T-6

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I'm not in Betws-y-coed, but close by - the Tyn-y-coed in Capel Curig.

Have just added a map to this entry. Wish there was a way to highlight the bits that are driving as opposed to the bits that are hiking. Guess I'll have to leave that to your powers of deduction, if there's no road, it's probably hiking ;-)

So, the day dawned with patchy sunshine and cloud dangling on the hills at about 1800ft. Every summit on today's trek is above 2000ft so there's likely to be some navigation in cloud. But I set off with confidence high that the forecast will be right and the clouds will either lift or burn off by midday. 9am start from Bethania and I'm following the trail known as the Watkin path - a "round the back" route to the summit of Snowdon that is much quieter than both the tourist route and the Pyg track route. Despite that, it's too busy for my liking - there's half a dozen small groups heading off either side of me.

Luckily, I'm not following the Watkin path for long. At the gate into the mouth of the valley, I duck right down the hill to cross the wee burn by means of a mighty impressive slab bridge (the slab must be twenty foot long). Leaving behind the masses, I'm alone as I follow the path up towards some old copper mining sites on the low reaches of Y Lliwedd. Contouring round Lliwedd, the cloud sits wilfully a hundred feet or so above me, refusing to clear. A pair of paths offer themselves to me - one low, vague, and heading for the abandoned mine works, the other higher and narrower. I opt for the narrower of the two - it involves a rise in altitude. Not very long at all before the sight of the valley I'm supposed to be following the edge of has disappeared from view and I'm wandering happily amongst the impressive ruins of the old miner's cottages. Pause to inspect their handy work and once again impressed by what you can achieve simply by cunningly placing stones on top of each other.

The gently swaying misty air adds to the feeling of mystery. My path has all but vanished so I just pick the route I think the path should take as I scramble past the remains of a long-ago removed copper seam which has left a moody canyon a few feet wide at it's narrowest. I resit the temptation to jump across it (the rocks are slabby so grip is questionable) and skirt up its edge until a finely balanced slab provides a makeshift bridge across the gap. Onwards on what only very rarely appears as a path, not being able to see my surroundings and therefore orient myself, I spend a couple of episodes with the map and a compass to make sure I'm still roughly where I think I am. A couple of sheep look concerned for me but, eventually, I do reach the col I was aiming for and the junction of paths.

I skirt right and amble along through misty mounds until I reach the humble summit of Gallt y Wenallt. No view to be had but it's always a great feeling to have a summit to yourself. As I reverse my route to the path junction, the clouds clear momentarily, confirming that I'm not completely lost. And so begins the long and scrambly ascent along the ridge to the rocky, precipitous summit of Y Llliwedd. My brain decides the body is going to have a scrambling day so I begin to skip and hop my way up every rock that can provide any challenge. The legs are springy, the mind is willing, and the workings feel like a well-oiled machine. The mist is still hanging fast so atmospherically dripping rocks and wisps of cloud abound. A hound howls behind me. Surely not? A hound? A hound howls again. A dog appears below me and bounds away, howling at the mist. No owner to be seen.

A couple of minor rocky summits and I'm about to join the end of the Snowdon horseshoe (I'll be doing this piece in reverse today) when the hound appears again - howling again. He scampers up towards me and bounds past as if the hills are his playground and he needs pay no heed to the humans upon them. Another hound follows. I scramble along the ridge, smiling as I leap from rock to rock. The cloud clears periodically and glimpses of the lakes below inspire. A hand-over-hand scramble brings me to a promontory hanging high over the valley below. I pause for a moment and the hounds walk past me, the howling bitch and her dog in close pursuit. Still no humans. Perhaps they just found each other up here and decided to stay?

I continue on and am pleasantly surprised at how exhilarating the ridge of Y Lliwedd is - I'd forgotten how good a ridge this is. The legs and mind are still surprisingly willing so I'm still taking every opportunity to rock-surf my way up the mountain. A few more humans are getting in the way now - some heading back the way I came as they aim to complete the "normal" horseshoe, a few more annoying ones joining from the Watkin path below (some are the same annoying ones from earlier who are slowly making their way up). The clouds are lifting so the summit of Y Lliwedd is clear as I scramble to its top and begin leaping my way down it. A surprising amount of people ask if they're nearly there (they mean the Pen-y-pass car park) yet and I have to bring reality to them all (long way to go yet).

