What Other Mountain!

A quick spoiler alert, I reached a milestone in this walk. I hit a target I had set for myself of reaching the Western most point of mainland North Wales. In due diligence, I must point out that it was my target for last year, but you can’t have everything. So far I have walked about 120 miles of the path and cycled another 15. My total ascent I estimate at about 10,500ft, which is 3 times the height of Snowdon (the highest mountain in Wales).

Maybe it was being in an area associated with the poet R. S. Thomas or perhaps listening to The Two Towers on audiobook on the drive over, but it left me in a poetic mood. I was also back on the Pilgrim Trail to Bardsley Island (Ynys Enlli). I am not a poet, which will soon become obvious. Normally, I try and compose my blog article as I walk. It helps make me stop and get my illustrative pictures - even if I don’t remember the words later. On this day, at least until my brain gave along with my legs, those thoughts were less prosaic than usual. I will share a few in this article and try not to think of past English teachers scrawling “too flowery” in red pen next to them.

Porth Colmon

I headed to the cafe at Moel-y-Berth campsite for another of their great coffees to get me going after a very early start. The weather forecast had been for sunshine and clouds but a low risk of rain. Winds were forecast to be 10-15mph. The reality was that it was heavily overcast to start and the wind had totally failed to read the forecasters’ memo. It was hat-stealingly strong and constantly shifting with a chill edge. Out of the wind, the temperature was comfortable in the mid-teens centigrade - but that shelter is rare on this part of the path.

Oh cloud clutching the distant hills in your cold, damp embrace. Do not reach for this pilgrim as he has many miles before his feet this day.

The path itself continues the pattern set in the previous leg. It winds along the edge between the cliffs and the fields. Occasionally it has to track inland to bridge a small stream or dips down and up through a small cove. Though just as rugged and wild as before it was softened by the presence of many wildflowers at their peak in this late spring. There was thrift, rockrose, sea squill and campion. Even bluebells in a much more exposed position than I remember seeing them before.

I sat down next to the path for a break surrounded by a carpet of grass and wildflowers. I looked over the rocks below to the wide empty horizon. To either side, the cliffs arched round in their rugged and chaotic fashion. Somewhere over that horizon, right in front of me about 75 miles away was Dublin.

Many are the steps in the wilds of Wales. The guardians of the path have laboured long to ease the pilgrims’ climb. Steps of clay bitten from the the slope. Steps of stone, some placed, some found. Steps of steel dug deep, holding back the earth with a pebble coat. Steps of strong, coarse concrete unworried by boots. Steps of wood, matching the little bridges over babbling brooks.

Black is the rock that holds back the sea
Burned in that most ancient fire.
Creator of things for which men delve.
Black as the wings of the gulls
That wheel ahead over cliff and shore.
Black as the Raven sentinels that watch me
With bright ebony eyes
And cry in coarse disapproval.

Porthor

The path continued in much the same way. Coming round the headland I could sea a wide beach in another bay. This bay is Porthor (Porth Oer) and the beach is known as the Whistling Sands. It’s run by the National Trust who say this about it :

The English name for Porthor,’Whistling Sands’, is derived from the squeak or whistle emitted by the peculiar shaped sand particles being rubbed together when walked on in warm weather. The sound can be made by stamping or sliding the feet on dry sand.

I didn’t hear much but the tide was in and the visitors were huddled next to the cliffs to get some shelter from the constant wind.

Whistling Sands of Porthor
Sing your song for me for I cannot hear it.
The wind is too loud Cariad,
It whistles louder than I.
Sing your song for me for I cannot hear it.
The sea is too loud Cariad,
The waves crash louder than I,
Sing your song for me for I cannot hear it.
The gulls are too loud Cariad,
They cry louder than I,
Then save your song for me,
Whistling Sands of Porthor.
For when the wind is still
And the sea is called away by the moon
And the gulls fly out to fish

As you leave Porthor, the path is overlooked by Mynydd Carreg with its solitary stone turret. This was the site of a short-lived Jasper mine in the early 1900s.

Ahead of you around the bay loom the final obstacle. At least I thought it was. The OS Map has Mynydd Mawr marked clearly, the path rising above the 150m contour. Mynydd Mawr means “big mountain”, so when you look at a big hill standing resolutely in your way, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that was it. I wondered what the Pilgrim’s of old would have made of this last trial but they didn’t have to face it. Their path turns more gently towards Aberdaron.

So it was a tad disappointing when I hauled my, by now, very tired body up to the top of the slope only to find Mynyydd Mawr waiting for me on the other side. What I had just climbed was Mynydd Anelog. You had to give away much of that hard-fought altitude gain to cross between them. I finally made it to the viewpoint at the summit (very, very slowly).

From the summit of Mynydd Mawr looking North East towards Aberdaron

The views from this point are pretty panoramic but time was getting on and I still had some distance to cover. I went as far west as I dared and looked out through the spray-filled sea towards Bardsey Island. It would be an unpleasant crossing today for any modern pilgrim. I was struggling to find the path to take me South and I was running on empty. I made an executive decision to climb back to the summit and follow the road route back to Aberdaron and save this corner of the Llyn for another time. That will be no hardship though as I like Aberdaron.

I mentally clocked-off at that point. The camera was away and I was just trying to ration the last of my water and dreaming of the fish and chip shop in Aberdaron. I was broken out of my reverie by a small feathered missile heading my way. Passing just over my shoulder, but still below the hedge line I was hugging at the side of the narrow lane, was another raptor. Not a Merlin this time, but what I presume by the colouring and Maverick-esque flying, was a female or juvenile Sparrowhawk. Another raptor first for me and another I completely failed to capture. The rest of my shortcut was uneventful. Did the fish and chips taste good after that long slog?

Hell Yes!