Chapeau

The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me

Caliban speaks to Stephano and Trinculo, William Shakespeare, The Tempest, III.ii

I set my alarm for 6 o’clock this morning, with the aim of getting away early to beat the heat. When I woke, though, it seemed to be cloudier than forecast, a calm, still morning, very pleasant in all respects but one: there were a lot of midges. With superlative campsite skills last night I had managed to avoid them getting in the inner section of my tent, but now they coated the inside of the flysheet, gnashing their tiny little chops, waiting for me to open the zip and let them all in for breakfast. It passes understanding how such a small creature can have the ability to pierce human skin. But here we are.

I spent a few moments mentally planning the exit campaign and managed to get out of the campsite reasonably unpunctured, but at the cost of having the embarrassingly worst-packed rucksack ever. There has been a lot of condensation overnight, and everything is damp inside my rucksack. If I make it to my campsite in good time this afternoon, there should be time to dry it out. I left shortly after 7:30, well pleased with the time and pleased also with the beautiful view as I crossed the bridge out of Forest Retreats, a site I would definitely recommend — there’s a river swimming spot straight out of your tent, and pizza close by. Bike hire for the forest. Lovely staff.

I had spent a few moments looking at the map last night and decided that the route I had planned up to the Bwlch Maesgwm was not ideal. It involved navigating through some spoil heaps, and whilst I was sure that when I got there the path would be visible, I didn’t fancy stumbling through unstable slate shale, if that’s what it was, at the same time as slogging uphill. A little further on was the zigzagging Snowdon Rangers Path, considerably steeper, but on the other hand also shorter. It has a laid path starting from the old rangers station by the Llyn Cwellyn reservoir, which I have only seen from above as we walked up Moel Eilio for the views on Anglesey and the coast, and would like to see closer to.

The zigzag Rangers Path, it was to be.

Because the campsite had been so full of midges, I’d started off in my long trousers and a long sleeve top, and decided to take the A-road to cut out the first bit of woodland walk to avoid getting midged even more. In the event I missed the turn off to join my route later, so there was nothing for it but to walk along the road all the way to the old Snowdon ranger station. This error had the advantage of allowing me to get a swift start to the first 7 km of the day, and gave me the most extraordinary uninterrupted views of both the Yr Wyddfa Snowdon range,

and also, paradoxically, uninterrupted views of the walk I would have done if I had gone through the forest and along the fields and farm tracks. I will leave that for another day.

There were few cars on the road this time in the morning, and a cuckoo accompanied me the whole way, always a little way ahead, calling me to follow it

Rhyd Ddu station is one of the classic starting points for the Yr Wyddfa Snowdon climb, and the one we started from years ago with a small Oscar. There is a good loo, of which I circumspectly made use, and also a water station. I chugged half a litre of the water in my pack and refilled. I was going slowly with these final preparations: reluctanct to put my pack back on, taking lots of photos, not walking particularly quickly. This climb was making me nervous rather than excited. The air felt close and muggy, with little breeze.

As the lower slopes of Yr Wyddfa Snowdon came into view, it was clear to me I had made a good decision regarding the path to take up to the Bwlch. They were huge grey masses of slate spoil, and looked a mess. A couple of kilometres further on, the grey diagonal lines of the huge zigzags I was to take instead were now faintly to be seen.

The deep lake was dark and secret today. In one of the photos I took of it I caught a bird flying overhead with a worm in its mouth. There had been a buzzard earlier on trying to get some rest on tree branches, but being mercilessly mocked by two crows and hounded from pillar to post.

Finally I reached the old ranger station, now a holiday cottage. There was a car park, and a pair of revolting portaloos — top tip, if you’re tackling the Snowdon Ranger Path, use the loos in Rhyd Ddu!

The cuckoo was beckoning me on.

But couldn’t I delay a little further, to talk to two couples both aiming to make it to the top? The woman in the first was wearing a woollen beanie hat and a down jacket (I felt overdressed for a climb in shorts and a t-shirt). The man had brand-new boots and a simply tiny little bag slung on his back which was evidently mostly empty. The second couple were really up for it. Wearing proper walking tights and trousers, with a pack full of water and walking food. I knew whose chances I fancied.

I rested for a while on a comfortable rock at the start of the climb, easing the pack off shoulders that were by now slightly sore after four days walking. It would have been nice to have sat here all day and cheered on the walkers heading up and congratulated those coming down. I felt a strong sense of lethargy and reluctance.

But here are two swallows darting and flashing through the air together. They have flown so very far to get here, to the midges they love and I hate, all the way from Africa to the eves of the old ranger station they nest in. If such a tiny bird can fly so far, surely I can get up this single steep climb.

I made sure to stop at every turn, drinking water and enjoying each slightly more impressive view behind me. I made sure to keep my back straight and my stride lengthened, and thought of the young man, half a zigzag behind me, as a kind of pacemaker. It wasn’t too hard to keep ahead of him; I did feel pleased that I could maintain the same pace as a much younger man.

