Welsh mountains, lakes and curly fries

The Travelodge in Oswestry has fine…

That is a difficult sentence to complete. A friend and I arrived there late one Thursday night and struggled to find anything of note. We had driven from London after work and Oswestry was the staging post for a weekend among the peaks of Snowdonia.

‘There is something reassuring about a crap hotel,’ Lewis remarked as we padded down the generic hallway. We were certainly comforted by the price; £37 for the room and a view of grassy verge covered in empty crisp packets to boot.

The next morning, fully loaded with grease and caffeine, we continued west and were soon rolling along on the A5, next to the River Dee, which tumbled through fields where sheep munched placidly. The verdant landscape was a tonic for the soul, bathing screen-tired eyes in a million shades of green and causing me to exclaim excitedly.

Freedom this way

The road took us across a border visible only on maps and into Snowdonia National Park. The northernmost of the Welsh parks, Snowdonia was the first to be designated in 1951 and is named after Mount Snowdon, the tallest peak in Wales. The Welsh name for the area is Eryri, which could be pronounced similarly to the Jamaican patois expression irie, as in ‘everything is irie’, conveying goodness and serenity. A very apt name indeed.

Our campsite lay at the head of Llyn (Welsh for lake) Gwynant, to the south east of Snowdon and within walking distance of the summit. It was too late in the day to claim the main prize but armed with the Wild Swim book and an Ordnance Survey map, we planned an afternoon’s walk punctuated with a dip in Llyn Bochlwyd.

Expert orienteers 

We parked in a lay by next to the A5 and began to hike. A set of steep steps took us up and away from the road and the landscape breathed a rugged vitality: all water, sky, rock and earth. Soon the path was not so clear and we had to clamber over large boulders, losing our way among false trails and dead ends. We ploughed on; convinced that our route lay around the top of the slope. At intervals, fighter jets roared low through the valley, on training sorties from RAF Valley on the Isle of Anglesey.

We reached a plateau between the rocks from where we could look down several hundred metres to the road below and the lake we were planning to swim in. Orientating ourselves, we realised we were not on the path we had chosen on the map and were instead walking up Tryfan, a mountain two kilometres to the east.

It's upside down

We scrambled up the final stretch, feeling vigorous and pioneering, only to stumble on a group of slackliners setting up their gear in preparation for a daredevil walk between two outcrops.

Slacklining

Taking the plunge

Passed the summit, we hopped between clumps of heather down the boulder-strewn slope towards the green flatness that bordered our swimming spot. A breeze ruffled the surface of the lake and though we were walking in t-shirts we knew it would be cold. We had wisely decided to leave our wetsuits in the van so there would be no neoprene to defend us from the icy embrace of the mountain pond.

We stepped off the grassy bank, watched only by the rocky crags. It didn’t seem too bad until the water lapped at my vital regions. A bit further in and my chest tightened. Once fully immersed breathing became difficult and my plan to swim to the far side was quickly abandoned. A few more desperate splashes and it was about face and rapidly out of the water to clamber back into dry clothes. To celebrate, Lewis and I split a Jamaica Ginger Cake and washed it down with a dram of whisky from the hip flask. 

Making friends

Back in the campsite we met Geoff, a lone motorbike tourer. He was an expert practitioner of what I like to call the campsite creep. This is an ancient skill where instead of just walking up to people and having a chat, you assess their amenability to conversation by slowly approaching them in small increments, creeping across the space between until there is none. Perhaps this technique is borne of experiences with fearsome rebel groups who have to be approached cautiously, or maybe it’s just social awkwardness. Either way, it’s disturbing to start a conversation practically shouting across a field, before suddenly finding a large, hairy biker looming over you while you chop onions.

The big day

In the morning we cleared fuzzy heads with coffee and stoked our engines with porridge. We had chosen a circular route that allowed us to walk directly from and back to the campsite. Our plan was to head up the Watkin Path and place our flag on the top of Snowdon before coming back down over Crib Goch, which had piqued our interest when we read the following on the wall map next to the campsite office: ‘People do die up here.’

We packed our bags with plentiful supplies for the 15-mile round trip before setting out along the northern shore of Llyn Gwynant. The surroundings were so beautiful it felt like we were walking through a soggy Eden. We picked our away across moss-covered rock falls and ducked under the lichen-heavy branches of trees. The path was difficult to follow in places and quite clear in others, stones worn smooth over the centuries by the feet of sheep and men. To our left the lake lay grey and cold and to our right the heavily vegetated slope disappeared into low cloud. There was no one in sight.

Ascending through clouds

It’s been a long time since I used an Ordnance Survey map and the network of tiny lines on the paper was hard to follow. After misfiring down a lane that led back to the main road we found a gate with a sign fixed next to it, ‘Watkin Path’ and a large arrow showing us the way. The path wound up the valley alongside a rushing stream, hurtling down to feed Llyn Gwynant. We paused to wolf down macaroons next to Gladstone Rock, where a plaque commemorates the day in 1892 when the 83-year-old Prime Minister William Gladstone officially opened the path.

The sun teased us as we climbed, appearing briefly from behind the clouds only to disappear again a short while after. The path swung northwest revealing the sweep of the valley below. We walked hard and talked little, heart rates rising as we sweated healthily. I could feel the burn in my legs but resisted asking the fatal phrase ‘how far to the top?’

The final stretch of the Watkin Path is notoriously treacherous, traversing a scree slope with no solid footing. We scrambled our way across, trying not to shower the walkers below with stone. Soon we were at the top and jostling with hundreds of other walkers, all swathed in lurid shades of breathable fabrics. There are several routes up Snowdon and a train too, so we had to sharpen our elbows to get a turn next to the stone marking the highest point.

