In which we climb a mountain and catch a break (Wales part III).

When Simon asked if I'd like to go on a hiking adventure in the summer, I was game to go pretty much anywhere. He proposed either the Scottish Highlands or Wales, and when another friend happened to return from the Highlands complaining about the Miserable Mosquito Situation there, we were easily deterred and started looking for affordable flights and accommodation around Snowdonia National Park. I'd never been there before, let alone to Wales, and was thrilled when everything fell into place. While doing our research (him more than me, as I was too busy lazing about in Italy the week before), Mount Snowdon made it on to both of our to-hike lists. Being the tallest mountain in Wales (3,560 ft), it is not only about a third the elevation of the Sandias outside of Albuquerque (perspective), but it is also a very popular hiking destination with six or so different trails to choose from. Fantastic on a clear day, and clear as pea soup when not. 

So far the weather had not played along, but upon checking the forecast the next morning, it looked like that day would be our best bet for the rest of the week, so we figured we'd give it a shot and could always turn back if we needed to. We packed our rain gear, laced up our adventure boots, and were on our way.

As we'd already done part of the Watkins Path when previously getting soaked on Yr Aran and wanted the most gentle option possible in case of inclement weather, we opted for the path that follows the Snowdon Railway from Llanberis -- an option deemed so touristy that the authors of our hiking guide neglected to include it in the book. I had to take a moment to remind myself that I'm a city kid now and didn't need to torment myself on trails that were too strenuous just to satisfy my pride.

That being said, we paid the £8-something for parking and started our journey up into the clouds, first down a residential street on the edge of town that must be great for people-watching, then up a steep, winding, paved road to the trailhead, through the gate, and beyond. The weather was not great. Not actively raining, but the cloud blanket was low and hid the mountain completely. Still, we climbed. First a gentle stone slope, leading to steeper, rocky paths that were slippery when wet and potentially deathly in high winds. Every half hour or so we watched the huff huff pass by, going up and going down, and we judged all the people on board as lazy bums just as they were feeling smug, chug-chugging along, looking out upon all the fools who willingly chose to climb a mountain on legs instead of utilizing the wonders of modern-ish transportation.

I took a few pictures on the way up, mostly of rare patches of blue sky that quickly disappeared, but deleted them all afterward for reasons that will soon become evident. When we finally got to the top, we were presented with a surreal and somehow satirical scene of a long line of tourists waiting to climb the last few meters to the official summit of the mountain, which, might I remind you, was still stuck it a cloud. It was windy, the air had condensed into cold droplets dripping from my hair, and we couldn't see a thing. But since we'd come all the way up there, we weren't ready to turn back quite yet, so found a clear spot to plop down nearby and munch some lunch.

Behind every good hike, there is an even better peanut butter and banana sandwich.

Just as I was licking the last of the peanut butter from my sticky fingers, an optimistic atmospheric shift came upon us, and the clouds became more like separate entities visibly cruising over us rather than one solid wall of droplet fluff -- small patches of view started drifting in and out of focus, especially in the west, and above all, above us all. The summit was still catching the clouds, but the rest of the blanket sank and suddenly we were looking out over a sea of cotton candy.

From there, we started back down and then cut over and up again onto the neighboring ridge, which was suddenly cloudless, and from which we could see the silhouetted line of tourists on the summit, and soon thereafter, everything else.

By this point I was practically leaping towards the long-tailed sheep at the edge of the ridge, and arrived just in time for the sky to clear and reveal everything from where I stood bouncing to Caernarfon Bay and the Irish Sea and the wild, wonderful West.

One of the sheep was kind enough to take a picture of us (all dried off again), after which we hung out and enjoyed the view for a while longer, every now and again glancing over to see Snowdon's summit still hidden, and marveled that there were so many people still on it, and so few on this glorious, sunny ridge right next to it. Not that I would have preferred it otherwise.

We still had a long way down, so eventually thanked the Nature for the good time and started downwards, the clouds playing in the sun all the way, and marveling at the landscape that had been hidden all the way up.

