Snowden: Slight Return

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There was a reason for the timing of our climb up Snowdon. As my alarm called its robotic chant at 6.30, it was exactly one year since we were climbing the highest mountain in England, Scafell Pike in the Lake District. The warmth of bed was the antithesis of that climb; the day began cool and wet and got worse, on the way I misjudged a river crossing and spent the rest of the day squelching those cold, wet, sore feet, as we got higher the winds became stronger, driving in hail and mist and pretty much everything else weather can strike you with. This was only the half-way point of the three peaks challenge though, the pointless journey to climb the highest mountain in England, Scotland and Wales and drive between them in less than 24 hours. If all had gone to plan, we would have finished Snowdon, the last of the three mountains, around tea-time, and then gone for a celebratory drink afterwards. Things didn’t go to plan though. The hellish weather on Scafell Pike, which had followed the persistent rain up and down Ben Nevis, and more importantly in the journey between the two mountains, had slowed us down. Snowdon was the easier of the three mountains, and the weather treated us kindly, but we had failed to finish in 24 hours almost before we started. By the time we were done the pubs were ready to close and the celebratory meal was postponed.

A year later, and we still hadn’t organised that celebratory meal, so I thought we could do it again. Not the whole three peaks of course, most of the group vowed never to attempt something as stupid as that again. But Snowdon, the easy mountain, and the closest to home, wasn’t too much of a problem, and this time we could arrange to start it in the morning rather than late afternoon, giving us plenty of time for food afterwards. The idea appealed, and while some of the original climbers couldn’t make it, a whole host of followers decided it would be great fun. By the day, though, we were down to five.

John came of course. He is ever-reliable. It really must have taken some will-power as well, because I know for a fact that he would choose a sit down in a pub with a mixed grill and an extra portion of chips over a 3,500 foot climb with only the promise of a cup of tea at the top every single time. He arrived at my door at 7.30, and although he was walking, it took me a while to be sure he had actually woken up. John is most definitely not a morning person. He had woken up though by the time we arrived at Shropshire’s premier world heritage site, Ironbridge, where we were picking Emily up. Emily does actually live here (the town, not the actual bridge) so we hadn’t just stopped here for dramatic effect. It may boast being the first bridge made of iron in the whole world, but as a friend of mine once said, it’s just a bridge.

The day’s group was complete when we met Chris and Vicky. Chris, being my brother, would almost certainly relish the challenge. Vicky looked like she had been dragged here on a wave of our family’s characteristic enthusiasm, but there was no turning back now. I had a plan to make sure that those who were thinking of turning back didn’t regret coming though, and on the way we stopped off at a wonderful organic farmhouse cafe somewhere between Llangollen and Betwys-y-Coed. With a sausage and egg baguette and a cup of tea inside of you, I’m pretty sure you can take on anything and win.

We arrived at Snowdon in the midst of a patch or two of mist. Knowing that the main car park would be full even though the weather wasn’t perfect, we parked up further down the hill, adding an extra mile or so to the journey but saving us the extortionate £10 parking charge. From here on it was up and up, through the stepped opening stretch of the Pyg track and across the flatter path after it splits with the Crib Gogh route. I pointed to the fearsome looking mountain ahead and said to Vicky, ‘see that big mountain ahead? Snowdon is just behind it’. In typical fashion, Chris had already been winding Vicky up in a similar way all morning. Not having a time limit imposed on us, and with all of the rest of the group barring Emily not having experienced the three peaks challenge, we took it steady. It was so much nicer to be able to take in more when not focussing entirely on getting to the top and back down again, and the cool, dewy air was just enough to keep us cool without ever threatening to be really cold.

By the time we hit the top, Vicky was all for getting the train back, so I suggested we had a break and a cup of tea in the cafe. We spent a good hour, probably more at the top, by which time I had persuaded John and Vicky that it was much easier going down, a white lie they lambasted me for by the time everyone had slipped over at least once, but despite Vicky’s assurances to the contrary, I was pretty sure that everyone had enjoyed it.

After stopping for breakfast, taking a gentle stroll up and spending a long time in the cafe, it was getting on for late afternoon by the time we got back to the car. Chris and Vicky were concerned that the climb might have left them a bit pongy for the pub, and by the time we were close enough to civilisation to get a mobile phone signal, Emily found out that there was a Sunday roast waiting for her, so we all agreed that, once again, the post-mountain celebratory meal could wait until another day.

As we passed Shrewsbury and into the final leg of our journey, darkness formed around me. Like an apocalyptic vision, the late afternoon sunshine faded and great, black, mountainous clouds grew above. I had been here before, right at the start of the weekend, and had asked the rain gods to be kind and hold off until Sunday evening. They had duly obliged, but now, as if making up for lost time, the heavens opened, almost as if a naughty angel-horticulturalist was defiantly ignoring some kind of godly hosepipe-ban. I considered lowering the anchor onto the motorway for a while, but aquaplaned on, and eventually made it to Ironbridge, where a break in the rain allowed Emily home without a thorough soaking.

By the time we were home, the day was at an end. There was time for a bowl of muesli before bed, which was a bit of an anticlimax after our planned meal had fallen through, but once again, it had been a weekend of interesting experiences, not so much new this time, more little twists on paths I have trodden before. Maybe that bowl of muesli was symbolic of our weekends away, packed with variety, filling and ultimately very satisfying, but in the end all that is left is an empty bowl to wash up and a bed to fill those few hours before it was time for work and a return to reality. Then again, maybe it was just a bowl of muesli.

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