The Year Ahead…

After a prod and a poke, and numerous false starts, it looks like Spring is finally upon us. I write this from  one of my favourite places, Nant yr Arian, where the Red Kites are currently soaring for joy overhead, the small birds are full of song, and there’s that delectable buzz of new life all around. Even the air, filled with the heady scents of emerging flowers and spring rains, seems to carry a sense of promise, and though some north-facing slopes still have small patches of snow clinging to them, life is returning to its fullness of rhythm after the seasons of cold and dark nights.

Tomorrow marks the traditional start of New Year, 25 March, nine months before the feast marking the birth of Christ at Christmas, and it seems fitting to lay out my plan of campaign for the year ahead. Although I’ve done numerous mountains this year so far, including two hikes up Waun Oer, another hike up Tarrenhendre, a very blustery hike up Plynlimon last week and a valiant attempt on Maesglase in the winter snows some months ago, I’m yet to summit a ‘new’ peak this year, but there’s no rush.

This year will see a continuation of the exploration of the Rhinogs, a polishing off of the remaining peaks of the Aran range, completion of the last remaining satellites of the Cadair Idris range and some hiking ‘up north’; mountains like Moel Hebog and the peaks of the Snowdonian heartlands are calling me. But I’m also looking to break into the Berwyns, since my hikes towards Aran Fawddwy have called my attention towards there too; all in all there’s plenty to chose from and so much out there that I’m spoiled for choice.

This year is also a year of travel and adventure on other fronts. With one of my closest and best of friends, I’ve entered the Fjälraven Classic, a hiking challenge on the Kungsleden Trail in Sweden, in which we’ll tackle 70 miles of hiking in Sweden’s Arctic north; I’m absolutely thrilled at the prospect and the summer can’t come quickly enough!

Before this however I may be making a snap visit to Rome in a few weeks, and plan to be tackling some of the West Highland Way in June with friends. Finally, towards September time, I’m looking to be making a trip to Spain, in which I plan to fly to Madrid and visit its great historic sights, including the Escorial, before taking a train to Barcelona and visiting somewhere I’ve long wanted to see, the Basilica of La Sagrada Familia, befbef flying home. In order to press forward to these things with advantage I’m hoping to start a Spanish course in April, and, if time permits I’d like to start picking up some Italian this year too, though that’ll come too late for the trip to Rome.

All in all then, there’s plenty going on and I’m hoping to have a great year both on and off the hills. Endless Trails will be updated as ever with all reports of my adventures!


Cold day on Cold Bog

Sitting across the Tal-y-Llyn Pass from Cadair Idris lies a series of peaks that stretch in a long ridge from there to Dinas Mawddwy, the whole range group giving excellent views over the surrounding territory, with Aran Fawddwy, Cadair, and the Rhinogs all in view on a clear day. The ridge runs from Mynydd Ceiswyn over Waun Oer to Cribyn Fawr, Craig Portas, turning then towards Maesglase before dropping on to Foel Dinas and down to Dinas Mawddwy.

Having recently completed a winter skills course at Plas y Brenin (report pending), something I’ve long wanted to do, I’ve been making a point of getting out and about whenever I can in winter, especially when there’s snow on the ground, just to keep things fresh. I had done plenty of hiking in winter over the years prior to the course, so it isn’t as though the British mountains in winter are some new concept on me, but I had learned specific skills on the course that I want to spend some time bedding in, and, more importantly, I want to make the most of the winter mountains while we still have them.

Having summited Pen yr Ole Wen and Carnedd Dafydd during the course, my ‘Welsh Peaks’ count was up to 29 and, a sucker for completeness, I needed to hit 30 before the end of the year just to scratch an itch. I’d been eying up this mini-range for months and had never quite found an opportune moment to explore it so I decided today was the day, and set out to snag Waun Oer, a peak whose name translates as ‘Cold Bog‘ in English.

I made an earlyish start from my base of operations by the sea and mooched on over to the Tal y Llyn Pass. The path up away from the pass was steep to begin with, and the morning frost had not fully cleared from the grasses and reeds that lay at the side of the road; the towering cliffs on either side ensured that this was a spot that saw little warmth in winter. After a few minutes, the gradient relented and I found myself in a high upland moor, with sunshine beaming down from a bright blue sky, and the air possessed of a clarity and the light a crispness that seemed to enhance detail and contrast, bringing a sense of vibrancy to every view. My path crossed a minor tarmacked road, built atop what was thought to be part of the Sarn Helen, the ancient Roman Road built across these parts to help Rome send her legions to troublespots two thousand years ago. I wondered what the legionaries would think about the fact that part of one of their roads was still being used today.