 

At one point I fell into stride just in front of a father hiking down with his young daughter, who was confidently singing songs from Frozen and other Disney musicals in a proud, clear voice. He encouraged her to keep singing, and when they passed me a while later I was finally able to see what they looked like after only having heard their voices for so long, and hoped they could feel the smile that I sent along behind them, thanking her for the delight of her song in the wilderness, and thanking him for being a great Dad.

Pretty sure I slept early and well that night, but then woke up early too, full of energy, so quietly slipped out of the house and down to the beach to watch the sunrise. It was a cloudy morning -- par for the course -- the colors subtle, but the stillness was lovely, and I spent a good hour being quiet and then being less quiet, doing vocal exercises as I walked up and down the deserted beach, searching for smooth, purple stones.

 

The weather was again dreary, so once back and breakfasted later on, we decided to drive to nearby Conwy and have a look at the castle there. A fine specimen which, like many castles in the area, was built in around the 1280s by the castle-happy Edward I.

 

From there we walked around the old city wall, looking across the town as the castle got smaller and then larger again.

Conwy also boasts the Smallest House in Great Britain, which we admired from afar but didn't feel the need to squeeze ourselves into. 

It was also in Conwy that the most surprising, and aye, in retrospect most hilarious event occurred. After walking around the city wall, we still had some time on our parking meter, and considering it wasn't raining and it was August and we were on vacation and hadn't had any ice cream all week, damnit, we decided this was the moment to indulge. Back in town, we thus purchased some highly overpriced ice cream from the local parlour and, on our way out the door, Simon pointed to a sign warning that ice cream stolen by seagulls would not be replaced. We scoffed at this, and not ten paces later, a huge seagull swooped down and plowed beak-first into Simon's ice cream cone, knocking the top scoop onto the ground where it was immediately swallowed by another seagull. 

Suddenly, avian ice cream thievery had become very, very real. We then proceeded to go through a wide range of emotions, from shock and terror caused by two giant, powerful birds that had just appeared like archangels out of nowhere and emphatically invaded our personal bubble, to the sadness caused by seeing a large amount of brand new ice cream fall to the ground and be devoured by a creature for which it was not intended, to the hilarity of the timing, absurdity of the situation, and respect for the power duo that had so expertly played us, and left us for fools. I started guarding my cone with my life, and must admit that my years in Germany had made me a little schadenfroh that it was his ice cream that has fallen victim to the birds of prey, and not mine. 

I think he's gotten over it now, though I wouldn't be surprised if the seagulls still made an appearance in his nightmares from time to time. 

In which all is purple and snuggled in mist (Wales part II).

Perhaps the title is a little deceptive -- it wasn't all purple, of course. In fact, there was quite a lot of green, but it was the purple hillsides that never failed to take my breath away, hike after hike, particularly on this next leg of our journey.

When we last saw our intrepid travelers, they had voyaged to Caernarfon Castle, only to flee it shortly thereafter in search of softer terrain and fewer tourists. The rain continued at a sprinkle as they selected the most tantalizing remote hillwalk in their trail guide and guilelessly guided the car up and down the tiniest of squiggles on the map, until the single-lane roads cozied their way into the most beautiful pocket of forest they could have dreamed, ancient and overgrown, a silent keeper of centuries of secrets. They were almost tempted into its depths, but the call of the purple hillside echoed through the valley, driving them on, so drive on they did.

Once out of the woods, we curved around a particularly bendy bend in the road to find ourselves suddenly under observation by this village's entire security force -- and what a noble force it was.

We finally found the Coed y Groes parking lot, and after a damp detour, found the trail as well, leading the way past pasturing neighbors and up the rocky path to the crown of the hill. Thus began the Precipice Walk.

The trail never went to the top of the hill, but rather ran evenly along the side, high enough to tempt you with views of the surrounding hills and valleys that drifted in and out of the mist. Our hill was particularly splendid, with striped fields, sheepie droppings galore, and colorful patchwork flora that was simply, impeccably, beautiful.

As the song goes, the hills are alive with the sound of purple rain, purple rain.

Other than the occasional sounds drifting up from the road far below and the quiet, rustling song of the wind in the gorse, it was very peaceful. We hardly ran into anyone else until the lookout point towards the end, which was fine by me.