Pause at the col below the imposing mass of Yr Widdfa to consume and apple and a muesli bar. Haven't tried these bars before and they're very sweet but, today, that actually seems appealing. Don't pause for long before I set off up the harsh path to the summit ridge - many, many near-spent, over-ambitious people beg me to tell them there's an easy way down: "can we just go straight down from that col there?" Only if you've had enough of living. "Is there a quick way down?" Yeah, but it won't keep you alive. I convince a few people they can indeed follow the "normal route" (it means ascending Y Lliwedd) and still make it back in time for the rugby.

I reach the summit ridge and school groups are dotted around, shouting to each other despite being within a few feet of each other. The summit itself is worse than I have ever seen it. The "cafe" is finished now (and is ugly) and there are people everywhere - every nook and cranny is stuffed with a motley crew spreading themselves as wide as possible and the summit cairn itself is a procession of camera-wielding tourists. I pause below the summit cairn, taking in the long queue of people struggling up the tourist track and decide I will not enjoy barging past them to reach the gentle walk to my fourth summit (Garnedd Ugain). I have been there before, so I swiftly reverse my steps and skip past the goggle-eyed faces of the confused as I descend along the ridge to Bwlch Main (the ridge that leads down and away). I use any rockface, any scramble, anything to avoid the irritating peace-pollutant of the inane chatter of social groups.

I scamper along the narrow ridge and the people begin to thin out - some semblance of tranquillity returns. The dog howls from somewhere below and my legs are beginning to join in with the complaints now. I've been going at quite a pace for nearly five hours now. Pause again and look down on the dark mass that is my final target for the day - Yr Aran. Its rocky sides look impossible from here and I struggle to pick the route I should be following. Briefly, I wonder whether I should skip it and just head down into the valley. As I rise and begin to descend again, the patellar tendons are complaining and the achilles' are straining. But I keep going and I know Aran looks too tempting - I want to be at the top now. The skies are clear now and the Llyns (lakes), ridges, and peaks dot the landscape all around.

Approaching the col, the dog appears again. He stands beside me and we look down to the valley below. A moment passes. He looks at me askance, somewhat questioningly, then bounds away. I begin the steep ascent up the rocky sides of Yr Aran. As I look back from whence I came, I see the dogs bounding up the ridge, completely at one with the mountain trails they inhabit. There are three of them now. None have collars and all looked healthy and happy.

I scramble up to the top of Yr Aran pausing to be told firmly by a lovely elderly couple that are out for a short walk that I must - simply must - add Mallory's biography to my to-be-read list. Consider it done. The summit of Yr Aran is magical. The sun is quite low in the sky now (three hours till sunset now) and the views stretch far and wide in all directions. Stunning. Three days ago, a man was blown off this summit, over the edge of the rocky precipice, to his death. His wife was left on the summit alone. She eventually made it down safely but will doubtless never be the same again.

My knees ache as I wander down to the valley. By the time I reach the gate I refused at the beginning of the day, I've been out on the hills for seven hours, covered a dozen miles, and achieved more than 6000 feet of ascent. On the gentle sloping track down to the car, my legs and feet aching, I begin to wonder if this is the hardest day's walking I've ever done. I've been thinking about that for a few hours now and I think it might be second. I've been higher (Ruapehu - nearly 10,000 feet), I've been further (100km in 24 hours across the south downs), and I've even been further on mountains (my self-designed traverse of the northern mountains on Arran) but I don't think I've ever completed a day like this. The variety, the ascent, the descent, the height, the scrambling, the navigation, the summits - it all adds up to a special walk. Even if it is the hardest, I don't think it'll hold that title for long.

So tomorrow's plan is Y Garn but I'm not convinced my legs will be up to the long ridge traverse, scrambled descent, and long hike back that I had in mind. The day is now looking much cloudier than it had been forecast, the "cloud cover" measure now reaching 100% by midday. I'll wait and see how I do and how low the clouds are before I decide.

I wonder where the dogs sleep at night. I bet, wherever it is, it's cold, stony, desolate and truly gorgeous. Night all.

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