over Snowdon and down to Nantmor (because I knew there was a group staying at Gelli Iago).
Having stocked up on fish & chips, I began heading upwards, at 11.00 pm.
The weather deteriorated as I climbed, visibility decreased proportionately, and the wind increased in ferocity. Deep snowdrifts obscured the railway line, making detours necessary. Beyond the ‘Halfway House’, where the railway line runs higher than the track, the trap was sprung and I was soon engulfed in a swirling blizzard white-out, and somehow wandered off the Tourist Path (I still do not know how) and ended up on what I realised was the approach path to Clogwyn Du'r Arddu.
Rather than retrace my steps, I opted to climb a steep, wind-howling, snow-plastered gully, and from the top of that eventually made my way to the summit of Snowdon. By now my appetite for masochism had waned and there seemed little point in continuing. The only option was sleeping (hardly the right word) in the shelter (also not the appropriate word) of the summit restaurant, in a snowdrift.
At least I had the place to myself ! Somehow, in the maelstrom, I cleared a trench in the snowdrift, and climbed into my now more-sophisticated sleeping bag and the regulation, orange plastic bivvy bag. The gusts whipped the spindrift into miniature white tornadoes, which penetrated the bivvy bag and percolated into every exposed bit of my body.
I woke – had I slept ? – still in the white-out blizzard, but now at least it was light. With thoughts of breakfast prominent in my mind, I hastened down the iced-up switchbacks of Bwlch y Saethau, at the top of the Watkin.
|
I remember reaching Nantgwynant, and walking up the lane, my head still full of the swirling storm. Then, as I drew level with the top of the hill, the clouds suddenly swept dramatically aside like the curtains in a theatre. Intense sunshine illuminated a Snowdon which was not the savage mountain I had just escaped from; now it was a different creature, benign
and coated in brilliant white snow, creating an image which – probably because of my recent experience on the
mountain – I have never seen bettered before or since.
Somewhere I still have the photos, two of which include Hafod Owen, once the home of Menlove Edwards, nestled among the rhododendrons, set against that unreal backdrop.
And, finally, and something I have never confessed before.....
Imagine the following scenario... It is a Mountain Leadership Certificate training week, and I happen to be placed as leader and assessor of the three best candidates on the course. We are on the final, three-day expedition, at the end of the course, and have already spent one night out in tents, and the trio has already proved they are fully competent. Our final night's camping is to be in the Moelwyns, somewhere near Llyn Cwmorthin, above Tanygrisiau (my memory here is a little hazy).
I instruct and assess the candidates as they each lead their required sections of the hike to the campsite. En route I discover that one of the group (an architect, interior designer and artist) lives in what had been a water mill in Blaenau Ffestiniog, which he himself has recently converted into what sounds like a dream home.
We arrive at our designated campsite and I assess them as they erect the tents. Everything is set up perfectly: the sleeping mats and bags laid out; guy lines tensioned for the coming rain (the weather forecast is not promising)... Thus are weak
men (me) led astray... A vote is taken – a show of hands: “All those in favour ?” ... the vote is unanimous.
Delaying only to pack waterproofs, we sprint down into Tanygrisiau, gorge ourselves senseless at the fish & chip shop, and then head – via the pub, where else – to enjoy a luxurious night in real beds at the architect's mill in Blaenau. The rain
drums a tattoo on the roof all night.
At the crack of dawn, after a full fried breakfast and pints of tea, we hurry back up to the lonely tents, chortling to ourselves. We strike camp, stow the tents in our rucksacs, swear never to tell a soul, and continue on the final leg of the expedition, deviously back to Nantmor via Llyn Llagi. Very naughty, but very nice... and that was the beginning of a long friendship I enjoyed with the architect, and only the first of many subsequent visits to the mill.
|
