Lewis Perrin Williams writes about climbing A Midsummer Night's Dream (E6 6a) on 'Cloggy'...

Light and dark, summer and winter, the solstices. On 21 June, the longest day, James McHaffie and I took the path to Clogwyn Du'r Arddu, grandest of Welsh mountain cliffs. That name! It means "The Black Cliff of Darkness".

A few weeks before I'd been sitting by a lonely tree on the shores of Llyn Padarn, pondering its grandeur. The lake shimmers below vast slopes of slate spoil, and a ruined castle from long ago stands guard for "The Pass" - our climbing Mecca, this utopia where we mortals play on angelic Welsh climbs. Clogwyn Du'r Arddu stands high above and apart, presiding over the village, the lake, the little streams and woods. It sees all, knows all, a spirit from an ancient world, spurning those who do not respect.

Caff and I raced up, sweat pouring, along the touristed path, round the deep, mysterious lake, the eye of Yr Wyddfa. Its dark waters peer into you, drawing you in. We scramble up the Western Terrace to gain the start of our first route: Whillans's "Slanting Slab", one of Caff's last ticks in "Hard Rock". We aid the first loose overhang to a peg. The rock's awful, shattered and rotten. Beyond is delightful traversing, the rock's quality varying.

My eyes are drawn east towards an ambition. The line of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" glares back. At the foot of the cliff again, in the fresh hours of day, excitement and anticipation rear their heads as I rush over to the base of the East Buttress. I rack up, analyse the line, analyse it again. "What will I do there?" I ask. I'll see when I get there.

Racked up and on my way, what instantly hits me is the heavenly quality of the rock. This route climbs no cracks, no flakelines, crunchy crimps or ragged rails. The climbing is pure, on delectable small finger features. On each upward move you wrap your fingers around tiny dimples, ripples, crimpable rugosities. You feel part of a fable, a dream. Away you climb, soaring stealthily into the sky. It's dancing into the heavens, a pure intensity, joyous, fearful or both. The sun cranes round the ridge and all is illuminated. The rock glows a golden brown, sweet and friendly by contrast with the danger you've put yourself in to experience these intensest of moments.

A few bold sections of technical focus, the clipping of dubious in situ gear, and I arrive joyful at Great Wall's foothold of a stance, I muse over climbing more of this magnificent sheet of rock, this stilled magma of such astounding quality and character! Caff follows, the perfection of the pitch still bringing him pleasure despite prior acquaintance. I ready myself for the next pitch.

Graded E5, it too proved memorable. After following the shallow groove of Great Wall for maybe ten metres, I broke out left onto small jugs and a thin ledge, placed a bomber-looking Wallnut and contemplated what lay ahead. I knew that I must climb up and then traverse left to a stance on "Daurigol". I conjured up a few confident sequences and attained a position metres above the tiny ledge. A traverse line just above beckoned. I climbed on, then spotted another promising traverse line, and another, until I was ten metres above my last protection, and realised that I'd climbed too far. I was unable to climb even a single move down. A poor foothold and a slippery sidepull were the sole, unnerving and unravelling connections between me and a monster fall.

In the complex desert of rock above, my eyes strove to search out a sequence, anything at all. I found an impression of a foothold just up and left, committed all my weight to that sloping joke of a sidepull, released a coiled energy and slapped towards a vague arête. Holding steady, committed technical footwork inched me around the pinched arête, right hand applied only for balance. I dropped far, far down onto a flat jug of a hold. Relief! I downclimbed several metres and rested easy on the stance.

Sudden, jarringly exuberant energy filled me. "That's what it's all about!" I exclaimed. Caff - who'd been quiet for some time - called up. The words are forgotten but the sentiment was one of relief. He climbed up towards me, picking his way below the foolhardy line I'd chosen, steering clear of it. Time passed. I arched my neck to peer up a steep arête with the slightest of "S" bends to it. It seemed a boulder problem sequence.

I went up a few times to look. This often seems to be the case with onsighting: you go up, go down, encourage yourself to commit and then plunge, completing another cycle in the ritual. I plunged, made a dynamic move to attain a fingerhold at the crest of the steepness, matched and moved feet, rocked over for a jug, raced up the shimmering easy slab beyond and began celebrating. The setting sun beamed down graciously as I reclined on the grassy ledge above. I thought back on the joy of the movement, the generous quality of the rock, the memorably bold moments. What a magical route, this solstice gift!

My father once expressed that, when at its most intense, the urge to climb is an exploration of uncertainty: will we get away with it, will we push on and fail, or will we prevail? I've always been drawn towards bold routes. Perhaps there's a philosophy to be found in them, an insight into the mind? The sun beams as wide as my grin as I walk out, past the peering lake, along the now-empty path to Llanberis, I stop and marvel back at the golden ocean of rock smiling behind. Such beautiful days in a life!