A (heavily extended) stroll in the northern Carneddau

The Carneddau comprise the largest area of high ground above 2500 feet in the UK south of Scotland, and as such provide a wealth of entertainment for the keen hiker. The southern half of the range, containing peaks such as Pen Yr Ole Wen, Carnedd Dafydd and Carnedd Llewellyn, is easily accessed from the Ogwen Valley and as such is normally crawling with people. Indeed, until a couple of weeks ago the car park at Ogwen Cottage had been the only starting point from which I had successfully completed walks in the Carneddau, and these walks had only yielded very limited views. They had provided other entertainment, such as gusts of up to 70 mph which on one occasion knocked myself and my entire group off our feet, and which almost lost me my much-prized ‘skull and cross bones’ Buff, but had yet to give up the stunning vistas that I knew must be possible.

In contrast the northern Carneddau are much more rarely frequented. The hills have a completely different character to their southern brethren; in place of steep ascents and bouldery summits are grassy slopes with more occasional rocky outcrops. The paths are less eroded and have only been reinforced by paving slab-wielding National Trust volunteers in a handful of places. Quite a few sturdy-looking ponies inhabit the lower reaches, and at the beginning of the walk we paused to watch several sheepdogs at work, herding their charges off the hill and down to the valley bottom.

We started our hike from a small car park near the end of a minor road leading south east from the village of Abergwyngregyn. Most people parking here do so for the brief trek to see the Aber Falls a couple of kilometres away; these waterfalls do indeed seem to be impressive, but alas it was too dark to properly appreciate their splendour by the time we reached them. Rather than crossing a nearby bridge and heading straight for the falls we instead continued along the road to its end where it turned into a gravel track. We quickly left this behind us, and freestyled our way up through patches of prickly gorse to the top of the first hill, the diminutive but still rather nice Foel Ganol. From this vantage point we could see across the Menai Straits to Anglesey looking one way, and to the cloud-swathed peaks that were our playground for the day in the other direction.

The ponies viewed us with a mixture of contempt and annoyance, clearly not impressed to have humans invading their space. We brushed off this unfriendly welcome however, and strode on, across Pen Bryn-Du and Carnedd y Ddelw. We ascended this latter well and truly enveloped in the clag; a minor annoyance, but not anything to get too worked up about as after all, we were in Wales and this is the sort of weather that Wales does best. Next up was the refreshingly-pronounceable Drum, where we stopped for a well-earned snack, followed by Foel Fras; a thoroughly respectable 942 m high and bearing the first trig point of the day.

It was at this summit that we came across our first fellow hiker, sheltered behind a wall and enthusiastically tucking into his sandwiches. There was also a scattering of sheep posing quite elegantly by the edge, providing perfect foreground interest for when the clag momentarily cleared:

Things were starting to get rather good. After a few minutes more walking in the grey the cloud rose again, lifting our spirits with it. The sky revealed itself to be a bright azure blue streaked with wispy white, the sun beat down with a strength belying the fact that it was almost winter, but best of all was the way in which the low clouds still remaining were gracefully decorating the flanks of the hills before us. By the time we reached the rocky rise of Garnedd Uchaf (recently renamed Garnedd Gwenllian after a Welsh princess who spent most of her time locked up in a Priory), the view was spectacular.

Our initial plan had been to use this walk as a gentle warm-up, and to descend over Llwytmor from Foel Fras and to be down by early afternoon. However we were hungry for more and hence had stayed up, continuing on to Garnedd Uchaf. It didn't take us very long once here to decide to extend the walk still further; after all Foel Grach was only a kilometre away and the view was so good that it would seem rude not to keep going. At Foel Grach a similar argument spurred us on to Carnedd Llewellyn, whose summit provided one of the best views I have ever seen in my life.

