Have the Brecon Beacons ever looked so good?

The Brecon Beacons National Park is an area of outstanding natural beauty beloved of British Army trainees, who frequent it for weekends of exercise, fresh air and teamwork.

Or maybe not.

Maybe it's an area that can look quite attractive on the rare occasions when the cloud lifts and it stops raining and you can haul yourself high enough out of the bog to get a look. And maybe the reason the Army uses it so much is that getting round the place is quite hard work, but not such hard work that they can't load up their recruits with ridiculously heavy bags and still expect them to run for 12 hours non-stop.

The hills themselves are quite strange beasts; their broad, plateau summits and perilously steep sides give them the impression of being vast mountains that have had their tops lopped off. On paper they would appear to be quite easy to conquer, and although they are certainly no great behemoths those flat areas are no walk in the park. Rather, they are a walk through a peat bog. Now, don't get me wrong, bog hopping can be quite good fun if you haven't done it for a while, but its appeal tends to wear off rather suddenly the instant you find yourself thigh-deep in brown, smelly goo. Gaiters will of course help to lessen the effects, but there will almost always be a bit of damp, runny mud that manages to trickle its way into your boot, down your ankle and onto your already-cold toes. And that is not a pleasant feeling at all.

So, as we set off to south Wales last Saturday morning we were expecting to spend the weekend trudging through the mire. We weren't particularly concerned about this as it's what we end up doing a lot of the time, and strangely we do quite enjoy it. However, as we drove further west the world became whiter and whiter. Snow! Amazing! My excitement was tempered somewhat by the fact that I was on hold to the Crucible Theatre box office in an attempt to get snooker tickets and the music they were forcing down my ear was really quite piercing, but by the time we reached the National Park proper the tickets were booked and my attention was turned fully towards the hills. Darn, they looked good!

Our initial plans were for a rather long day out. We parked next to Talybont Reservoir (SO 099197), with an out-and-back trip to Pen y Fan as our goal. As we trudged up through the ever-deepening snow to Allt Lwyd (078189) however, it became clear that this was a little on the over-ambitious side. Not to worry though, the day was quite simply glorious and we didn't really care about tagging summits as we had, after all, been up them all before anyway. We were out and about, with blue skies and sparkling snow, and hardly anyone else was up there with us.

As we ascended a fine ridge up to the first plateau of the day it almost seemed like we were in the Alps, so impressive was the view. Once up on the flat we meandered around in a general north-westerly direction, hoping that the looping tracks we were leaving would make a good pattern when viewed from above. Amusingly, on our way back we discovered that people coming afterwards had used our tracks as a guide, thereby wasting themselves huge amounts of time if they had wanted a direct route to the next hill! We carried on through the col at 057206 and onto the next area of plateau, at which point the view really struck us:

Wow! Pen y Fan looked like a monster! A huge, snow-covered beast with sharp ridges, plunging cliffs and precarious cornices. I desperately wanted to hurry on and climb it. Except, hang on a minute - what's that?

Yuck! People everywhere! Clustering like flies all over the mountain’s towering glory. Maybe we would give it a miss, after all.

You see, a major part of the attraction of the hills for me is the sense of solitude. We live our lives in towns and cities, surrounded by other people, crowded and hemmed in, and so every once in a while (actually, as often as possible) it's good to get away, to stand somewhere in the countryside and have no one else in sight. I am too antisocial to enjoy walking up a hill in a line with tens of others; I want it to be my hill, with my view, and I don't want to share it with anyone other than my close friends. Selfish, I know, but that's the way it is. So I was happy to leave Pen y Fan to the masses and instead enjoy getting knee-deep on Gwaun Cerrig Llywdion.

We did go and tag Fan y Big (036205), mostly because we are shockingly immature and find its name hilarious. But otherwise we were happy to stumble about on our plateau, keeping to the centre so as to avoid the people following the line of the paths which skirt the edge. It was hard going pushing through untrodden snow, and walking through the peat hags felt rather eerie, but I was happy. The hags themselves may have been imposing, but the icicles forming on their sides were beautiful. I broke one off to try as a free 'lolly', but didn't get very far through it as, somewhat predictably, it tasted rather too much of grass and peat.

We wandered back through the col and onwards to the eastern edge of the hill, where we had a decision to make: same way down, or different? Obviously we plumped for the different way, which turned out to be a most excellent choice. The first part of the descent was fairly steep and fairly uninteresting, but then the gradient became even more extreme. There was no way we were going to bother walking down that. Not when we could slide! Richard pulled on his friction-reducing waterproof trousers, I jumped into a survival bag, and we were off!

