Scaling The Heights

The peak is behind me, as yet unscaled. (By me)

It is called Yr Wyddfa in Welsh, meaning “the tomb”. It is believed that at least 350,000 people visit it every year. It dominates the topography in North Wales. It is the highest mountain in Wales at 1085 metres. Nowhere in England is as high.

Snowdon.

Having lived in Snowdonia for over four years I felt it was about time I hauled myself up it. All these hundreds of thousands of people were finding their way to it from all over the country and beyond, and it's only 90 minutes drive away for me.

Anna had a bit of time off work so we made a thing of it, booking a tent pitch for two nights at a campsite near the base of the mountain. We studied maps. We arranged for a massive heatwave. And off north we drove on Wednesday afternoon with the car jam-packed with all manner of objects of various utility for our quest.

We stayed at Beddgelert campsite, a beautiful wooded spot with tame rabbits lollopping about. Sadly it's threatened with being turned into a posh glamping site with chalets, you can object to the ongoing planning application here!


Thursday dawned clear and hot. The sky was a solid blue. We walked half an hour through a forest to Beddgelert itself, jumped on a bus, and were carried round to the east side of Snowdon along a spectacular route with views of glittering lakes, jagged peaks and sheer slopes. At Pen-y-Pass we alighted and joined a mass of people of all ages, each one intent on climbing the same route as us, the Pyg Track. It wasn't that much fun being part of this sweating parade but Anna saw a gap and went for it, overtaking a clump of older people on a steep corner, we pushed ourselves up with our hearts hammering and pulses racing, and found ourselves out front.

From then on it was quieter, only occasionally passing or being passed by other walkers with a cheery grunt. The peak came into sight after an hour or so. Suddenly a clattering sound broke the peace, it appeared to be coming from above. Was it the steam train? It stopped, then resumed. No, it was a drum. Someone was drumming at the top. It went on and on. Finally it gave up. As we approached the summit ourselves we met a small group of men carrying a large round covered object, all wearing T-shirts promoting a Northern Irish Children's Hospice Charity. Yes, they said, it was them.

The top wasn't quite as busy as we had expected. No queues for the last little climb up steps to the zenith viewpoint. A haze obscured the furthest vistas but the panorama was still impressive.

View from the top

After a peek inside the visitor centre which seemed implausibly like a plush airport terminal plonked in the middle of the wilderness, we began the descent westwards along the Rhyd-Ddu trail, so named as this is where you end up at the bottom. It was a gentler route on the whole, and less popular with the tourists. About 5 and a half hours after we'd begun the climb, we arrived footsore at Rhyd Ddu and toasted our victory with small glasses of beer from the village's one hotel.

We had been higher in the UK than we'd ever been before, and we were down in time for the bus back. Cheers!

Spot the odd one out amongst these sacks of rocks