The clouds were positively caressing the mountains in front of us; pouring over the ridges like breakers on the sea. The grand figure of Snowdon stood proudly in the background, itself for once completely clear. The low afternoon sun illuminated the scene beautifully, catching the tops of the clouds and making them shine pearly white. I could have stayed and watched forever. Alas, the sun was descending rapidly and we had a long way to walk back to the car, and so we had to tear ourselves away.

We retraced our steps over Foel Grach, skirted past Garnedd Uchaf and moved on to Bera Bach. This impressive pile of rock was crying out to be scrambled over, but alas we had not the time, and so reluctantly passed it. The last hill of the day was the cairn-topped Drosgl, from which we could look back over the chains of now completely cloud-free mountains. There was no opportunity to linger so we headed down to the col, from where we used sheep tracks to make our way down to the valley bottom. Fortunately luck was with us, and we easily joined up with the wide tourist trail leading to the waterfall. It was now rather dark but we resisted getting out the head torches, preferring to let our eyes adjust naturally to the gloom. Before long we were back at the car, looking forward to sating our post-walk hunger for tea and cakes.

Man in wheelchair abandoned on Snowdon

On Saturday 17th October a group of six martial arts enthusiasts attempted to walk up Snowdon carrying their wheelchair-bound friend. This was apparently as part of a record attempt for charity. They got partway up the Llanberis path, decided they were getting a bit tired and so left their friend sat in his wheelchair on the path whilst they went up to bag the summit. They then descended, and instead of taking their friend back with them they decided it would be a better idea to save themselves the effort and to call mountain rescue who would, they figured, get him back down quickly in a helicopter.

The mountain rescue team was, unsurprisingly, less than impressed. Fifteen people carried the by then rather cold man to the railway and the train took him down to the valley bottom.

The first entry in the catalogue of stupidity demonstrated by this group is the fact that none of them had even been all the way up the Llanberis path before. Common sense would dictate that if you are set on performing such a ridiculous deed as carrying a wheelchair up a mountain, you would check first to see if the terrain is going to be okay for this. If the rocky reality of the mountain landscape had failed to dissuade you it would then be sensible to consider whether a mere six people were sufficient for such an undertaking. To which the answer would be no.

If, once embarked upon this fool's errand, the group started to get tired, you would have to consider the best course of action. Would it be to all descend together, using your last vestiges of energy to carry your friend down, or would it be to indulge the desires of the able-bodied group members to get to the top, hoping that somehow you would have enough juice left to carry your friend afterwards? Any person with half an ounce of consideration would go for the first option, and so of course this sorry lot plumped for the second.

I admit that I have only heard about this from news websites, and so there may be extenuating circumstances of which I am not aware. I doubt it though. It would seem to be yet another example of people treating mountains as toys, as tourist attractions, not as vast and often-dangerous masses of rock which demand respect. When I first started properly going out into the hills, a mere seven years ago, the sight of a mountain rescue helicopter was a rarity. Now they seem to be out and about every weekend in the Lake District and the north of Snowdonia.

People seem to think that they have a right to summit the mountains (especially if it's for charity) and so go tramping up pitifully ill-equipped. Sometimes it works out okay; the weather is good, the path is easy. But often the weather is foul, the way is unclear, and that clown costume which seemed such a good idea down at sea level is suddenly not quite so funny. An accident happens, the good people of mountain rescue are called out and yet again they risk their lives in order to help those too naive to help themselves. The hills in the UK may not be especially big, but that doesn't mean they can't pack a considerable bite. Give them the consideration they deserve.

A soggy weekend in the Rhinogs

Ah, the Rhinogs. One of the few groups of hills in Wales that you can visit with the guarantee that you will hardly see another soul. This is due to two main factors: firstly, the hills are too gnarly to appeal to your average hill walker; secondly, the visibility will almost certainly be such that unless a fellow human being comes within five metres of you, you will have no idea that they are there.

