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Day 31
I slept well and woke to a beautiful and volatile morning with mist swirling round the
mountains. I lingered over breakfast hoping for a spectacular sunrise but it did not
materialise. It was quite a thrill to have spent the night virtually at the summit of one of my
mountains. It was my highest site so far but it was not to be the highest of the whole walk.
After returning over Mynydd Perfydd I climbed a surprisingly firm zigzag path through
the scree to the small cairn on the summit of Foel-goch. The mainer path skirts round this
hill, made perhaps by those traversing the three-thousanders since this top falls well below
that magic altitude. As a viewpoint however it was supreme, this morning at least, with mist
swirling around Tryfan and the Carneddau. The ridges disappeared and reappeared, rocky
turrets and pinnacles half glimpsed like the mysterious mountains of a fairytale, the haunt of
giants and of dragons. I lingered here a long time trying to capture a dramatic photograph
but with conditions so dynamic a video camera might have done so more successfully.
Eventually I was driven off by the bitterly cold wind.
Y Garn is one of the three-thousanders but it did not give good views today, the summit
was in thick mist. I soon dropped out of it and stopped for a mid-morning brew on the
shores of Llyn y Cwn. This is a beautiful and obvious campsite and inevitably the evidence
is there that it has been used as such with old plastic pot noodle containers floating in the
lake and other bits and pieces on the shore. Still this morning I could not be too smug for
last night as I brewed up a cup of ovaltine a sudden gust blew under the porch and whisked
away the package. Although I looked by the wall thinking that it could have come to rest
there I failed to find it and had to conclude that it was left lying on the hill somewhere for
some other right-minded walker to tut tut about!
On the horribly steep and eroded path to Glyder Fawr I met another backpacker and we
stopped for a chat. Soon I started meeting crowds of people. By the time I reached the
summit all the mist had dispersed and it was another clear and beautiful day. It is never
certain which of the two rocky tops of Glyder Fawr is the higher but it is pleasant enough to
scramble up both of them. The more northerly has the advantage of the other to make a
foreground for a picture of Crib Goch and Snowdon.
The flat ridge of the Glyders is very rough indeed but a fair path has developed most of
the way to Glyder Fach. Part way along is another rocky top, the Castle of the Winds. Its
evocative name is no doubt inspired by the crenellated appearance of the piled boulders
which form this knobbly protuberance although a less romantic imagination might liken it
to the piles of slate in the quarries of Ffestiniog. It has too little reascent to appear in the
tables but we usually used to include it for the fun of scrambling in its shattered gullys.
Today I saw nobody going that way and I also avoided it, using the big pack as an excuse.
I rather dreaded the summit of Glyder Fach as well, attaining which involves scrambling
around on enormous boulders with terrifying chasms between. Having reached the top once
I have usually considered it unnecessary to go right to the highest point on subsequent visits
and I noticed that most of the other groups in the vicinity today were bypassing it. However
on this occasion I felt morally obliged to go up.
I remembered an embarrassing occurence in
this vicinity one winter day when I dropped my ice axe into one of these chasms and had to
beg help from a pair of climbers with a rope who happened to come by. They did not
actually use the rope to go down into the hole and retrieve it but I certainly did not dare to
go in, visualising permanent entombment therein. Fortunately today it was very dry and the
scramble to the top presented less problem than anticipated.
Tryfan is another evocative name to the walker in the Welsh mountains. It is not the
meaning of the name which stirs the imagination this time for it simply translates as 'three
tops' and refers to the trident appearance of its famous silhouette. The unique attraction lies
in its difficulty. I have been told several times that Tryfan is the only summit in England
and Wales which cannot be reached without the use of hands although this claim is rather
dubious for it would take a person both daring and foolhardy who would balance over the
boulders of Glyder Fach with hands in pockets, while the prospect of a similar feat on Crib
Goch is daunting indeed. Nevertheless Tryfan does deserve its reputation for excitement,
being steep and dramatic on every side.
The easiest approach is by the south ridge, the route
which I now intended to follow. I have usually gone down to the miner's track to get to
Bwlch Tryfan from this point, although coming up I would always use Bristly Ridge. This
is perhaps the most sensational 'tourist' scramble in Wales, quite a bit harder than Crib Goch
or Tryfan north ridge in my opinion and one which I would not attempt to descend even
without a heavy pack. The Nuttalls, coming up this way, talk about an easy path on the
scree beside it, a route which I have always thought looked diabolical but I decided to try it.
It was rather similar to the descent from Snowdon on the top section of the Watkin path, i.e.
horrible, and it seemed to go on a lot longer. I am surprised that the Nuttalls do not mention
the far more attractive alternative for competent scramblers.
I dumped the rucksack on the col, taking a bit of a risk perhaps since one hears horror
stories of interference with gear in this part of the world. I went astray on the ascent, getting
into some quite tricky but enjoyable scrambling on the so called 'little Tryfan' which is
actually an optional extra. When I eventually reached the summit I was confronted by an
enormous school party goading each other into the jump from Adam to Eve (or is it vice
versa?). Adam and Eve are the two enormous boulders which form the true summit of this
mountain and I must admit that not only have I never done the notorious jump from one to
the other but I have never actually stood on top of either of these monoliths having decided
that honour would be satisfied by patting each in turn on the head. Had I had the summit to
myself I might in the circumstances have tried at least to sit on their heads but with all these
people milling around it was difficult to get near enough even to do the patting. As soon as
one group had departed another was waiting nearby to take over and monopolise the
summit. I felt vaguely embarrassed, feeling that they thought it a bit odd that this elderly
woman was so anxious to touch the top.
On the descent I got into conversation with a friendly couple who like me were trying to
sort their way through the confusion of paths to Bwlch Tryfan and who also like me had
thought the mountain spoilt by this mass of noisy humanity. I collected the rucksack and
this time I did take the miner's track back onto the ridge and so to the blissfully peaceful
summits of Y Foel Goch and Gallt yr Ogof and the long east ridge to Capel Curig.
I booked in for two nights at the youth hostel. It was nearly six o'clock so it was
fortunate that I had not spent the previous night in Llanberis. The only advantage might
have been solitude on the summit of Tryfan. I strolled to Cobden's Hotel where I enjoyed a
delicious mulligatawny soup followed by chicken and cashew nut stir fry and two pints of
lager.
next day
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