The path climbed up over some slightly boggy moorland towards the ridge line, which at this point held steady at roughly five hundred metres high. As I climbed to meet it, the view widened out, the bright winter sunlight lending the surrounding peaks an almost alpine quality. Cadair and its peaks had a good covering of snow; according to the Mountain Weather Information Service (MWIS, whose forecasts I’d recommend), the freezing point on the peaks in Snowdonia was roughly five hundred metres, with the snowline roughly a hundred metres above that. My target for the day, Waun Oer, was 670m or 2198 feet, so there was some snow about as I hit the ridge, but, as I’d expected, nothing much more than a dusting this low down.

The ridge was long and easy, and I lolloped along happily, with staggering views opening up all around me. The crisp, frozen ground meant that what would clearly have been one of the marshier of peaks to climb in all but high summer was straightforward underfoot; despite the peak’s name, there was precious little bog-hopping required. I reached the summit around an hour after leaving the car, the view along the rest of the ridge towards Maesglase becoming immediately obscured by the onset of cloud which arrived and blanketed the hillside. It didn’t matter too much though, I’d been spoiled for views the whole way through the hike to the summit, and I knew already that I’d be coming back again soon. I was already forming plans in my mind for a traverse of the whole ridge from Dinas Mawddwy, a hike that would be perfect for a day in Spring.

The wander back to the car was uneventful really, an hour of crisp winter sunshine and the sense of satisfaction of having bagged my thirtieth peak before the end of the year. My plan to tackle every mountain in Wales, whether it sounds like a crazy idea or not, is definitely gathering momentum now, and each time I head out I gain more experience and can add another part of this beautiful country to my memory.



A Labour of Love

As most of my readers will know, I’m on a mission to snag all of the mountains of Wales, and as I found myself with an impromptu week of leave to take this week, I decided it was time to get out and about and get my boots muddy again. There are various definitions of the ‘mountains of Wales’ mostly revolving around their relative height from the surrounding land, giving a total, depending on who you ask, of around 140, 160, or 190 separate peaks to bag. Splitting hairs about relative height is a bit like the hillwalker’s version of train spotting or rivet counting, and while part of me is tempted to be virtuous and go for the ‘190’ set, I’m also aware that (in theory at least!) this is supposed to be fun, so we’ll see how it evolves!


Nevertheless, whatever definition I follow, there are peaks in every corner and nook and cranny of Wales, and this mission will take me to many far-flung places that I might not otherwise have visited. As with all exercises of this nature though, some of the peaks I bag will inevitably involve a bit more determined effort with perhaps a lower pain to reward ratio than others. The sweeping majesty of the high Carneddau is a very different proposition to some of the boggier morasses in other areas of Wales, and on one of my trips this week, it was to a set of peaks like this that I wandered.


Enter the Cwmdauddwr Hills. In Welsh, Cwmdauddwr means ‘Valley of the Two Waters’ and the hills take the name of the small hamlet a few miles from their base. These mountains are two of the most remote anywhere in Wales, and they rise out of more or less trackless moor and bogland close to one of the major reservoirs of the Elan Valley. As peaks that are fairly local to my base of operations they’ve been on my ‘to-do’ list for a while, but due to their nature I’ve been keen to try and keep them for as favourable a day as possible.

It’s not that the Cwmdauddwr Hills are ‘bad’ in any sense of the word, far from it, but all that I’d read on them to this point suggested that they were something of an acquired taste. Rising as they do in undulating moorland and upland bog, they are known to be a tricky navigational proposition to tackle, with few real paths venturing anywhere near them, and with those that do becoming impassable or tediously difficult to negotiate after sustained rainfall. That said, their remoteness lends to them an entirely different character to some of their neighbours to the north; this is one of those regions of Wales where you can truly feel as though you’re exploring real wilderness, with nobody in sight for miles, and not a trace of noise.

