Seán Fortune writes about his first steps on one of the UK's most intimidating crags:  Clogwyn Du'r Arddu (Cloggy), affectionately known as Cloggy, in North Wales... 

A sleepy eye cracks open reluctantly, awoken by the continuous tap dance of cool raindrops on warm skin. Not that it changes anything; the inky blackness doesn't reveal much more than closed eyelids. Unexpected, unforeseen and unwanted, the rain continues unabated, oblivious to these arguments against its existence.

Deceptively light, the wind helps it search out every nook and crevice, that misty style that dupes you into thinking it's not so bad, right up to the moment you realise the beaded droplets adorning the outer layers are just a sodden, sopping dam waiting to burst. I should really be more concerned, but it's hard to work up any energy when I'm still warm and cosy. It's the first time my bivvy bag has really had to earn its keep — and so far, it's keeping its promise. I make the supreme effort to reach as far as my runners, and move them to a more sheltered spot, tucked away at the little palisade of rocks I've built as a windbreak. It's a bit late, they're soaked anyway, but it's at least a symbolic acknowledgement of the weather. With not much else to be done - at least till daylight - I tug the hood tighter, twisting it away from the rain, and retreat back to the warm depths of my sleeping bag, the sound of pattering rain and wind the only sense left to connect me to the outside world.

We're a little over halfway through a two week trip to North Wales, making the most of our first trip abroad since COVID began. In late September, we're pushing it for the climbing season, but despite a decidedly damp start to the trip we've been buzzing. Bar a couple of club trips to the slate quarries, it's our first time experiencing what Wales has to offer, and it's living up to its historic reputation. It's been an endless rodeo bouncing from one classic route to another, blown away by the sheer quantity, quality and diversity of climbs. The worst part has been the inability to try every route…but that's a never ending problem that isn't likely to change anytime soon!

We've at least made a good stab at visiting some of the most iconic crags; Gogarth, Tremadog, Dinas Cromlech, Pen Trwyn, Dinas Mot- even squeezing in an atmospheric (i.e., soaking wet in the middle of a cloud) Snowdon Horseshoe on one of the wetter days. One crag, however, despite being at the top of the list of desires, remained near the bottom for realistic options. Cloggy. Such a friendly-sounding nickname, yet it sends a slight shiver down the spine. Surely one of the most infamous trad crags in the world with a reputation for remaining stubbornly damp and out of condition.

So far, the variety of locations in Wales has meant that no matter how bad the weather, there's always someplace, somewhere offering dry - or at least only mildly damp - rock. However, the trade-off has been a distinct lack of opportunities to climb at Cloggy, with the unsettled weather meaning we've barely considered it. Having essentially written Cloggy off, we come to realise during one of the many nightly forecast checks that there might, in fact, be just enough of a window to take a chance. And a chance is all we need. The main street of Llanberis once again becomes our living room; gear spread out behind the car as we pack up, quick trips to Spar for kitchen supplies before heading back to our bedroom, tucked away on the hillside in the Pass.

We set off early the next day, the ropes and packs drawing some curious looks from tourists suddenly wondering if they've severely underprepared for a trek up Snowdon. The fresh morning sun promises a perfect day, while still cool enough to make the trek up an enjoyable one. Before us the remnants of an early morning dew burn off under the cheerful sky, creating a hazy tint that does just enough to keep Cloggy's features a mystery for now, like a photo slightly out of focus.

As we split off onto the grassy side trail leading down into the cwm, the bustle of the busy Snowdon track quickly fades and the silent spell of Cloggy grows. We've been in view of the crag for quite a while now, but that doesn't prevent me stopping every few minutes to stare, my mind drifting to the names of those iconic characters that have made the same pilgrimage. Brown. Whillans. Dawes. Crew. Drummond. Littlejohn. McHaffie. MacLeod. Iconic characters of old and modern household names mixed in with thousands of nameless punters like ourselves, all treading the same avenue of anticipation. It feels weird to know we're walking the same path, taking the same footsteps as these great climbers.

The closer we get, the faster my heart beats, a combination of the hike up, the nervous trepidation and the sense of the past. I wonder if this is how religious people feel on pilgrimages; that deep sense of reverence and awe must be similar. A mosque, a church, a rockface. In a sense, are any of them really that different? They're all empty of purpose without the symbolism we put onto them, influenced by the generations that came before us and those we choose to look up to. We tread further along, deeper into the almost hallowed territory of the cwm beneath the cliffs. It feels like we're sneaking in, hoping to pass unnoticed by the looming faces above us. 

