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Day 17
I had a restless night interrupted again by rain as well as the sloping and bumpy ground so I was up as soon as there was enough light to cook by and away before 7am. The rain had stopped and it was not even misty for the first three peaks, Esgeiriau Gwynion, Foel Rhudd and Llechwedd Du which were the last of the Arans but which already had more of the character of the Berwyns, being flat featureless hills covered in tussocky grass, bog and peat hags.
As I arrived at Bwlch y Groes I performed a mental victory dance at having emerged unscathed at this place where, a few weeks ago, we first found out about the supposed access problems on the Arans. I was very surprised to have got here without even a barbed wire fence to climb. In fact on the route which I had taken I had seen no indication of any restrictions as to where I could walk although there were waymarks in places.
Well mentally I was dancing with delight but actually I was donning my waterproof trousers as the rain had restarted and the mist had come down. There was no problem of navigation to the next top, Moel y Cerrig Duon, the book just told me to follow the fence, so now clad in waterproofs I shouldered the rucksack and set off. I had just got within sight of the ridge fence ahead when I suddenly missed my compass. I checked all my pockets. Panic stricken I dropped the rucksack by the fence and ran back down to the car park on the col. What a relief to see it lying there on a rock! If I had dropped it earlier in the bog or if a motorist had driven in and taken it away (as I myself would probably have done had I seen it) then I should have been in a terrible mess. I vowed that from now on I should tie it to my wrist when it was not in my pocket.
To get from Moel y Cerrig Duon to Foel y Geifr involved a difficult traverse of which I had no description but, clutching my beloved compass, I noticed that the fence which I had followed to the top was now proceeding in the direction which suggested that it was following the National Park boundary shown on the map. Hence I decided to follow it rather than attempting to keep on the ridge which had been my original intention. This saved me both distance and climbing and although the going was pretty dreadful through bog and heather there was a vague path along the fence in places and even a few ancient bootmarks. I was able to keep an accurate check on my position by noting the bends in the fence which agreed exactly with the boundary on the map. At the point where the fence turned sharply east I dropped steeply down to the river confluence which was a delightful brew up spot.
The next three tops are probably the pleasantest of the western Berwyns since they lie on quite a well defined ridge with a sketchy track along it. Moreover the mist was clearing giving some sort of a view of this landscape of rolling heathery hills and forests. Hence it was no great hardship to turn back on the vague summit of Foel Goch and return over Trum y Gwragedd before making a rough way down to the col which is crossed by a narrow tarmaced road.
The next block of hills I remembered vividly from my only previous visit when I was collecting them as two-thousanders from Bridge's tables. I knew that they were covered in trackless, knee deep, ankle twisting heather giving some of the worst going in the British hills. However the book told me that there is now a forestry track across them so I naively supposed that they would cause a lot less pain than before. Well this was true of the first two tops. The approach to Pen y Boncyn Trefeilw was very easy going on this track and the book told me that the summit is marked by a boundary stone engraved with the letters DP. Thick mist had come down again so this information was potentially invaluable but when I went up to a stone at what appeared to be the summit I could find nothing carved on it at all. I started looking round for another stone but this one was obviously the highest and a closer inspection eventually disclosed the initials.
Stac Rhos has seven tops according to the book and they say that the most north-easterly is the highest. Well misty though it was I could just about make out some of the bumps and figure out which was the most north-easterly. From this point the forest track was abandoned and the heather bashing began.
The new maps have moved the summit of Cefn Gwyntog more than a kilometre further south than it was in the old tables and every metre of the ridge is a painful one although approaching the top there was an area where the heather had been burnt which alleviated the struggle to some extent. I would hate to see the wild beauty of this area destroyed with more tracks, forestry or agriculture but I do not think that I shall ever want to climb this hill again!
The trek back to Cyrniau Nod, which is the highest summit of the group, was equally rough and unpleasant but the top was easy to find marked by a large cairn beside a fence. The mist was really thick now with visibility down to a few yards but the instructions in the book for getting to Y Groes Fagl seemed straightforward: follow the fence to a junction of fences and fork right to rejoin the track. This I did but no track appeared and I suddenly realised that I was going much too low with all the high ground up on my left. I climbed up that way, found the track, the correct point to leave it and the summit marked by a six foot pole but I was left wondering what had gone wrong with the Nuttalls' usually accurate directions.
Now followed a dreadful section. Bwlch y Dwr was a ghastly combination of deep heather and deep peat groughs, the sort of territory where it is almost impossible to follow a compass bearing. At last I saw rising ground ahead and as I struggled up Foel Cwm Sian Llwyd through knee deep heather a heretical thought crossed my mind - wouldn't it be nice if somebody had built a track up here! I saw the trig point through swirling mist but it was not as close as it looked. When at last I reached it the mist had come down again but I photographed it anyway. It had taken so much effort to get there.
Now all that remained was to get down to the Milltir Cerrig pass, a task by no means as trivial as a glance at the map might suggest. I set off on a compass bearing and soon dropped out of the mist. I could see the entrance to the little quarry where the motor caravan should be parked but there was no sign of it. At first I thought that perhaps it could be hidden by the walls of the quarry but the lower I went the more unlikely this seemed so I spent most of the descent worrying about what I should do if it was not there. This was in between worrying about the abysmally awful ground which I was trying to negotiate. At one point I fell into a hole, knee deep in cold water. I was quite exhausted, stumbling from tussock to tussock. I decided that my only option would be to set up the tent just behind the quarry. Then suddenly I saw a figure emerge from behind the banks of the quarry and I knew that it must be Rowland. I waved frantically, weak with relief.
As soon as I arrived at the well hidden motorcaravan I changed completely and settled down to a beer and a discussion of what had befallen each of us since we parted just north of Neath. Of course he had some idea of my progress anyway since we had been communicating by telephone and I had been sending my log home with the maps. After two very long hard days and last night's uncomfortable campsite I was ready for a long luxurious sleep.
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