Arswyda a yn alaru i mewn Cymru / Fear and Loathing in Wales

Snowdon as seen from Crib Goch

I'm resurrecting the archives again to write about another walk, and my first trip into Wales with my good walking partner Jon.  Little did we know that every emotion would be tested to the extreme on this little adventure.

The plan was simple.  Get up, make a hasty dash from one side of the country to another in a bid for climbing up Yr Wyddfa, aka Snowdon, the highest peak in Wales, as well as catch as much of the 6 Nations Rugby at the same time.  I booked a cheap hostel via the means of the Internet, and we set off.  Once we arrived at Llanberis, we caught the Pen Y Pass bus, and got ourselves into what can be loosely described as one of the best, yet most naive walks to date.

We started out along the conventional Pyg Track heading for the Miners Track to the summit.  It was while enjoying the clear blue skies, and the orange tinge on the landscape that I decided I didn't like the look the Miners Track.  It was decided to hop up to some higher ground early, and make our way over. 

The higher ground we chose was accidentally one of the 15 peaks over 3,000ft called Crib Goch.  Today, I am more aware of the peaks of Snowdonia, and what they bring, but at the time, I knew nothing of Crib Goch. There is a reputation it carries, being one of the UK's most famous ridges.  Trail magazine recently described it as, 

'a buzz-saw of exposed, angled rock that cuts the crowds into three ragged demographics:  those who climb it and love it; those who won't go anywhere near it and leave it well alone; and those who fall uneasily in the middle'

To put it simply, it is exposed, very dangerous (especially in bad conditions), and very, very, good fun!  The day was clear, and we walked straight over the top, testing our metal of not looking down.

I'd be ashamed to be seen posing with a can of beer up there now

Once past this, it was easy going, crossing over to another peak called Garnedd Ugain, where we had a rest, and found some snow for some beer we carried up with us to chill.  One final push, and we were on top of Snowdon itself.

Nearly a smile, still gurning

We sat at the trig point on the summit, ignoring those using the cafe slightly below, and appreciated the fine views for miles around, and what we had just accomplished.  There was a little toast with the beers, and a hope that the rugby results would all go our way once we managed to get back.  There was little time though, we had to move as we lost time on the way up, and I was known at the time for being worse on the descent than the ascent in these places, so it may take even longer.

We headed further round the range to turn the whole route into a horseshoe, going via Y Lliwedd, and down to Llyn (Lake) Llydaw.  'Longer' was the word to use, it seemed to take forever in the end.  There was a race against time to catch the last bus back to Llanberis, and get to our hostel for the rugby, but we misjudged everything, I hit the wall of sorts with all the walking downhill, and inevitably, we were left with more miles to walk and the use of our thumbs to drivers passing by.

Y Lliwedd

Not that any of them helped us for some time.  Each time a car pulled up, and a friendly communication was uttered, once it became apparent we were English, we got a guttural laugh followed up by a quick get away.  This went on a few times before someone finally took us to our hostel.  I don't recall the name of the place, but it was something more akin to the local pub in a council estate rather than a hostel.  We checked in; got to the dorm, realised we were the only ones checked in all night; headed downstairs for food... then the fun began, and not for us.

It was either at the point we opened our mouths, or when Jon came downstairs in his rugby shirt, we let it known that we were the English boys in town.  To return their compliments, I think we got to talk to every local person staggering around the pub about how Wales had just won the Grand Slam, the most prestigious means of winning the 6 Nations Championship.  

What can you do when surrounded by what appeared to be a bunch of alcohol fuelled, sun drunk savages?  We did what seemed perfectly natural at the time; take the abuse; get hell bent leathered on whatever sauce was working for them; get to our room and wedge a chair against the door handle.

I do like the Welsh, but that was an interesting introduction to say the least.

Crib Goch will have to be returned to in the near future I feel, but I will never visit the place during a rugby tournament again.