Cutting off the path, we follow a babbling rocky stream down twixt grassy hillocks, towards the remains of some old sheepfolds. Beyond lies a flat grassy stretch and gravel beach, next to the icy mirrored lake. Forming the lowest section of the rounded cwm, itself shaped by the actions of a long departed glacier, the lake's rippled surface twinkles beneath the sun, belying the cold seductiveness of its depths, sweaty backs and heavy packs serving to tempt us further¹.

But the real enticement lies above, our eyes drawn from the mirrored reflection of the crag to the alluring, intimidating reality above. Clogwyn Du'r Arddu: The Black Cliff of The Black Height² is well named, its soaring walls care little for the miniscule specks eyeing it up from below. A monstrosity of complex battlements, each vying for prominence over the others; dark corners interspersed with blank faces and sweeping slabs that discourage any notion of being climbable from this distance. The iconic slab of Indian Face takes centre stage, surrounded by buttresses that appear lesser only in comparison from afar, disguising their bulk till you dare approach closer.

Still streaked with water despite several days of dryness, Cloggy offers no semblance of comfort, only respect. And respect it gets, along with a healthy serving of trepidation stirred up with excitement. Dropping our bags on the grassy plain, we quickly set up camp. More accurately, we dump everything under the single man fly, eager to get going. The familiar nervous anticipation builds as we survey the face, trying to pick out a relatively easy line to start off on. As it turns out, Cloggy doesn't have any of those. Limited by the many clearly damp sections, the choice falls between harder but safer, versus bold and spaced. With the nerves building, harder but safer takes the win, and we settle on one of the many three star routes, a two-pitch E2 called Silhouette. 

After some obligatory faff on the approach, where we find out Welsh bog can be just as annoying as Irish bog, Brian quests off up the first approach pitch, following the arête of a pedestal to more boggy ground across to the base of the main face. Pretty soon I find myself staring up at a thin crack beside him, really appreciating the accuracy of the Rockfax description: "the rock is never quite dry enough, and never quite clean enough." It's not often that guidebooks are more accurate than you want them to be.

The initial moves are tenuous; it's my first time climbing on rough mountain rhyolite. The crack is a little damp, a little dirty. Not enough to spoil it, but just enough to play with your mind. I try to spread myself evenly across all four limbs as I adjust to the style, figuring out how grippy the feet are, how solid the rock is, how much I can pull on uncertain holds. Slowly I start trusting my hands and feet more, listening to what my body tells me about the rock. I start pulling a bit harder on crimps, committing to worse feet easier. Not that I have much of a choice; the climbing is straight in your face from the off, and I have to keep moving. It takes a little longer to step outside my head than usual, a little more to find that flow - the intimidation is very real!

But the climbing forces compliance; it's tough, with definitive moves. It's steep for a supposed slab, and a couple of moves are made more interesting by the damp dirty crack. 20m up, I reach jugs and good feet, around where the guidebook describes a potential intermediary stance. I debate for a minute, my ego wanting to keep going, the rest of me wanting to stop. Looking down I can see I've plenty of gear in — too much if anything. Most of it, of course, appears to be precisely the sizes I want for the crack ahead and that decides it for me. I build an anchor and settle in, ego be damned! 

Leading off the second pitch feels comfier, having soaked in some of the intimidation and warmed up to the rock, while the extra half rack of gear doesn't do much harm to the confidence either! The climbing continues, never desperate, but always interesting, slowly draining the forearms as I approach the grand finale. Resting under a little bulge, I try to regain some energy — a tough ask on undercuts with poor feet. A couple of exploratory expeditions later I'm in a similar position, but with ebbing strength and confidence. The moves above are hard; avoiding a slimy poor jam means wide sidepulls coming through the bulge, interspersed with some intricate footwork on smears. I make one solid effort, giving it my all as I bump my way further into the unknown. As usual however, it's the mind that wavers before the body, causing me to move slower, tire easier, losing focus on feet and technique until, predictably, I whip onto the rope.

