hangin' in the crib

Part two of our summer holiday was spent in north Wales, in particular at this campsite in north-western Snowdonia a couple of miles from Caernarfon. But what is there to see up there? Well, a variety of things as it happens but mainly GREAT BIG MOUNTAINS UP THE FREAKIN WAZOO. We'd hit upon north Wales as it was a place this collective group hadn't been before and it seemed to me like it might provide a means of transitioning from the kid-centric low-level (though delightful) camping trips we'd been doing since popping out five kids between us - Cornwall, Buckinghamshire, Dorset - to something that might perhaps include some more ambitious expeditions. No expectation of getting back to the glory glory days of pre-parenthood full-blown Munro-bagging but I'd hope we might aspire to bag one here and there in future among doing other things. 

To put it another way, I'd spotted an opportunity to drag at least some of our group up a mountain at some point during the holiday and fully intended to seize it with both hands. In fact I thought: well, given that we've only got one shot at this let's super-size that mofo and do the Snowdonia walk I really want to knock off my bucket list: the full Snowdon Horseshoe. 

The disadvantage of this is that it was not a route everyone could be expected to be able to do, nor indeed want to do, and so I was fully mentally prepared to be thwarted at any point up to and including the day of the walk. It's not just people, of course - while we're in the grip of a prolonged period of warm dry weather I hadn't ruled out the weather gods deciding to blanket the whole mountain in cloud and rain for the day, just to fuck me over. 

A brief bit of scene-setting regarding the route: this is the route up and over the Crib Goch arête, around to the summit of Snowdon and then down again via the subsidiary peak of Y Lliwedd, making use of sections of the Pyg and Miner's tracks to get from and to the start point at Pen-y-Pass. I'd never done it before despite having been up Snowdon several times - I couldn't say exactly how many but it's at least six, as follows:

• with my Dad in what was probably the mid-1990s; up the Pyg and down the Miner's, no photos nor any particular recollection of the walk or the weather, quick stop for a pint of Bass in the Pen-y-Gwryd hotel (after which the Pyg track is probably, but not definitely, named) afterwards, below a pair of Sir Edmund Hillary's Everest boots in a glass case above the bar (I see I mentioned that here)
• with my then-girlfriend Anne in spring of 2000, Pyg/Miner's again, foggy at the top
• 
  Three Peaks training run in summer of 2006, a month or so before the actual challenge. Glorious weather, up the Snowdon Ranger, down the Rhyd Ddu, straight into the pub
• the Three Peaks itself, early July 2006, glorious weather again, Pyg/Miner's for speed, brisk jog down the last section to be sure of being back within the 24 hour limit, bottle of bubbly by the minibus in the car park and then a pint in a pub down the road which I think might have been this one in Capel Curig
• with Hazel, late summer 2008, bit misty and drizzly, up the Snowdon Ranger again, down the Rhyd Ddu again, straight into the pub again
• with Hazel's BNI group for a charity challenge, February 2009, up the Pyg track, snowy and icy at the top, down a combination of the Llanberis path and just following the railway line

Anyway, I'm glad to be able to say that it all worked out beautifully: glorious weather, two distinct groups heading for the summit by two different routes who managed to meet up briefly at the summit, and then again at the car park just in time (literally, a couple of minutes to spare thanks to some more jogging of the last half-mile or so) to get the last Snowdon Sherpa bus back to Caernarfon to pick up the cars.

Much has been written elsewhere about the Crib Goch traverse by those much more knowledgeable and experienced than me, and there is plenty of YouTube footage available if you want a preview before deciding whether it's for you or not. One caveat: lots of YouTube mountain footage is filmed using a fish-eye GoPro-type camera, probably helmet-mounted, which makes it look unbelievably high and narrow. Another caveat: lots of Crib Goch footage in particular has clickbait titles like BRITAIN'S DEADLIEST RIDGE!!! It's important to be clear that people genuinely do die up there - or, rather, they start up there, endure a brief transitional period after which they are not up there any more, and then die - but I'd say as long as you're pretty fit, comfortable with hands-and-feet scrambling and have a good head for heights there really shouldn't be a problem. I would, as an aside, be interested to see whether the casualty rate has gone up since the advent of people going up there with cameras making YouTube videos about it, it being really important to concentrate on what you're doing and where you're putting your feet.