Eventually the trail led back down and around a reservoir that had clearly seen wetter days. The far side of it was completely dry, and we walked along the lake bed, examining its secret rock collection lain bare for all to see. A dramatic sight, emphasized by lonely, windblown trees.

After wiping off our hiking boots on clean-looking stretches of grass, we arrived back at the car and first had to take a few moments to confer and appreciate what an excellent walk it had been. Less dramatic than the peaks of Snowdonia, of course, but alone the color and the misty stillness of the landscape was enchanting. 

We had traveled a significant distance south for this walk, almost to Dolgellau, and considering we still had a little sunlight to go and an appetite for adventure, we decided to take the coastal route along the A496 back north and stop at Harlech Castle along the way. This road turned out to be a smooth one, with a few twists and turns through seaside towns and a dramatic incline leading up to Harlech. The castle itself was closed by the time we arrived, but it was still quite admirable from the outside.

At that point our adventure appetite had been satiated, so we hopped back in the car and I enjoyed being chauffeured through the countryside, navigating and giggling at the streetsigns while Simon did all the driving (thank yooou, u da best).

Once home and post-dinner I went for a long night walk along the beach and through our sleeping little village.

The next morning we decided to stick to another low-level walk, as Snowdonia's peaks were still snuggled in clouds with little chance for change in the forecast. Flipping through our hiking guide, we decided on a tempting little piece of hikework through the Aberglaslyn Gorge and up and over to Llyn Dinas. 

The trail started in the picturesque town of Beddgelert, which we had driven through a couple times already but hadn't stopped to explore. We didn't do much exploring this time either, as the trail soon took us along the river out of town and over a slippery, rocky path that was both mildly perilous along the whitewater areas and full of local walkers, making progress slow. It was a good time to practice both patience and sturdy steptaking, not to mention relish in every moment in which I was not falling to my death.

The line of tourists dwindled somewhat as the trail left the water and headed through a forest and up a steep hillside, finally levelling out in a plateau with a misty view. Again, the purple heather covered the valley, set off by the rusty remains of an old copper mine cableway. We watched the clouds move around us as we walked, the landscape in a constant shift of clearness.

From the peak of the route, one can supposedly see the mighty Mount Snowdon looming ahead, though there was no proof to support this. What we saw was more wild, rocky, heathery, barren, beautiful landscape, turning into a lush, colorful, almost tropical descent to the lake, then an easy footpath with ample puddles leading back to Beddgelert.

At this point we were quite wet -- par for the course -- and still wanted to do some adventuring in a place that wasn't quite so rainy, such as deep underground in the Llechwedd Slate Caverns. I called ahead to make sure they still had tours running and we drove 15 or so miles to the silly-sounding town of Blaenau Ffestiniog and beyond to the mine and adventure sport mecca. There we quickly got our tickets for the deep mine tour, gulped down our sandwiches, put on hardhats and squeezed into a railcar that grumbled and bumpled 500 ft into the ground. 

The guide was an actor and the tour used a lot of multimedia shtuph, which was admittedly cheesy while still remaining informative enough that I learned a lot from it. The light show over the pond with the dramatic music at the end was decidedly Too Much and rather spoiled it for me, but in the end I think it was worth it and I'm glad we decided to make the trip. Another good decision: buying some of their cavern-aged Cheddar to bring back to Hamburg, enjoyed slowly and mightily.  

We added another road to our repertoire for the journey home, stopping briefly to admire another castle tower on the way.

After the long, wet hike, the cold, wet mine tour, and hour drive home, we were pretty beat and hungry by the end of the day, so went to the one local pub in the village hotel for dinner. We walked in, two strange-talking strangers looking for grub, and were told that they didn't do food that night, all local eyes on us. Upon inquiring where else one might settle an appetite in town, we were sent to The Jolly Fryer, where a Chinese couple sold us fish and chips, which we ate while perched on the beach wall, staring down seagulls, just in time for the sun to dip below the cloudline and cover everything in gold. The perfect way to end Such a Day.