However, I'm pleased as I hang there. I fell off moving upwards and trying hard — and at the end of the day, isn't that the whole point? To explore your limits and what you're capable of, and usually along the way realise how much further away that line of capability is than you ever would have thought. After a long rest and another half-assed effort, I go again. The moves are a bit smoother as I work my feet up that extra bit, bump up to another sidepull before one more big move and I'm through - thankfully - to monster jugs and a bit of relief. The climbing eases from here, and a few minutes later I'm up onto the top of the Eastern Ramp and hunting for anchors. The sun comes out — or has it been out all along? The world expands, and I'm able to take in where I am on a whole different scale compared to before. Suddenly, the breeze is a bit friendlier, the colours deeper, the cliffs more sympathetic, and everything is turned up just that extra little bit on the dial. 

A pretty cold Brian (Sorry Brian!) finally gets to take me off and prepare to climb again. Shortly after, we're making our way down the Eastern Ledges, with an extra spring in our step, crossing back under Silhouette and eyeing up our planned lines for tomorrow with a whole new level of enthusiasm. We make it back down to the campsite in time for the last rays to spread their magic as a setting sun outlines the rocky skyline. Tucking in under the fly for dinner, the wind picks up as we eat to our hearts' content. Discussion of Cloggy leads to the conclusion, with our vast experience of a single attempted route, that it's worthy of the highest compliment possible: it's almost - almost! - as good as Fairhead, and one of the few crags worthy of comparison to it. Once both food and chat have run out, it's time to settle in and I head out to my bivvy spot. Tucked in beside a little rocky windbreak, I'm looking forward to forecast clear skies and a brisk overnight breeze resulting in drier rock and further adventures tomorrow…

As the darkness gives way to the early morning dawn, the greyness remains. The cloud that has enveloped us limits our world to the surrounding few metres, consisting mainly of rain, wetness and puddles. Warm in my bivvy bag, the world shrinks in size, much like on a climb. When your world diminishes, you take in so much more of it, noting all the miniscule details that get lost in the big picture. Through my narrow window to the outside, I watch tiny globules of water form, little worlds of liquid individually arranged along each blade of grass and leaf of clover before me. They last but a while, until their own increasing weight and a slight shift in breeze knocks the heaviest off, to plop and melt into the ground below leaving behind remnants for the cycle to begin again.

The actions of the wind above can be seen through the tracks of the falling rain as they ebb and flow in response to gusts, their lines ever changing as they fall. I should be frustrated at the forecast being wrong, annoyed at bivvying in the rain, upset we can't climb today - and normally I would be. But somehow, it nearly seems right at Cloggy. The guidebook description perfectly encapsulates it: "The rock is never quite dry enough, and never quite clean enough to make the routes feel easy. But, on a day when the weather is just good enough to allow ascents to be made, it feels like you have taken a gamble and won." Somehow, waking up to a rain-strewn plateau has only added to the experience. Much as I'd have loved to climb again today, this somehow feels more appropriate.

Cloggy allowed us to have one taste. To seek more would be greedy. Besides, a rainy hike back down to Llanberis would seem to necessitate a trip to a certain fine dining establishment. Even the wettest of clouds have a silver lining — or in this case, a stomach lining, in the form of a big breakfast and a bigger hot chocolate…

***

¹ It's only later I find out the lake and surrounding area have a couple of interesting old fairy tales attached to them – I thought the similarities with some Irish tales were intriguing. One maintains that if two people sleep under a specific boulder named Maen Du'r Arddu, one will be gifted the talent of poetry, while the other shall become insane. Disappointingly, given that neither I nor Brian have managed to rhyme anything more interesting than "Cloggy" and "boggy" since, it appears we didn't sleep close enough to the boulder for the magic to kick in, although the question of our sanity remains, as of yet, unresolved. I came across the stories here for anyone interested: "The 20th Century: Volume 30" (pp. 567-569- see here), or in "Celtic Folklore Welsh and Manx" by John Rhys (Chapter 1, Section III - see here). 

² I saw a few translations of Clogwyn D'ur Arddu when I was trying to look it up, but there didn't seem to be anything definitive. Various suggestions included "The Dark Black Cliff", "The Black Cliff of the Swarthy" "The Black Cliff of the Black Height" or "Black Cliff of the Ploughed Ground." A couple of places suggested "Enwai Cymru" by Iwan Jones might be the best definitive source.