I enjoy writing. I can't do it on demand, but if often demands it from me, normally when I'm out and about and I have to write notes whilst moving. Usually I just write factual trip reports, but occasionally it strays into something more creative. I wrote this in 2008 and it was published in the Climbers Club jornal in 2011/2012, and I thought I'd re-publish it here...
The path is boggy despite the blue sky. It tracks round the back of Llyn Ogwen, running westwards parallel to the road. The solitary walker is aware of the noise of vehicles passing, but only in an absent way, they’re not really part of her world, her walk. She’s distracted by her thoughts; a jumbled mess, not flowing as they should be but torpid and pitiful like the rainwater pools spread along her route.
There are plunge pools on the path and she has to stay alert which focuses the thoughts a little, teases out the strands and untangles them.
At the end of the lake the path hooks right and heads steeply up the side of Pen yr Ole Wen and the walker dutifully follows its lead. Jagged footsteps and folded cracked rock, sometimes seemingly lead to nowhere, although the way on is always obvious. At one point there seems to be an impasse but it’s a rock gate, the means of entrance a direct scramble up the central weakness. The walker’s overjoyed at the style of the path, it requires attention, momentum, application. Some of the threads of confused thought are pushed aside by this new driving force, tumbling over the precipice out of the domain of what matters. She glances back and is instantly bowled over by the emotionally breathtaking and unexpected view: ‘How could I not know that view was there?’ It’s dazzling in its intensity, it draws her in. She carries on walking but is driven now by a tangential desire to keep looking over her shoulder at the Idwal crags, almost tripping over her walking poles in distraction, until eventually the fundamental lure to power up the hill takes over again.
Every little while she’s drawn to turn around again as she daren’t forget the image, it must be committed to memory, and each time the view’s changed, it’s grown, bringing more of the familiar mountains and crags into view, until it’s all encompassing and can’t be taken in all at once. Suddenly it’s all she’s aware of, and the slowly unravelling tangled threads aren’t just insignificant, teased so fine they break and vanish, they may as well never have been there.
At some unnoticeable point, the Idwal bowl becomes just part of the view, new things still appear like Llyn Bochlwyd the elevated lake on Tryfan’s west flank, but they’re eclipsed by the long wide Ogwen valley stretching southeast. The walker’s stomach grumbles reminding that there’s still a personal reality to consider, but the jagged rocks at the summit are tantalisingly close and make the decision to press on and delay lunch seem indisputable. Hunger dulls the mind and she misjudges the steepness of the path and teeters backwards worryingly, so a compromise is taken and just below the plateau she takes a breather for some sustenance.
The summit of Pen Yr Ole Wen is then reached and surpassed, and yet that’s far from the end. A stone seesaws and the tip of the walker’s foot dips into damp ground, reminding of the plunge pools on the preamble round the lake - the attention is still demanded, new threads forming strong and resilient.
Anglesey appears shimmering on the horizon. Nearby images draw the eyes too – rocks littering the path are dappled with spots of moss which give the impression of plump raindrops, although for once the rain is holding off - perhaps the views are necessary, giving a message. The connecting ridge over to Carnedd Dafydd is strewn with scree and the walker concentrates on not sliding and not turning an ankle. She continues east and on top of Black Steps a cold wind grasps at her and she dons a pair of gloves, contemplating how this is an odd thing to have to do on the August bank holiday. The threads in her head reform into a full circle, linking the new found clarity right back to the cause, which is now no longer jumbled. The summers of late had been wet and miserable, and climbing motivation had been waning.
The focus for fulfilling the year’s aims that was built up in spring had been eroded by the weather, a new mood seeped in, one of languor, permeating through all the thoughts until all the good feeling was saturated and stifled. It was a veiled process though, not noticed until too late, until the despair set in and her soul reached out with a last cry, and headed for inexplicable comfort of the hills of Wales.
Wales has a distinctive feeling. It’s strong yet unassuming, and it’s beautiful, not beautiful in the same way as Scotland, or the Lakes, but there’s an unmistakeable aura. It’s grand and yet basic, and if you spend more than a drive through in its presence you pick up those qualities too. You feel reassuringly back down to earth, it invades your consciousness perhaps because it forces you to stay alert, and things start to seem possible again. The Welsh hills are oblivious to you of course and they don’t do you any favours nor try to trick you, the summit mist doesn’t come down maliciously, that’s just what it does… but despite this indifference you can’t help but feel that as long as no one’s looking it’ll secretly lend you a helping hand and guide you on your way as long as you haven’t asked for it.
Pensively the walker continues north east slowly gaining height towards the next summit. Chestnut horses appear out of nowhere on the meadow like flank to the east, their manes glowing ethereal gold. She pauses a moment to watch them graze, picked out in the sunbeams, a focal point with fantastic views radiating in all directions, some still familiar and some foreign but all similarly captivating.
She pauses again on the summit, pinning down the map in the building wind and watching other walkers crossing westwards along the knife edge to Yr Elen. Deciding that time won’t allow her to take in that summit, she begins to descend southeast from Carnedd Llewelyn across the top of Craig yr Ysfa, and is drawn by the humped ridge dominating the view ahead so decides to return that way. On the descent to the col she meets a spiritualist come to worship the mountain, who is momentarily detached from her walking group and is bounding down the rocks like an overexcited puppy. They have a brief chat about the importance of the hills in their respective faiths, then they part, the spiritualist dropping down southwards to the reservoir and the walker ascending one final time up the steep craggy scramble to Pen yr Helyg Du, stepping aside good-naturedly half way up to allow a group of Scouts to pass.
The weather is now done with being amenable and it clags over, drizzle begins, clarity of vision no longer important now its secret message has been imparted. At the summit the walker turns south and starts to descend the ridge viewed from Carnedd Llewelyn, the soft undulations are easy on the knees so the usual pain never arrives, the rain just a steady patter never too heavy. A party of four alternately overtakes then is overtaken. The walker cannot escape them, but yet it doesn’t really matter, she no longer needs to be solitary to clear her thoughts as the threads are woven into a solid fabric, a foundation of composure and serenity.