The summit circus

Despite not being able to see the landscape the human activity was entertainment enough with gangs of scouts carrying flags and endurance athletes in tiny shorts taking part in a 24-hour triathlon. As awful as it sounds, this brutal event involves attempting to complete as many sprint distance triathlons as possible in 24-hours. It can be done solo or as a team. The 2013 solo winner completed 16 circuits. That’s 3.8 miles of swimming, 179 miles of cycling and 41.6 miles of running. Excuse me while I doff my cap.

We found a clear patch of ground and sat down at the foot of a wall to devour a well-earned lunch. Hiking boots came worryingly close as we perched on stones in the mud. An enthusiastic American walker spotted our feast and complimented it in the way only enthusiastic Americans can, with a high volume exclamation.

‘Now that’s what I'm talking about! That’s a lunch!’

Yes, my friend, it certainly is.

The clouds began to clear just in time for our descent. Looking north we could see a great swathe of Wales laid out, like a green patchwork quilt, all the way to Anglesey and the Irish Ocean.

The Ridge of Death

Emboldened by the clear skies we confirmed our decision to eschew the popular and busy routes down and take the more exciting Crib Goch instead. We could see walkers on the ridge silhouetted against the blue firmament and no one seemed to be falling off. Crib Goch is a grade 1 scramble, which means it’s somewhere between a walk and a climb.

Crib Goch

The ridge was exposed with a decent wind whipping up from the valley. At points the path was not obvious and the scramble, using our hands just for balance if at all, became a climb, using our hands to hold our weight. Our position on the spine of this younger sister of Snowdon afforded a wonderful perspective. To the south we looked down on lakes Glaslyn and Llydaw. To the east we could see the sheer face of the bigger mountain with the specks of walkers toiling to the top and to the north, the lumpy slopes leading down to the A4086.

Lakes Glaslyn and Llydaw

 We passed several groups of people who were clearly out of their depth on the ridge and not enjoying themselves.

‘How much further?’ Asked one lady, her voice quavering, as she clung to the rocks like King Kong was in the area and on the prowl for a new bride.

‘Five hours,’ Lewis replied without missing a beat. Her eyebrows rose in horror before we reassured her that it was actually only four and a half.

Led astray

Beyond the roughest part the path led us down towards a grassy ridge where we rested and contemplated the scene. Nearby, a pretty sheep lay sprawled on a rock, gazing up at us with its large, dark eyes. Faced with such provocation, perhaps it’s not so hard to imagine how a lonely farmer might fall foul of a woolly temptress.

Time to think

Shortly after we passed a lone walker sat on the ground staring into space. It reminded me how the mountains are a place for excitement and adventure but also reflection. People immerse themselves in nature in order to better understand their problems or to be alone with powerful emotions, away from the myriad distractions of modern life. The stark beauty of a rugged landscape can be a crucible for melancholic introspection; or strange comfort drawn from the feeling of insignificance engendered by the awesome surroundings. I wondered what demons the man was facing, or whether he was just having a bit of a rest.

In good company

Finally we arrived at Pen-y-Pass where crowds waited for the last Sherpa bus back to their lodgings in nearby towns and villages. We carried on, passing the sinewy maniacs powering up the road on the bike leg of their 24-hour nightmare. Our final prize was a pint in the hotel at Pen-Y-Gwryd, which Hillary and Tenzing used as their base while they trained for their 1953 attempt on Everest. It was hard to leave the cosy watering hole, described on the website as a ‘haven safe from the relentless grind of modernity’, as the exposed beams and collections of climbing memorabilia invited an extended tipple.

Nine hours after we left the campsite we marched back in again, feasted on pasta and beer and battled against heavy eyelids before accepting the inevitable and turning in to sleep like babies.

From boots to boats

On our final day in Snowdonia we decided to take to the water and hired a two-man kayak to explore lake Gwynant. We cruised up the small river that feeds the lake, negotiating our way through the arches of an old stone bridge and swearing at cows.

On the lake proper we discovered a mouldy old boathouse to hide in and prepared to ambush imaginary victims. At its south westerly corner the lake flows out again and over some small rapids, which looked tempting but we didn’t fancy dragging the kayak back over the rocks so we resisted the urge to plunge in.

Game of Thrones

We made our way back to London via Harlech, where there is an impressive castle, built by Edward I in the late 13^th Century to keep the Welsh in Wales. Perched on a rock with breathtaking views, the mighty towers and thick walls allowed me to entertain my Ned Stark fantasies for a few sweet moments. 

It was off-season and the town of Harlech was somewhat quiet and forlorn. We found an arcade next to a café where we vented our latent combat rage playing Time Crisis while waiting for heart-stopping Mega Burgers. The waitress told us that they had run out of curly fries so we’d been given a mound of onion rings instead.

‘I think she likes us,’ said Lewis.

In a fleeting moment, like a cloud crossing the sky, I imagined settling down in a small town like Harlech, with a castle to muck about on, cooking up cholesterol-steeped dinners for miserable tourists alongside my trusty serving wench. Then the ketchup bottle exploded, quickly bringing me back to my senses. I shuddered and swallowed the last of my onion rings.

Triumphant return

Our return journey was fuelled by a desire to avoid the Sunday evening jam of city-dwellers returning from weekends away. Miraculously our bladders held out a full five and a half hours without stopping until we were around the dinner table regaling our housemates with our exploits until they could take no more.

If you've never been to Snowdonia, go at once - and take a wetsuit.