With a great forecast all week, I was almost bursting with excitement last Friday in anticipation of a weekend in Snowdonia. The thought of some proper sunshine was nearly too much to take, and I left work with a spring in my step. A quick swap of cars at Mum and Dad’s and I was on the A5, staring at the perfect silhouette of the north of the park.
By 11pm everyone had managed to negotiate the hair-raising 1-in-4 road to Rowen Youth Hostel, and plans were made for the following day. Knowing we had a taxing day planned, Gary and Jamie and I proceeded to stay up chatting until quarter to one before retiring to bed for far-too-little sleep.
ascension (əˈsɛnʃən)
noun
1. the act of ascending.
We were greeted by more sunshine on Saturday, with a bit of a breeze. The sounds of excited children playing downstairs gradually stirred us from our slumber, apart from Gary who was eventually woken with plenty of enthusiasm and a modicum of physical violence by one of the younger members of the party. Leaving the families to head coastwards, we drove the venerable camper van around to Nant Ffrancon and commenced the walk-in to Atlantic Slab.
Sitting high above the valley in Cwm Graianog, the slab is a section of fossilised sea bed, and you can see the undulating pattern of the sand as you climb. We geared up and set off up the grade three scramble running along the edge of the slab, soon reaching a section deemed exciting enough to warrant a rope.
I thought this lower bit of the ridge was a bit scrappy, but I was also experiencing a bit of trouble finding my rock legs, having not used them for somewhere in the region of two years or so. I eventually started enjoying it, having only one wobble, and found the top half of the route far more interesting and fun. A competent combination of pitching and moving together saw us overtaken only by a ten-year old girl, and a herd of mountain goats.
Kudos to Gary and Jamie for carrying on in the face of adversity throughout, namely me doing my best to cause them both serious injury with the trekking poles attached to my rucksack. We topped out on Carnedd-y-Filiast in blazing sunshine and a stiff breeze. Fortified by banana Soreen, we descended from the bwlch between Mynydd Perfedd and Foel Goch.
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Drag the image above to see the rest of the panorama.
Thankfully, we arrived back at the hostel just in time to make our dinner reservation at the pub. Unfortunately, this meant we were later faced with 200m of ascent from the village back up to the hostel! Nevertheless, everyone did eventually make it back (albeit in varying states of undress).
Sunday began with a touch of sunburn in spite of precautions taken the previous day, and with agreement that Tryfan was the target for our second outing. Joined by Mark and Gillian, we bade farewell to the rest of the group and set off up Heather Terrace. We soon reached the start of Little and North Gullies, lunched, and then proceeded in a generally upwards direction.
I had been none-too-keen to do Little and North, remembering it from ten years ago as a loose and horribly exposed terror-fest. My thanks therefore go out to Dr. Mirams, who showed me that it’s actually a lovely little route and quite devious in its path up between far harder bits of ground. Last time I did it was only the second or third time I’d ever been scrambling, so I guess that demonstrates that even I’m a little less scared than I used to be!
Gillian’s first ascent of Tryfan was a fuss-free affair, and we cruised to the top pretty quickly. It was surprisingly quiet, and we savoured the sunshine for a few minutes (and failed to find the summit geocache) before ambling down the South Ridge.
After a second ice cream in two days, we parted ways. I had a thoroughly enjoyable weekend, and it was nice to be reminded how pleasant a relaxed scramble can be. Just the rest of Ashton to deal with now then…