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Day 24
I read somewhere the advice always to leave a peg in the tent, and to put one in as soon as
you start to pitch it, in order to avoid seeing it blowing away over the lake. This is one of
those little nuggets of advice which one gleans from somewhere and since reading it I have
always had that peg in, usually quite unnecessarily. This was the morning when caution
paid off. It really would have blown over the lake as a sudden tremendous easterly gust
billowed it into the air and it was held by that one vital peg.
By 6.40am I was on my way up the eroded path onto Rhinog Fach and thinking of the
people who would like to see an official Cambrian Way routed along this ridge. There is no
right of way along the ridge and it is closed on 5th February each year. Much as I am
opposed to anybody 'closing' mountains I think that this is perhaps a good thing for it will
surely prevent any official path being designated here. The thought of waymarks in this
wild area is quite repugnant. The word 'elitist' now seems as derogatory as 'racist' or 'sexist',
yet surely there is room for some elitism. There are plenty of places for the non-elite to
walk. Let's keep a few places wild for those who ask more from their hills than a well-
surfaced, easy-to-follow path.
Early morning is a lovely time to be on top of a mountain. The morning today was not
clear and sparkling but very hazy with the hills silhouetted in shades of grey giving an
almost evening feeling to the landscape. The sun was struggling up through low banks of
cloud strung out along the eastern horizon. Eventually as it broke out into the clear blue sky
above, the haze dispersed and the sharp details of the hills slid into focus. Its warmth was
tempered all day by that cold east wind however.
My friend of yesterday evening had advised me to swing well to the right coming off
Rhinog Fach instead of taking the direct and very steep path recommended in the book.
This path was quite clear, less so its continuation onto Rhinog Fawr. This rough territory is
hard going even where there is a path and the drops between the peaks are so substantial that
the word 'ridge' hardly seems appropriate.
Looking from Rhinog Fawr summit towards the col above the Roman Steps, which was
the next objective, a confusing maze of tracks could be seen crossing the flat area ahead. I
selected one more or less at random which led to the attractive little lake, Llyn Du. Slabs
run down into the water which was sparkling now in brilliant sunshine. A sheltered cleft
amongst the rocks made a splendid brew up spot.
The next track ended abruptly on the top of a cliff above the cleft of Bwlch Tyddiad.
The rather impressive paved path which is known as the Roman Steps comes up here from
the west. All the guidebooks will tell you that they are not Roman at all but that it is
probably a medieval packhorse route. Regardless of its origin it is an excellent route which I
had used in the past both on and off these hills; an example to modern path builders
perhaps.
Several groups of walkers could be seen in this vicinity. Most people either come up
just to see the steps or turn south at the col and go up onto Rhinog Fawr. A few might use it
as a through route, as presumably the packhorses did. Very few will turn north into the
exceedingly rough section of the ridge which I had to cross next. I had a very vague
recollection of walking here before and thought that I remembered a clear path but either my
memory or my navigation was faulty because on this occasion I failed to find it.
I set out on a clear path but it simply went up to a large cairn on the eastern edge of the
ridge and there it seemed to come to an end. I could remember walking close to Llyn
Morwynion, so I made my way across north-westwards and picked up a bit of a track but it
disappeared in the bog a few yards later. The going was awful, a potent mixture of deep
heather and boulders. Every step was a gamble as the ground could not be seen through the
thick vegetation. One foot would land awkwardly on the edge of a rock and the other
plunge into a boggy hole. In such totally trackless and unfrequented territory a solo walker
must take exceptional care and a steady rhythm of movement is impossible. Momentarily I
pined for the Cambrian Way, nicely trodden out and waymarked, but I quickly condemned
such a notion and concluded instead that I was not sufficiently elite! After what seemed
like hours of floundering I finally struggled out onto the path well to the west of the next col
and on getting to the top was at least pleased to see only the vaguest of tracks emerging from
that wilderness to the south.
A fairly clear path goes north from here and although it does not continue all the way to
the top of Moel Ysgyfarnogod the going on this northern part of the ridge is a good deal more
pleasant and I began to reconsider my decision, made a couple of hours earlier, never to
venture onto the Rhinogs again. It was glorious to be walking on grass and scrambling
around on rocks to get to the trig point on the highest summit. The lower top, Foel Penolau,
is even more interesting and when approached from the west requires a minor rock climb to
attain its summit plateau of flat slabs.
Flat slabs continue over Diffwys making for very easy going as long as one can stay on
the ridge but the descent was quite rough and by the time I reached the edge of Llyn
Trawsfynydd it was 5pm and I still had to climb over the end of a ridge on the footpath to
the dam. I suddenly felt that I had made a dreadful mistake because I had come too low to
camp yet was still a long way from Ffestiniog where I wanted to stay at the youth hostel.
However as soon as I crossed the dam and saw a parked car I knew that only a simple tramp
along the road was required to reach the hostel. As I came close to the power station I
encountered a notice saying 'NO PUBLIC FOOTPATH' and diverting walkers into the
forest. I ignored it, going now at full speed on the tarmac and hoping that none of the cars
which I had seen further up the road would come by and offer me a lift. The first and
busiest part of the main road had a helpful path. Thereafter it became unpleasant but it was
efficient and I kept up a good speed although the feet were suffering. At Bont Newydd I
phoned the hostel and reserved a bed.
Now I could relax and entered Ffestiniog with only beer in mind! It was a very
different place from the villages and towns further south. The slate houses give it an
atmosphere of severity and with no sign of a pub I began to wonder if it was so puritanical
that it did not have one. Eventually I located the Pengwern Arms and was soon feasting on
lasagne washed down with two pints of lager. I arrived at the hostel, which is nearly a mile
out of town, just before 9pm in a state of total exhaustion and enjoyed a long luxurious
sleep.
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