My friend Murray has a perverse fascination with the kind of hills that nobody else likes; the more obscure and unwelcoming the better. He therefore schemed a plan that would see us start in the seaside town of Barmouth, catch a train to the rarely-frequented village of Talsarnau, hack our way inland and then walk back south across the mountains over two days. Linear walks incorporating a wild camp are always appealing, and so four of us endeavoured to put the plan into action...

Day one

Everything started well; we caught the train with no problems and our pronunciation of 'Talsarnau' was sufficiently good that the guard understood where we wanted to go. Before long we had left the (limited) signs of civilisation behind and were surrounded by craggy wilderness. Leaving our heavy packs hidden in the remains of a small ruined hut, we headed north to bag the first two peaks of the weekend, Moel Ysgyfarnogod and Foel Penolau. Both of these are very satisfying tops, with the second requiring some minor scrambling in order to reach the summit, and are well worth a visit. We were fortunate in that the cloud was quite high at that point, and so we had some stunning views, with the Llyn Peninsula to the west and a vast valley to the east.

Soon afterwards we were in a slight quandary: the next peak on our list, Rhinog Fawr, was some way to the south. Did we embrace Pythagoras’ theorem and take the direct route, or did we stick to the path, which would mean walking further and required considerable re-ascent? Given the trickiness of the terrain, the rapidly-lowering clag and the fact that Murray had just become intimately acquainted with a bog, we plumped for the latter.

By the time we reached the ‘Roman Steps’ path that skirts the side of Rhinog Fawr we were all beginning to feel fatigued, and started looking around for a possible campsite. As all around us was steep, rocky and heather-infested things didn't seem too promising. Fortunately we did manage to find a place that was fairly flat and wasn't too squelchy, and before long we had all three tents set up. Dinner was pasta tarted up with ground pepper from sachets 'acquired' from a workplace canteen, followed by hearty slices of Yorkshire Tea Cake. This tastes good anywhere, but in a cold tent after a hard day's walk it is elevated to the divine. The evening’s entertainment consisted of an unsuccessful game of 'mind snap' (i.e. the card game but with no cards), a rather more rewarding session of tent-bound ‘I Spy’ and a great quantity of borderline-amusing jokes.

Day two

The next day we awoke to much more typical Welsh weather: cold, wet and windy. Before setting out on the trip we had scoffed at a weather forecast which had promised a cloud base at a mere 49 m - far too low even for the Rhinogs, we thought; unfortunately that prediction appeared to be coming true. Despite many and prolonged protestations – ‘You expect me to come out in that?!’ - we eventually got everyone out of their sleeping bags and packed up ready to go.

We followed a reasonable (for the Rhinogs) path up to the summit of Rhinog Fawr, where we hunkered down to eat some snacks and wonder what the view might look like in the absence of cloud. This is one of life's great mysteries, and I am not sure anyone truly knows the answer. The way down Rhinog Fawr is rather less distinct than the way up, lacking any real paths, leading Murray to comment that it is never possible to descend by the same way twice. Our chosen route was perhaps the worst of all the possible options, and I take comfort in the fact that I am very unlikely to repeat it. We unsteadily picked our way down a steep, unstable pile of boulders, unpleasant at the best of times but made worse by the rain which had made them incredibly slippery. With these conquered, the terrain turned more heathery; equally steep and even less reliable.

A typical Rhinogs view

It was a grumpy group who finally reached the bottom. Soaked through, with strained knees and sore wrists we contemplated the shadow of Rhinog Fach in front of us and thought 'no thanks'. Not liking to bail the walk, but at the same time having no desire to continue hacking through the heather, we decided to head west down the valley, hoping to catch a train from the station about 10 km away at Llanbedr. A couple of hours later a much happier gang were mere minutes away from the station when we heard a train approach. We tried to speed up, but to no avail. There was no chance that we could get there in time, and so the train trundled past without us.