Initially, Richard was having a great time sliding rapidly downwards, but unfortunately for me we had gone at about the same time and it was all I could do not to slam into his back. Even with my elbows jabbed into the ground to try and brake I was gaining on him. Just as I was about to lose control I lurched over to the right, pulling myself clear. I then careered at an incredible speed down the hill, going faster faster faster. This was better than any rollercoaster ride! After what must only have been a handful of seconds, but which felt much longer, the ground flattened out and I spun myself to a halt. That had been amazing! A university group had watched our descent, and I could tell they were impressed. Casually, we packed the survival bag and trousers away and continued on back to the car.

A tramp through the remains of the snow in the Black Mountains

Christmas, family commitments and wisdom tooth removal operations both real and imagined have rather got in the way of any decent hill days over the past few weeks. The recent snowy weather has compounded such problems, for me at least. Whilst others gaze at snow-blanketed slopes and think 'Brilliant! Let's crack out the ice axe and crampons and go on an adventure!', I have alas been reduced to thinking 'Oh dear, looks like ice axe and crampons are required, I'd better stay indoors.' Such are the woes of wrists that don't work.

However, all was not lost as a couple of weekends ago I did manage to make it out. Rather sportingly the weather warmed up sufficiently to clear the roads of snow and so a group of us set off from various corners of the country and congregated in the car park of 'The Rising Sun' in Pandy, a small settlement to the east of the Black Mountains. This pub - a cosy, friendly establishment that serves a tasty cheesecake - has the added bonus of a campsite attached to it, thus reducing the always unpleasant late-night pub-to-tent dash to mere tens of metres. Treats such as beer and pudding have to be earned however, and so we all set off in one car and drove to the tiny village of Llanbedr.

The Black Mountains are hardly the most rugged or extensive of hills, with there being really only two big horseshoe walks available, however they are not without their charm. Once up on the grassy ridge it is possible to tramp along for miles and miles and miles without any real patches of strenuous ascent; certainly not a place to hone those scrambling skills but ideal when in the mood for a jolly good leg stretch. The views, when they exist, showcase the more famous Brecon Beacons to the west and the vast expanse of the flatter borderlands to the east. A fairly easy, hassle-free, day on the hill then?

Er, not so much in the snow. Okay, so it was hardly chest-deep and in most places it wasn't made horribly slippery by a thick covering layer of ice, but stomping through snow is just so much more tiring than walking on more solid ground. Legs have to be lifted much higher, bodies have to be braced as it's never clear how far down feet will sink, precious calories have to be used up in order to keep warm: in short, it can be quite hard work. Unless, of course, you reach a nice downhill section that's a fairly steep without too many rocks and where the snow is consistently thick. In these circumstances things become much easier: instead of plodding down uncertainly step by step it is much better, and infinitely more fun, to get down on your arse and slide.

Ah, Wales. (wistful sigh)

We left the car in Llanbedr (SO239204), and after a brief road walk found ourselves climbing through farmland up to Table Mountain. This little hill, rising to a modest 450 m, is maybe not quite as impressive as its South African namesake, but it does host an Iron Age hill fort, evidence of which must have been covered by the snow when we visited. From there it was onwards and upwards to the first trig point of the day, the 701 m high Pen Cerrig-calch (217224).

I suppose that Pen Cerrig-calch is a nice hill; in fact I know it is, as I've been up it before with (shock horror!) blue skies and sunshine. But on a cold, drizzly day with the grey clag limiting visibility to a handful of metres it does lose some of its appeal. There was no need to get too grumpy though, as summits are excuses for snacks stops, and in addition to healthier things like dried apricots and malt loaf we had Monster Munch.

As welcome as the food was, you can't stay stopped for long in near-freezing conditions and so we trundled on. It seemed to take an age to get to the next top, Pen Allt-mawr (207244). It may have been only 2 1/2 km away, but the snow had slowed us to a snail's pace. As such, it was a relief when the grey outline of the trig point finally appeared through the fog. The next section was rather more fun as it was downhill and some presented us with some opportunities for sliding; opportunities that we took up with some gusto. Such frivolity was short-lived, however and we soon found ourselves back trudging along on the flat.

We continued on, following the ridge as it wound its way northwards, until we reached a col marked by a well-made cairn at 204286. Here it was time to take stock of things, and to get down to some serious refuelling. It was unanimously decided that the constant drudgery through the clag was wearing rather thin, and so we binned our idea of completing the whole horseshoe and instead decided to take a path heading south east down the valley. This proved to be a wise decision, as barely ten minutes after leaving the col we were rewarded with a view! The sun had managed to sneak through from somewhere and was illuminating the snow-covered slopes of the hills rather nicely. We still couldn't see the tops, of course, but at that point even a partial view was a result.

Our initial jubilation eventually fizzled out and the path became, well, quite dull really. There is a reason that we are hill walkers and not valley walkers. The irritation provoked by the monotony was aggravated further by the condition of the path, which was covered in snow of uneven depths under which lay a soggy, boggy ground. Needless to say, it's not exactly fun when you place your foot forward and it plunges straight through the snow and you end up knee deep in cold, runny mud which inevitably creeps its way over the rim of your boot and down to your already-chilly toes.