The walk is basically in a few distinct sections:

• 
  A couple of kilometres up the Pyg track from the car park to Bwlch y Moch, where the Crib Goch path splits off. There is lots of signage here intended to prevent people straying onto the Crib Goch track thinking it's the Pyg track, which you would have to pretty dim to miss, but which I'm sure people occasionally do nonetheless.
• The first section up onto Crib Goch is a fairly relentless upward scramble up a big rocky pyramid, not particularly exposed but steep and strenuous, and with some scanning of the wall of rock in front of you required to see where the best scrambling route is. In general, and this applies to the whole horseshoe route, you can usually see a light-brownish trail among the grey rock if you look hard enough which shows where people have been before you.
• You the arrive at the first mini-summit and the narrowest section of ridge is visible in front of you: a flat section to the true summit of Crib Goch at 923 metres (3028 feet) and then a gradually downhill section to the first of the pinnacles that occupy the end of the ridge. You can walk along the top for quite a bit of it but there are sections where dropping off the crest and using it as a handrail is the best approach; in general if you're going to do this the left side of the ridge offers the best footholds and is less murderously steep and exposed.
• It is possible to just scramble over the top of the first couple of pinnacles but the usual alternative route is to drop slightly off the crest to the left to skirt round the base. The key move then is to swing back to the right through the gap before the third pinnacle to ascend some rocky steps up over the top of it.
• You then descend to a wider grassy area for a short while which affords a good opportunity for a sit down and a pork pie.
• There is then some more scrambling, not dissimilar to the first section, to gain the summit of Garnedd Ugain, at 1065 metres (3494 feet) the second-highest summit in Wales, and from there a broad rocky plateau leads to the point where most of the main paths up Snowdon (and the mountain railway) converge and thence to the summit area where you can have a wee, buy an ice-cream (or even a beer), and spend around twenty minutes queueing for a selfie at the summit toposcope.
• You then head past the summit building, in the opposite direction to 95% of people, and descend to the point where the Rhyd Ddu and Watkin paths diverge, head left along the Watkin path and almost immediately down a long and steep descent which has some nice rocky steps for the first half but thereafter is tricky and loose underfoot and requires some care. As the path levels out it takes a sharp right turn into another steeply downhill section, at this point Horseshoe-ers go straight on and up a bouldery scramble (similar to the ones on the first section of Crib Goch and Garnedd Ugain but less exposed than either, unless you stray too near the cliffs on the left) to the summit of Y Lliwedd. There are actually two summits in quick succession but the first one is slightly higher at 898 metres (2946 feet).
• Having traversed both Y Lliwedd's tops you then start a long gradual descent which passes through a gap in the crags and drops down to the lakes and the Miner's Track, which will take you back to the car park.

Anyway, the story of our day in a nutshell was that we had perfect weather: sun, no wind, no cloud, everyone did the walk they wanted to do and were best-suited to do, the two groups met up briefly at the summit and then again at the car park at the end, although the Horseshoe group had to re-enact the last bit of our 2006 Three Peaks expedition by jogging the last half-mile or so to be sure of being back in time for the last bus and a quick wee before getting on it. Our group absolutely smashed their challenge; Alys in particular being absolutely in her element and leading the way most of the way round wearing a huge grin on her face, only dropping back a bit on the later stages of the descent when her knees started to hurt. Nia was slightly nervous right at the start of the most exposed section but was fine once she got started. Summit photos from Crib Goch, Garnedd Ugain and Snowdon (the first two are selfies so feature my grinning mug prominently; sorry about that) are below.

I had been a bit concerned about the number of people we'd be sharing the ridge with, as having to pass on the narrow bits is awkward - we deliberately did the walk on a Friday rather than a Saturday to avoid some of the weekend crowds, and overall Crib Goch was fairly quiet. We probably met 15-20 other people in total over the course of our end-to-end traverse of the ridge; obviously there were a lot more people at the summit, most of whom had arrived by other routes. Like Striding Edge, the general convention is that you use Crib Goch as a means of getting to the summit of Snowdon rather than as a means of getting off afterwards, but there were people going in both directions. People do take dogs up there, and occasionally die while attempting to rescue them, but I don't recall seeing any when we were there; there was certainly no repeat of the two guys I met on Striding Edge walking a dachshund along the crest of the ridge.