As Monday dawned a beautifully bright and clear day, I decided it was time I paid a visit to these elusive hills, and see them for myself. The two peaks I was chasing today were called Drygarn Fawr, at 645 metres the larger of the two, and Gorllwyn, which at 610 metres was only just large enough to register as a mountain by the current legislative definition. My plan of attack was to follow the valley of the Nant Paradwys as far as a pass known as Bwlch y Ddau Faen (Pass of the Two Stones) and from there strike out for Drygarn Fawr, several kilometres distant, and then to return to the pass and strike out in the opposite direction for Gorllwyn.

Parking up at Rhiwnant by Caban Coch Reservoir, I saw a couple of cars in the car park, but otherwise no signs of life. I took a mooch along to the junction of a bridleway with a minor road and got my bearings, taking a look at a very old traditional Welsh farmhouse now preserved for posterity dating to the early 1560s. I struck off along a minor road, from which my path soon led away and fairly sharply up through the farmland above the banks of the reservoir and the babbling river below. Striking along at a fair old clip it felt good to be out and about, with the sun beating down out of a cloudless sky, and the path all to myself.

The views back down to the valley were clear and excellent, and as I pulled away from the main path at a group of sheepfolds, the route ahead swung into the valley of the Nant Paradwys, and left all traces of modern human habitation behind. This was truly a wild upland valley, with smatterings of sheep tracks and, every few hundred yards or so, a bog to negotiate. The landscape here was one of tough, tussocky grassland, moorland bog and peat hag, and reminded me a little of the wilder stretches of the Plynlimons, only with perhaps more of a North Yorkshire Moors-like character to them as well.

After a while, checking the map, I’d reached the bwlch; there was nothing much there but a suggestion of a path leading in one direction, and a suggestion leading in another; neither were really any more distinct than many of the sheep tracks I’d seen earlier, but from my position relative to the river I knew this was the spot; not for the first time, I was glad I wasn’t attempting this hike in the thick mist, where landmarks might have been entirely obliterated.

I struck out right, dropping initially down a grassy slope, and finding myself ploughing through the first of several sections of bog on this part of the trail to Drygarn Fawr. Over the next hour or so, under a blazing sun I began the ‘Cwmdauddwr Dance’; following the path, negotiating a bog, veering off, retracing the line of the path, pressing up and over peat hags, and repeating from scratch, all the while keeping a reasonable view of one of the cairns of Drygarn Fawr in my line of sight. Eventually, I intersected a path that led away by slow degrees down the opposite side of the Nant Paradwys towards the valley, which happened to lead up over the shoulder of Drygarn Fawr and then dropped me just shy of the summit. It was here that I started to understand the challenge of these mountains; it was not so much to do with their height, but more the energy-sapping back and forth over the undulating terrain, coupled to a vast sense of space which was at once both arrestingly beautiful and occasionally unnerving; the sense of isolation was pronounced.

I stormed over the final few metres of the ascent to Drygarn Fawr, its majestic cairns well worth the hike to get here, the view opening up over a huge landscape, with the distant Brecon Beacons on the hazy horizon. Registering a trace of thirst, I began to retrace my steps, at first along the clear path that I’d joined earlier, before striking out once again to rediscover the path down to the bwlch. I had to admit, as I neared the bwlch, that I was feeling a little more worn out than I’d expected, and the constant to-ing and fro-ing over the moorland had taken more time than I’d realised; it was not the first time that day that I’d become aware of what seemed like a strange time dilation effect in those hills, where perspective and distance were so radically altered from the norm by the sheer sense of wide-open space.

Slightly grudgingly, I pressed on up the sides of a grassy slope, the path becoming less and less distinct with every step. With clear visibility my destination was always in view, but the key for me at this point was to find the most efficient way to get there, one that, where possible, avoided the bogs and peat hags without meandering so far around them that it added needless kilometres to my hike. In this quest I was greatly aided by boundary markers laid across the land, which I would find led more or less to the summit of Gorllwyn and which were, by and large, sited on the more reliable, less marshy ground. I say ‘by and large’ because on more than one occasion there was one plonked in the middle of a swamp, but on the whole it wasn’t too bad, and it was only every now and again I had to start doing some bog hopping. Nevertheless, the route there did have a few false perspectives, and I’d occasionally find that I had to drop down into a peaty morass between two folds in the land and emerge on the other side to get back up to altitude, all of which was pretty tiring by this point in the day.