There was no choice but to persevere onwards, however and eventually we reached a patch of wood (228245), which made a pleasant change. We continued through this to its end, then trundled through some farmland for a further kilometre or so, at which point we reached the road. From here it wasn't far back to Llanbedr, where we eagerly bundled into the car just as the last of the light was fading, more than ready for our pub dinner.

The Giant’s Chair of Natsworthy and Jay's Grave

When walking on the eastern edge of Dartmoor a few weeks ago we came across a chair. Not just any old chair, but a huge, wooden chair staring out onto the moor, devoid of any explanation or seeming purpose. It was far too big to sit on, and in any case it had no seat to speak of, being essentially just a frame. We attempted to climb it regardless, but were scuppered due to lack of rope and other equipment. Bemused, we wondered ‘why is it here?’ What role could it have, being both pointless and unusable, but at the same time really rather good? And with that question, the answer became obvious: it must be art.

The chair has apparently been gracing the field just off a footpath not too far from Hameldown Tor (SX724800 or thereabouts) since late 2006, erected on private land by artist Henry Bruce. 6 m high, it is made from untreated oak obtained locally and was constructed using traditional methods. Unfortunately, planning permission was not obtained before it was built, leaving its future precarious. Retrospective permission was eventually granted but only for a period of three years, up until March 2009, after which point it was supposed to be dismantled. A handful of people with no sense of fun complained, accusing it of making the moor into a theme park and over-running the footpath with traffic. Luckily, the chair was still there in November, so fingers crossed it will remain intact for some time.

About a kilometre or so east from the giant’s chair lies a much more famous Dartmoor landmark: the grave of Kitty Jay, the story behind which is rather sad. Supposedly in the late 18th century an orphaned baby girl was taken to the Poor House at Newton Abbot, where she was raised and given her name. When old enough to work she was sent to a farm near Manaton where she laboured long and hard both in the house and out in the fields; a tough, lonely and miserable existence for which she would have received very few rewards. When still in her teens she fell in love with a man on the farm, possibly the farmer's son or possibly a hired hand, by whom she became pregnant. Back in the 1700s this was seen as a terrible crime, but one for which all the blame was laid on the woman. Kitty was therefore thrown out of the farm in disgrace, left alone with no prospects and nowhere to go. The sense of shame and thoughts of her bleak future were too much for her to bear, and so tragically she hung herself in a local barn.

There was a huge stigma attached to the act of suicide and so people who died in this way were not allowed to be buried in consecrated ground. Kitty was therefore interred at a crossroads, a site chosen so that if her spirit arose it would not know which way to turn, and so would be unable to either make its way to heaven or to return to haunt the living who were the cause of its great pain. This practice of burying suicides at crossroads was an old tradition that continued until 1823, after which point the bodies were finally admitted to churchyards.

The headstone that is now in place was not erected at the time of Kitty's death, but rather several decades later, in 1860 or thereabouts. At this time a group of men, aware of the legend and curious as to its veracity, did some digging at the crossroads and discovered the skeletal remains of a young woman. Assuming that these were indeed the bones of Kitty they placed them in a coffin, reburied them and marked the site with blocks of granite.

The grave has ever since been associated with unusual occurrences. A spectral figure has reportedly been spotted on multiple occasions, although there is disagreement as to whether this is the ghost of Kitty Jay herself, or that of her guilty lover. The grave is also always adorned with fresh flowers, usually yellow, but apparently no one has any idea who puts them there. It is a popular spot to visit however, and when we passed we saw not just flowers but also coins placed neatly atop it.

Both of these interesting spots can be visited as part of a fairly long circular walk taking in the surrounding tors. Starting in the village of Widecombe in the Moor, the walk first proceeds along the Two Moors Way as it heads northwards over the gently-rising hill of Hamel Down. After standing on as many tops as you care to, head down by the edge of the wood to the road at Natsworthy. From here, take the footpath east which leads past both the chair and Jay's grave, then stroll up onto Hayne Down, enjoying the impressive natural sculpture that is Bowerman's Nose. Next, make your way down for a brief walk along a road heading south, then stroll up onto Hound Tor, an irritatingly busy place, but one which boasts plenty of good rocks for scrambling on. Head south east through the ruins of a mediaeval settlement, pop down into the valley and then ascend up onto the group of hills crowned by Haytor Rocks. There are multiple car parks within sight of this tor, meaning it has been colonised by climbers, but one would imagine that when the weather is less than fair these will rapidly disperse. The next tors to take in are Saddle Tor, Rippon Tor across the road, and finally the twin tops of Top Tor and Pil Tor. From here bust your way downhill to the west, taking care not to end up waist-deep in bog, then at the edge of access land rejoin the road and stroll back into Widecombe, which will provide you with both tea and beer. I have sketched out the route below; my drawing skills leave a lot to be desired but hopefully it gives the general gist of way to go.

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.