It turned out that we had just missed the only train running that day - such is the nature of public transport in rural Wales on a Sunday. Somehow, being late by such a short amount of time felt much worse than if we had missed the train by a good few hours. Dejected, we slumped on the station bench and consoled ourselves with Bournville. Then it was back to the village to inspect the bus timetable, which was similarly sparse. Luckily, however, a helpful soul at one of the pubs provided us with taxi numbers and for the princely sum of £12 a friendly driver allowed the four of us and our gear, all damp and smelly, into his nice clean car.

Barmouth is a seaside town which still has character and, despite the tackiness of some of the establishments, I like it. It also has a very good chip shop, the Harbour Fish Bar, which we were very happy to make use of. Alas, time was getting on, and so after finishing our meals we got back in the car and began the long drive south. All in all, it was a good weekend despite the unforgiving nature of the hills, although it may be some time before any of us attempt to the Rhinogs again.

Cnicht and the Moelwyns

After far too long an absence, I finally returned to Snowdonia a few weekends ago. Wanting to steer clear of the hordes and also wanting that rare commodity of a Welsh hill we hadn't already been up, we decided to stay just south west of Blaenau Ffestiniog and try out the Moelwyns for size.

Hence on Saturday morning we found ourselves tramping up to the summit of Cnicht, a rather deceptive hill commonly referred to as the Welsh Matterhorn. Indeed, from the village of Croesor in the valley bottom it appears a sharply pointed, towering beast, however as you ascend the very pleasant path it becomes clear that the monster is actually quite diminutive, and the top is easily attained. By the time we got there the cloud had alas descended and so our efforts were rewarded only by that most common of Welsh views: soggy greyness in every direction.

Undeterred we continued north, down the gentle ridge to Llyn yr Adar, lake of the birds. The terrain here is grassy, with lots of little humps and bumps and little in the way of clear paths, making navigation rather tricky. Visibility had reduced to less than five metres, and it wasn't long before we had an inkling that we weren't quite in the place that we had meant to be; the 'path' we had been following had veered too far to the south. Out came the map and compass, and after much squinting into the clag in search of a feature, any feature, we worked out what had gone wrong. We strode forth on a bearing of due east and within a few minutes the cloud lifted a little to reveal our target: a ruined slate mine.

Such relics of our industrial heritage are always impressive, and having them appear as if out of nowhere adds significantly to the atmosphere. We descended into the crumbling buildings, now populated only by sheep, and had a good explore, finding an old wheel here, a still-intact fireplace there. Entrances to the mines are dotted all over the place and the temptation to venture inside is strong. Tales from cavers of the instability of such places, and an unwillingness to get our feet wet, caused us to resist.

Instead we continued with the walk, beginning the ascent of the next hill by hauling ourselves up long-disused inclines. Dubious-looking slate walls towered precipitously over us, and multiple signs warned of danger. Such things did nothing to dampen our mood however, as the sun was coming out, the clouds were rising steadily higher and it had all the makings of a thoroughly nice afternoon. Indeed by the time we reached the summit of Moelwyn Mawr the last vestiges of clag had disappeared and the view was incredible.

I have always struggled to get my mental map of Snowdonia right, the hills just haven't seemed to click together in the way that those in the Lakes or the Yorkshire Dales do. The Moelwyns have gone a long way to solving this problem for me; in fact I don't think there is anywhere better from which to survey the Welsh mountains. The whole panorama stretches out in front of you: Snowdon, the Glyders and the Nantlle Ridge to the north; the Rhinogs and Cadair Idris to the south, to name but a few. And, because the Moelwyns are rather less famous than many of these, you are likely to get the view all to yourself.

The remainder of the walk led us over the satisfyingly-rocky spine of Craigysgafn, up to the final top of Moelwyn Bach. We reluctantly took one last look around us then began the descent, an easy stroll down a fairly wide grass-covered ridge. After a short stint along the edge of a wood and about a kilometre on a rarely used road we were back where we had started. We garnered some strange looks in the car park by doing some stretches, sneaked a Revel to a dog with a nose tuned to chocolate, and then headed off to the cafe for well-deserved tea and cake.