So how does it compare to other UK ridge routes? The obvious comparison is with Striding Edge, and it's similar in many ways; Crib Goch is a bit narrower, but the main difference is the exposure, which is much more extreme on Crib Goch even while the actual technical demands of the scrambling aren't that complex. You can convince yourself that a fall from Striding Edge might be survivable, one from Crib Goch, especially off the north side of the ridge, would not be. My memories of the only other two comparable things I've done, the Càrn Mòr Dearg ridge round the back of Ben Nevis and the Black Cuillin, are dim and distant enough (probably around 1999) to probably not be very reliable, but I don't recall Càrn Mòr Dearg being as narrow or as exposed as Crib Goch. There are supposedly routes navigable by the experienced walker/scrambler that are more extreme than Crib Goch, like the Aonach Eagach ridge in Glencoe. Maybe next time....

So, to summarise, a fantastic day, one of my favourite ever days out on the mountains, absurdly proud of my girls (and of Huwie, who led the Pyg/Miner's group up with some motivational singing), highly recommended to anyone but do your research and assess your own fitness, competence and inclination first. 

The other thing about Crib Goch is that it is a peak in its own right, and a Welsh 3000 at that, so if you have aspirations (as I do) to bag all of them (14 or 15 depending which list you adhere to) then you will have to do the ridge traverse at some point. The horseshoe walk incorporates all three in the Snowdon range (Garnedd Ugain and Snowdon itself are the other two), which is nice, the rest comprise five in the Glyder range (of which I have done four, Elidir Fawr being the odd one out) and the Carnedd range, none of which I have ever been up BUT fully intend to have a crack at in future. 

Route map and altitude profile are below. The whole walk took us around nine and a half hours, although we did have a fairly lengthy sojourn at the top meeting up with people, buying ice cream and getting Alys a souvenir key-ring for her collection. 

they malverned me

It was our fifteenth wedding anniversary last week (crystal, since you ask); various family commitments meant that we could only get away for a night and most of a day but that did afford an opportunity to do some walking in the Malvern Hills, somewhere I'd never been. 

Any walk in the Malverns will be constrained by the shape of the terrain, a distinctive north-south spine of rock poking out of the otherwise pretty flat ground. In particular, that topography makes it difficult to construct a satisfactory circular walk without either following an essentially out-and-back route (i.e. traversing the ridge twice) or incurring a lot of low-level walking at one end of the walk or the other. Conversely, organising a one-way end-to-end traverse of the ridge involves either two cars, or a reliance on public transport of some sort.

In addition to all that, if the aim of your walk is to walk the full length of the ridge, staying on top of it as much as possible, you have to decide how much of a purist/completist attitude you're going to take (this will additionally be constrained by what the people with you are prepared to put up with). So we could have done what this guy did and walk the entire ridge from its low-level start down at the southern end at Chase End Hill, but that would have involved some logistical shenanigans that we couldn't really be arsed with, plus an early start that we equally couldn't be arsed with, considering part of the point of the trip was to have a nice night away, dinner, a few drinks and not have to get up at some absurd hour.

A brief interlude for some accommodation details, then: we stayed in Colwall, largely for reasons of navigational and logistical convenience, but it happens also to be a nice little village with, crucially, a railway station (we'll come back to this later) and also the Colwall Park Hotel, a nice little country pub/hotel with pretty decent food and excellent Butty Bach which I took the opportunity of having a few of with dinner.

So we got up the following morning, moved the car fifty yards down the road to the railway station car park, and then headed off over the station footbridge and in a generally southerly direction. Basically the choice of Colwall as start point meant that there was a bit of a walk in to get to our chosen access point to the ridge - as you can see from the route map below this results in the walk being shaped like a wobbly letter J with Colwall at the bent end. 

