It's a bit long, but it was written by committee!
Saturday dawned, dull, grey and overcast, following a night of heavyish rain.
Distinctly unpromising stuff. Over breakfast, looking at the summit of Snowdon, wearing a fetching mantle of fast moving clouds, we discussed the options. It was FAR too wet for climbing, so we'd head up Tryfan, and on to the Glyders
It was very Welsh rain – an unpleasantly intrusive moistness, with a cloudbase about 300 feet higher than the road. It seemed likely to be a distinctly unpromising day. Heading up Heather Terrace the rain had stopped but the dank, foggy gloom seemed set in for the duration.
The summit was damp, unpleasant and infested with children. 1.00PM and I had the kettle on, next to a very slippery Adam & Eve, where a school party (and one apparently intelligent adult) were being incredibly, bravely, stupid.
Thick cloud, but at least it's not raining. In the absence of a view, we admired the fog, then ambled off towards Glyder Fach. The path quickly became a scramble, entertaining and interesting (!?) by turns, punctuated by muffled cursing and the disconcerting slither of wet Vibram on polished rock.
I like ‘UP’, said my companion, as more ‘UP’ appeared, whilst we passed some curious goats, of all things. We were not lost but, navigating by the polish and the general principle of “up is good”, we found ourselves temporarily mislaid. Bearings were taken on various lumps dimly visible through the mist, but proved inconclusive. Whilst trying to work out our exact location, the cloud started to break. To our left, the sun, hiding behind thin cloud, was framed by the ‘crown’ of Glyder Fach.
And then, suddenly, the mist completely disappeared. In the space of just a few minutes, the view went from zero to panorama.
As we sat, in solitary splendour, admiring OUR kingdom, no words were needed.
Mars bars, sandwiches, and coffee gone, we headed for Glyder Fawr, our last ‘target’ for the day. As we topped out, our jaws dropped. We gaped and marvelled, awestruck. Anglesey smiled back at us. The sea glittered in the late afternoon sun, the Mountains of Mourne were clear on the horizon. Shapes in the distance were tentatively identified as the Isle of Man, and Scotland. As the sun slowly set, it painted the sky in glorious red and the lakes in delicate purple. The hills of the Lleyn peninsular formed dark, humpbacked shapes, surrounded by golden mist, while those around us were alive with colour, an earthly paradise. Suddenly we understood what the great outdoors really meant.
The light slowly faded as we made our way down from Glyder Fawr and the headtorches had come out as we started the descent to Llyn Idwal. The lake, quiet and still, sharply defined by the encircling mountains, reflected the beautifully clear sky, now filled with cosmic splendour. The path petered out underfoot, and we moved now over lush wet vegetation.
Some time later we began to be concerned. The path was still conspicuous by its absence, the lake was getting no nearer, and it was getting late. Worse still, the ground was now varying from the very boggy to the ankle-deep in water. Thoughts of a minor epic rose to mind, followed closely by the horrid prospect of a bivvy shared with each other’s feet. And the ground was getting ever wetter. Then the truth dawned. Llyn Idwal, its true position distorted by the shadow of the mountains, was not so far away after all.
We were standing in it.
From there a gentle trot along the made-up path led back to the road, and thence, via a lift from a guy with a strange interest in night navigation, to the car.
We drove into Llanberis, to the chippy, and back to the campsite. Later we sank onto a bench in the pub and grinned ear-to-ear over our pints. Words were superfluous and the sunset stayed in our minds, an excellent memory of an utterly inspiring day.
Tim, the Grey, & WingNut