Eventually however, I prevailed, reached the summit, and bagged it. Looking back over to Drgarn Fawr I realised how far I’d travelled; the peak with its cairns now looked miniscule on the far horizon, which was something of a vindicating relief given how tired, and particularly thirsty, I felt. It was as I was leaving Gorllwyn that I finished the last of my water, but I knew that, by and large, I was now on my way ‘home’ on the final stretch, so rather than stop to replenish it I pressed on. The rest of the hike back was uneventful save for a sudden roar which shook me; I looked up and saw a mountain rescue helicopter making a beeline over towards Gorllwyn and away down the valley. It was so peaceful up there, so silent with only the wind and occasional bleat of a sheep to disturb my thoughts, that the sound of modern machinery genuinely startled me at first.

I dropped down to the bwlch and, with a sense of satisfaction tinged with relief that I had actually done both the peaks rather than just the one, I headed back down to the valley. I realised that for all their essential beauty, a charm that was of a different character entirely to that of any of the other peaks of Wales I’ve so far tackled, I was glad that I’d got these peaks off my list. For all that the Cwmdauddwr Hills have their charms, I think it’ll be quite some time before I venture to them again; after about 20k of hiking in the heat over some deceptively energy-sapping terrain, I was looking forward to some hikes without bog hopping to do.

These are, in their own way I suppose, good hills, and would certainly be a brilliant place to run a navigation workshop; but, I have to admit, they weren’t my favourites, and I was glad that I’d chosen to tackle them under the most ideal of weather conditions; I doubt I’d have wanted to tackle Gorllwyn ‘as well’ if it had been tipping it down in thick clag! With that said, I now have only a handful of peaks to do on the border before Mid Wales is complete!

All the secret places

_MG_8730_resultOne of the great joys for me of living in an area has always been the thrill of exploring all the hidden corners and less well-known places scattered around. It seems very often to be the case that people generate a certain set of ideas about an area and then act accordingly. So it is that Snowdonia has certain areas that are overwhelmed with tourists and visitors every year (Snowdon, the Ogwen Valley area, Cadair Idris) and others, sometimes mere miles away, that see virtually no footfall whatsoever, such as the Arans, Rhinogs and Berwyns.

As I make my hour long drive to work every morning I see roads leading off enticingly into high moorland, and narrow little one track lanes leading off the main trunk roads towards hillsides, forests and lakes, and I try to take note and promise myself I’ll get around to exploring them when I have the time.

Travelling south out of Aberystwyth on the main highway towards Llangurig and Rhyader, you sweep around the flanks of the Plylimon massif, a region of territory in which, as is the case with its larger neighbours to the north, finds itself beset by crowds tackling its namesake peak, but which features vast swathes of wilderness largely unkwon to the casual tourist. Long before you reach the convenient lay by near Eisteddfa Gurig from which the most direct ascent of Plynlimon can be made, you sweep through Ponterwyd, a hamlet a few miles from Devil’s Bridge (home of the famous waterfalls) and itself a place with secrets hidden away, like the mountain bothy tucked into the forests over the ridgeline.

Take the road north out of Aberystwyth towards Machynlleth and distant Snowdonia, and you pass through a chain of hamlets whose names have become etched in my memory as gatekeepers along the road back towards my university town and the many friends I made there down the years; Tre’er Ddol, Tre Taliesin, Glandyfi, Bow Street, Talybont.

Between Ponterwyd, to the south of Aberystwyth, in the heart of the Plynlimons, and Talybont to the north, stretches a fifteen mile long road which climbs steeply up from Talybont, hugging the side of Cwm Ceulan with precipitous drops into the valley below, before reaching a high mountain pass and turning in a series of sweeping corners towards mighty Nant y Moch reservoir. From here the road bowls along through the high, wild moorland plateau before eventually crossing the reservoir and dropping down towards sleepy Ponterwyd far below.

The terrain crossed by this gem of a road is every bit as ancient, windswept, wild and remote as the moorland that cloaks Plynlimon’s subsidiary peaks, where last year I wandered for hours without seeing a soul on my way to the source of the River Severn and the River Wye. It is a land of heather, boggy upland and forest where the wind rushes freely and where you can easily stop and listen to absolute silence.