I took a decent pause on a comfortable rock where two paths diverged: the Llanberis path I needed to take and the Yr Wyddfa Snowdon path which I very definitely didn’t. I ate some salted nuts and prunes and drank a bunch more water. I thought there was no point in doing this if I were not enjoying the view, so I really took my time.

I reached the top of the Bwlch just as the sun came out for the first time today. The views were thrilling, and I felt as though the larks singing above me were dropping a crown of music on my head. Jane sent me a video just at that moment of her choir performing at the weekend, and her powerful driving action as conductor, spurring them on to bellow out their first word, ‘Halleluia’, brought tears to my eyes.

Behind me, I could see all the way back to the valley where Beddgelert was hidden, the forest where I had camped last night, 10km away now, and, closer to me, the reservoir lying quietly under the fearsome Nantlle Ridge.

To my right were my final complete views of all 1,085 metres of Yr Wyddfa Snowdon, the jagged ridgeline completely visible from this angle. I thought of the groups I had met toiling up ahead and I silently wished them a fine day’s walking, especially the first couple and the young lad who I suspected didn’t have enough water with them. Mostly I thought of my heroic friend Amanda who trained hard to climb the mountain a few years ago.

In front of me the Maesgwm Valley opened its wide glacial arms. The long ago ice carved out titanic scoops out of the rock, scouring it smooth on both sides and leaving just a memory in the streams which still collect the rainwater seeping through the ground and carry it down to Llyn Peris below.

With the path so straight and stable underfoot, my eyes were free to roam the hillside. In both the foreground and the far distance, drystone walls spidered across the land, one of the most ancient building techniques which takes us right back to our ancestors of the Stone Age. My father was immensely proud that he had become a dry stone waller in his mid life (younger than me now!). I thought of him now as I looked at the rectilinear forms of sheepfolds on the slope facing me, and the curving shapes of more folds in the valley, following the natural curves of the stream, and echoing on a smaller scale the gigantic glacial scoops towering over them.

It’s a pretty path down the 4.5 km to Llanberis from the Bwlch. Views of the lake are framed by hawthorn trees, and set off by picturesque ruins.

There is a strange little container outdoor centre half way down, with locked doors marked ‘canteen’, ‘toilet’ and ‘drying room’. It is placed under a tree by a ruined farmhouse, and should be incongruous, but somehow isn’t, being the grey colour and blocky shape of slate. On the contrary, it’s quite sympathetic to the site.

Round the corner a highland cow was slowly chewing the cud, and posed placidly for a photo with the mountain behind.

There are darker overtones two: the lowering stepped bulk of the slate quarries which have carved half the mountain off on the other side of the Llanberis valley. Disquietingly suggestive of Mordor.

Having it done 15 km, and what I thought was all the climb for the day (all the climb for the whole walk!) I reached Llanberis with a good appetite for a hearty lunch. To my dismay, almost everything is closed on a Monday, and the only choice that I could see was the rather grim Heights pub, dirty and with careless staff. They charged me £13.50 for the smallest piece of quiche imaginable, which I dispatched in four small bites, being unable to eat the pastry because it was too hard. The salad was excellent though, although as Oscar commented “it’s a salad with a small side of quiche.”

If only Pete’s Eats were still open.

I fled to Georgio’s [sic] ice cream parlour to console myself, and ate my double waffle cone looking out over Llyn Padarn, feeling slightly overshadowed by Minas Morgul in front of me.

Because I had lost height by descending into Llanberis for my so-called lunch, I now had to regain it. The road climbed and climbed and climbed in Escheresque fashion, but all at once I found myself among a spectacular abandoned slate quarry above the town,

with extensive, towering heaps of spoil

and views into the overgrown quarries, slowly returning to nature.

I thought that the home stretch to the Llys Derwen campsite would be featureless, but the route had one more surprise for me. There were a pair of huge, rusting wrought-iron gates, and the walls at the side of the road became castellated and turreted. In the middle of nowhere there was an unexpected castle, a section of which I had to walk beneath as it stretched right over the road.

The castle was built by a wealthy lawyer between last century’s wars and has had several owners, but is now converted into apartments. What an extraordinary place to live, and what a contrast, to my little tent.

I sat and chatted to Nathan in the Llys Derwen reception cabin until I had recovered from my long walk. He was kind enough to carry my rucksack to the pitch I had chosen. My hero!

The luxury did not stop there.

Sarah and Andy with their little dog Indy were just back from their walk, and cheerily offered me a brew. We sat chatting on actual chairs while my phone charged in their campervan, and the brew turned into a (totally restorative) bottle of Corona — the best zero alcohol beer I have ever tasted. We swapped stories of their impressively adventurous and hardcore cycle rides and our more modest walks, Then — then they invited me to share their family barbecue too.

It was a wonderful evening. Andy’s awesome chicken and pepper kebabs and pasta salad (wilted rocket — a revelation!) and the luxury of long chats with lovely people was a million times nicer than the solitary Indian takeaway in my tent that I had planned, and has really set me up for my last day tomorrow.