A stroll in the park

I have good news and bad news. The good news is that I am just about fit enough to climb Cadair Idris – one of Wales' top 20 peaks -  twice. The bad news is that my navigation skills are so poor that, in order to get where I was going, I almost climbed Cadair Idris twice!  

Early June 2012 saw me getting away from the whole jubilee thing. Republican north wales seemed like a good place to do it and Snowdonia lived up to its reputation nicely: other than the occasional bit of bunting and half-hearted attempts at a street party, it was a 'Isn't she wonderful'-lite zone. 

In addition to giving my grumpy streak free rein, the trip-ette was a gentle way of exploring whether I enjoy the reality of travelling, as opposed to the armchair idea. I didn't do any exotic journeys when I was a student, only getting as far as a Foyer des Jeunes in the suburbs of Paris. But, with the sale of our house imminent, I thought it might be an idea to check out what level of comfort my old bones (not to mention my old teeth and bowels) will require.

So I packed up the car with all the wrong stuff, hastily joined the Youth Hostel Association and set sail for the only available last-minute YHA bed at Tycorn Bunkhouse, which was conveniently close to Pen y Fan - the modest 2900ft peak of the Brecon Beacons which les blokes had recently walked up. It was, however, bloody miles away from the challenge that I had identified for day 1: Cadair Idris.

Fizzy up top

Tycorn was a slightly spartan if perfectly acceptable hostel whose only drawback was that it was located at the far end of a six mile track! No phone, no signal, no computer. Simple supper, off to bed in an empty bunkroom, 5.30am start for the long drive to CI which I reached at about 8.00am and up which I stormed up in less than two hours. Good start!

The one on the right looks very like Tasmania, doesn't it?

As I turned for home in the growing mist, I thought that this was all going to be very straightforward. However 15 minutes later I had managed to mistake two lakes for two completely different shaped and much larger lakes! By the time I had worked out my error (thanks to a illuminating shaft of sunlight), I was in the middle of nowhere, at the bottom of a scree slope, and had no option but to turn round and climb up again. It was very hard going and I had to stop many times to catch my breath. About half way up, I suddenly noticed that someone else was coming down the same slope. What a fool - it led nowhere. He had obviously made the same mistake as I had. However, as he got nearer I realised that I was the fool for, as his shorts, singlet and sure footed stride made clear, knew exactly where he was going and he was running there.

Show off!

I saw several other fell runners over the next few days. All were travelling light and all were travelling fast. And all left me completely speechless.... 

Betwy's Tea Rooms

After limping away from the car park I hauled into the side of the road when I saw a sign advertising tea and cakes. It was a rather unprepossessing venue - an old Methodist chapel in which I was the only member of the congregation other than a very bored tea lady who perked up a treat on my arrival. I drank gallons of tea and wolfed down all the welsh cake that could be found while hearing how the local primary school children were taught the Welsh language but not ICT, how they were trying to find ways of increasing use of the hall, and how annoyed everyone was that the Olympic flame had been driven through the area at high speed. It was that sort of random conversation, all conducted to the click click of her knitting needles!

I rather admire the passion that the welsh have for their language and in Betwy's Tea Rooms I discovered an exciting new addition to my limited welsh vocabulary. How to improve attendance at the village hall? A poster on the wall said it all: ffilm shows!

If they call children plants, what do they call plants?

Motorway walking: Snowdon

On to check out my objective for the next day – Snowdon – close to which I found a very convenient camp site that, at only a fiver, was a bargain. I put up the tent, had a nice warm shower and cycled up to the next village where I found a café with wifi and Guinness. Sanity restored.

I slept surprisingly well, lulled to sleep by the reassuring pitter patter of rain on tent roof. Next day I got to Snowdon well before the tourist buses arrived and had the Pyg track more or less to myself on the way up – an ascent which, as the previous day, only took about two hours. Again the weather definitely got worse at the top and I decided to crawl the last few yards to the summit, not because I was tired but because I genuinely thought I might be blown off!

Such was my confidence in my navigation skills that I decided against finding a different way down and instead retraced my morning path, passing dozens of mainly young people heading for the top - in various states of unreadiness for what lay ahead. Slightly the wiser, very wet and cold by the time I got back to my campsite, I luxuriated in a hot shower before heading back to the local caff to charge my phone and take in a well deserved glass of something. 

Faeces hit Tryfan

Possibly due an over-long nap the previous afternoon, day three started far too soon, and certainly in plenty of time to find myself at the foot of Tryfan by 7.00am. Tryfan is, apparently, the only mountain in England and Wales for which one, officially, has to use one's hands. (The others one can just walk up…in theory.) It was certainly steep but I made good progress climbing up rocky crags for 40mins or so when I had to stop because the cloud rolled in.

Tryfan. The only way is up.

Bad move. Climbing is fine as long as you're going upwards but when you can't go any further, when you look over the edge and see nothing, when the mist sweeps up from below and you're there on your own...that's when it can get a bit frightening. 

Sitting down alone in the fog eating my rations did not help my courage at all. So I decided to engage reverse gear and maybe find another way up. As I was doing this, up popped Ian and Phil! Both had clearly done this climb before and Phil was in training for a climb up Mont Blanc the next week, so he was clearly someone worth following. 'You have to attack it' advised Ian who promptly did just that. Courage returned and we shimmied up some pretty extreme lumps of rock or, as Phil called them, 'technical sections'. In less than 30 minutes we reached the top.

As if climbing the thing isn't enough, you have to do the 'leap of faith' at the top! I didn't.

After some chat ('Very unusual to have this to yourself'), pictures, sandwiches and  the leap not leapt, we dove over some fearsome boulders to find our way down and encountered…another apparition – a young lad with his dad, just on the way to the summit. He couldn't have been more than 13 and was wearing his Man United teeshirt and a pair of ordinary trainers. Stroll in the park. Rather put us in our place.

Good and bad news

So success and failure in equal measure. It was reassuring to find that my body could more or less cope with climbing three peaks over 3000 ft in three days. (Ok I know that's measured from sea level and I started several hundred feet higher than that.) It's a bit like skiing in that one falls into bed after supper in the confident belief that one will never move again...until the next day dawns.

Less reassuring was managing to lose my way on all three days at some point; once seriously. On more than one occasion I was mindful of my status as a single parent and took the sensible option. What if there isn't one? With navigation clearly an issue I feel it might be essential to acquire a new boy's toy!

More useful and more fun might be a walking companion, preferably four footed, for future strolls in the park.  It is quite absurd how readily I start conversations with other people's dogs!