Having recently discovered this wilderness playground, I drove out a few weeks ago and climbed up to the pass from the Ponterwyd side, making mental notes of likely good points for photography and stargazing as I went. Parking my car at the pass, I crossed the infant Afon Ceulan and hiked up to the summit of a small rocky prominence to take in the full sweep of the mountain road plunging into the valley below. From here, nestled among the crags, I could see for miles down into Ceredigion’s coastal plain, and far out to sea. I lingered, taking photographs and playing with perspectives, admiring the stunning view and savouring the solitude.

Turning back, I wandered back to the car and left it behind as I struck off ahead onto the minor track that led away from the mountain road, into the hills beyond. The trackway led to some long-abandoned mining works, traces of a long dead industry that now, as they crumbled slowly away year by year, were being reclaimed by nature, and rebeautified by her. Moving on in the bright sunlight of early afternoon with a sky of intensely deep blue throwing a lovely contrast with the gold of the moorland slopes and the deep greens of the evergreen forests, every view that caught my eye lifted my spirits, and the solitude of my sojourn was refreshing.

Distantly on the map was marked a point which intrigued me, a ‘Plas Y Mynach’ marked as an angler’s retreat by the side of a huge lake apparently generated through the construction of the reservoirs that throng the area. As readers will know I’m always ready to go on a mission to find a secluded cabin in the wilderness, and so I pressed on, wondering what I’d find, and whether it’d be open when I got there. The trudge there was warm in the clear heat of a mid spring day, the year reaching that lovely tipping point where you know that warm days have once again become the norm, and the promise of summer is just around the corner.

I made my way along side trails, crossing, and criss-crossing the main track just to see what lay around each corner, part of my process of exploration, of getting to know the land and of taking the time to uncover its secrets. Gradually, I reached a vantage point from where I could see the hut nestled below, and worked my way down to the trail which led over boggy ground towards its back gate.

Here, unfortunately, I found the gate padlocked, and the whole building sadly locked up, although the carefully mown lawn outside the front door by the path leading down to the small jetty and boathouse showed that someone clearly looked in on the place on a regular basis. It was definitely a secluded spot, and I knew just from a cursory view of the skyline that this would be an incredible place for astronomy on a clear night. I vowed to come back.

After a placid half hour just taking in the peace and tranquility, I made a gradual way back along the tracks and pathways towards the road over the pass. It had been an excellent afternoon of hiking and general exploration, and underpinning it all was the knowledge that this entire vast landscape was mine to explore freely, whenever I had the chance. I will never be a rich man in worldly goods, but I have the freedom of the hills, which give riches beyond measure, and fill my life with treasures of peace and fulfilment which money could never buy. Not for the first time, as I drove back down towards civilisation, I left the hills feeling incredibly lucky, already planning my return.


It’s occurred to me that one feature that might be nice to add to this blog would be range profiles. A few of my blog posts stray pretty close to giving a detailed description of some of the mountain ranges of Wales anyway, so creating a distinct feature on the site for each range struck me as a logical step forward.

Another reason for doing this is that as I continue to make progress on the Welsh 2000+ list, I’m going to be delving into all sorts of uncharted territory that I’ve never hiked before, and it’s only natural that I’ll get to know a given range of mountains quite well as time goes by. As such, readers who might not be all that familiar with the Welsh mountain ranges can discover them with me as I encounter them for the first time myself. Readers who know the ranges well will doubtless have suggestions as to interesting places to visit within each range, good routes to try or wild camping options. Hopefully, the range profiles can become another way in which I can interact with readers as the blog grows and gather a bit of a community of hikers around it. Also, they’d provide a logical place to attach my trip reports to, helping to anchor these more firmly into the fabric of the blog’s content.

Well, those are my thoughts for now, let me know what you think, and if you have any other suggestions for the direction of the blog, let me know.

Photoshop Working Again!

Just a quick update this evening to let you all know that I have Photoshop working. I’d not updated it in some time due to my recent house move but it’s finally back up to speed and fully updated, too. This is good news because it means I can fairly effortlessly update this blog with photographs from my various hikes, and to start as I mean to go on, I’ve uploaded the image given here to my recent trip report about my hike up Goatfell last year.

This view was taken from the summit of Goatfell in the early evening September sunlight, looking out to sea over the island. I hope it conveys what a brilliant place Arran is. I can highly recommend this island and I plan to go back in the not too distant future and tackle the remaining hills that I’ve not yet done. That’s all for me for this evening but there’ll be plenty more to follow tomorrow.