In the days just after the stroke: imperfect remembrances. impressionism and the hark of metaphysics
As the light seeped back into my brain and the cloudy thoughts returned, the view from the ward window of the Carneddau became more central to my thoughts as I drifted in and out of sleep. In a dream state.
I recalled a night spent many years before, below the slopes of Carnedd Gwenllian.
Simon and I had travelled up from Sussex the day before to tackle the Welsh 3000's. It was early November. A gang of us had been coming to North Wales most weekends in 1988 to camp, walk and climb. This year was my main introduction to North Wales. Much of my mountain exploration was European or the moors of the West Country. South Wales had been ticked off as a teenager and I had a couple of long distance footpaths under my belt - time for something good. We made a good pair, but in my usual politeness I deferred to his navigational capabilities. Simon liked to be in control. A Chippie by trade and a dyslexic epileptic; he was a neat and tidy climber who pushed my grades from lazy V.diffs to the more challenging climbs of the Llanberis pass. Our wandering route a testament to his skills. He emigrated to New Zealand the following year.
It was late afternoon as we made our way to Aber Falls. We were going great guns and decided to forgo our plan to camp here and pushed on up past the falls, taking the gently sloping route to the high ground through the woods to the left. We pushed on as the light faded. It was well into the dark before we decided to camp. Our plan was to start the mountains from Drum, so we had headed for Llyn Anafon, to spend the night. A clear cloudless night was our canopy. We set up our tents, cooked up some grub, had coffee with a slug of whiskey and turned in for the night around 21.30.
It felt like the middle of the night when the rain came. It was probably closer to dawn. The roof of my shelter was pressed against my face as the single pole of my Phoenix Phreeranger was pushed flat by the wind. It bounced up again and once more the wind pushed it flat. Simon and I tried to converse through the walls of our tents, but it was no use the wind took our voices away; the rain hammerring on the thin skins of our flysheets removed our hearing entirely. The only recourse was to unzip the vestibules and shout at each other. Conversation was unnecessary really, the mutual decision having been arrived at independently. Pack up shelters and head for the hut at the top of Drum - Cwt Dafydd Rhos (David Ross's Hut) where we could have breakfast just as the light was rising. We were cold wet and bedraggled, only slightly regretting the carrying of our climbing kit - we planned to crack off a couple of routes on Tryfan on the way through, staying at Williams' Farm, when we stumbled into the hut and got out our stoves. A hour or so later and the rain had passed through.
It was with merry hearts that we topped out on Carnedd Llewellyn and stopped for a bite to eat and to admire the views. Views that were rapidly becoming obscured by clouds as the next band of rain blew in. A band that would last all week. Hunkered down in the wind shelter and rapidly getting soaked we decided on a detour. Rather than carrying on to Carnedd Dafydd and down Pen yr Ole Wen, we decided to head for Pen Yr Helig Ddu and track down Y Braich, crossing the road just north of Helyg and following the trackway down to Plas Y Brenin. Along with the rain had come the wind, persistent and gusting, knocking us off our feet a couple of times. We virtually ran down into the Ogwen valley and were more than happy to get the bunk house at PYB to ourselves. A chance to dry out and eat a good meal, sup a few beers and shoot the breeze with the other intrepids washed from the hill.
Getting some fairly decent sleep, we checked the forecast for the next few days. There was not to be a great deal of improvement. We ditched our climbing gear and some of our extraneous kit in the stores and carried on. Rather than take the trackway to Tryfan we took the ridge which eventually saw us hitting the Heather Terrace from the top of Cwm Tryfan. We topped out after negotiating Little/North Gully. Sitting, rather cold wet and bedraggled and tucked into the rocks, we shared some food with a very soggy squirrel that had somehow found itself on the top. The weather was easing somewhat. A figure appeared in the mist. I remember him very clearly. Not too tall, a small red sac on his back, something of Zapato mustache. He had a unique gait and a cigarette dangled from his mouth. He turned around and shouted back down the North Ridge, " c'mon you lads, look lively"; lighting the cigarette he waited for the group to appear; half a dozen sweating, puffing, identikit squaddies stumbling over the rocky terrain. Not stopping they carried on down to Bwlch Tryfan and the mist swallowed them. A few years later this man was to become my teacher, father figure and mentor. This was to be our route followed by Bristly Ridge and the Glyderau. Traversing round above the Devil's Kitchen took us down to Lyn y Cŵn, down the Afon Las to Nant Peris. The wind and rain buffetting us and challenging our navigation. It was two rather sorry for themselves specimens of humanity that stumbled into the bunk house. We ditched our kit and headed up the road to the Vaynol Arms where we tried very hard to get drunk on Bank's Bitter.
Nursing sore heads the next morning we caught the bus to Pen Y Pas. Our sense of humour was rapidly deserting us. We both sat staring out of the rain washed bus windows, contemplating our defenition of "fun". We spilled out at the top of the pass and headed for the café. Several cups of coffee later we headed out and bearing right, picked up the track for Crib Goch. It was wet and slippery and encumbered by our packs we laboured along the route, hurring past the waypoints of Bwlch Coch and Carnedd Ugain, along Crib y Ddysgl and then on to the summit. The cafe was shut. The weather was wild, we sheltered in the lee of the building and contemplated our further choices. We had planned on camping below Clogwyn Du'r Arddu and going for a climb. We had already been there that summer so we sacked that idea. Our transport was waiting for us at Bryn Gloch, Betws Garmon just up the road from Rhydd Ddu. We tramped along the ridge, Foel Goch, Foel Gron and Moel Eilio; bactracking that summer's route and dropped down into the village. I must have slipped and fallen half a dozen times over the past few days. I was exhausted. Simon and I pitched our tents and sharing a bottle of whiskey with Ian, our transport, wrapped ourselves into damp sleeping bags inside our soggy tents and slept ten hours through an horrendous storm.
Oblivious to the last.