So we cracked on up to the summit of Herefordshire Beacon at 338 metres (1109 feet), which seemed like a satisfying southerly point, all the minor hills to the south of it being lower. This is also known as British Camp, that technically being the name of the Iron Age earthwork that occupies its upper slopes. This first bit is an up-and-back trip from the British Camp car park, which is less satisfactory than a nice neat loop but did provide an opportunity on coming back down to pop into the imaginatively-named Malvern Hills Hotel for a refreshing beverage and a toilet stop before tackling the main ridge. 

Once on the main ridge there is, as with all ridge walks, a bit more up and down than you might expect, but it is in general a delight with (thanks to the flatness of most of the surrounding terrain) spectacular views all the way over to the Black Mountains, the Brecon Beacons and beyond. Named summits that we passed over during this section of the walk were Black Hill, Pinnacle Hill, Jubilee Hill and Perseverance Hill, all really just the tops of gentle undulations in the ridge rather than magnificent craggy peaks in their own right. 

There's another pronounced dip known as Wyche Cutting (at least partly man-made, I think) before the last and highest section of the walk; this handily contains another pub where we repeated the pint-and-a-piss routine from earlier. And then it was off up Worcestershire Beacon, the highest point of the day at 425 metres (1394 feet), and a few more subsidiary hills (Summer Hill, North Hill, End Hill), before dropping down into the northern end of Great Malvern and making our way to the railway station at Malvern Link, but not before a celebratory pint at the Bakery Inn. Refreshed, we then caught a train from Malvern Link to Colwall (two stops, less than ten minutes), picked up the car and headed back home. 

These are definitely hills rather than mountains, but (if you're lucky enough to have a glorious clear sunny day as we did) the magnificence of the views compares favourably with much higher summits, and it's a satisfying walk of almost exactly ten miles which you'll notice conforms to a couple of my informal rules: the low-level walk just to get to where you need to be is at the start rather than the end, and the main focus of the day (the highest point, invariably) is somewhere between two-thirds and three-quarters of the way round. 

the moor the merrier

First of the outstanding walking posts is the follow-up to the Cotswold trip in the autumn of 2025 featuring the same group of people; this time we opted to rent this property for a couple of nights as it afforded reasonably easy access to the north-eastern part of Dartmoor. And as we know, no trip to Dartmoor can ever go spectacularly tits-up. Before we did any walking we did have a pleasant evening trip to the local(ish) pub and micro-brewery, the Beer Engine in Newton St. Cyres. 

One thing that you might not unreasonably expect to be a bit different between a jaunt onto Dartmoor in January and one in June is the weather. That, it turns out, is an expectation that can turn out to be wrong, although barring some absolutely apocalyptic turn of events you are at least guaranteed more hours of daylight to work with.

Anyway, the plan was to drive from the house to the village of South Zeal, park up there and head up onto the top of Cosdon Hill (or Cosdon Beacon, take your pick). This is a respectable 550 metres in height (1804 feet), not quite as high as Yes Tor and High Willhays a bit further west. We took a route that turned to the south just after leaving South Zeal, principally in order to take in the Bronze Age stone row that occupies the eastern flank of the hill, and which some people are calling "the most impressive triple stone row in Great Britain". Those people, I would guess, visited it in somewhat better weather than we did; although it was quite impressive we were disinclined to linger. Anyway, from there we turned to the west, smashed straight up to the summit trig point and then took a route roughly south over Little Hound Tor and then north-west. The original plan here had been to then ford the River Taw and head up and over Belstone Tor and into Belstone village, have a cheeky pint at the pub and then bimble back along the footpath that hugs the banks of the River Taw into South Zeal. A pretty good plan, I think, but a group decision was reached that a more direct return might be prudent given the unrelenting shittiness of the weather. So we skirted round the northern flanks of Cosdon Hill and arrived back in South Zeal, whereupon we took ourselves to the Oxenham Arms, a pub where I had stayed with my then-girlfriend Anne in the summer of 2000, a trip where we went up Yes Tor and High Willhays in absolutely glorious weather, setting an entirely unreasonable expectation for future trips. Anyway, the pub's proprietors were very accommodating about us dripping several gallons of water onto their seats while we carried out some vital rehydration activities. Anyone reading the website blurb and wondering where the standing stone is that's been incorporated into the pub's walls, it's in the back bar, second door on the left after you come in. 

Total walk distance was 13.7km, or about eight and a half miles. Route map and altitude profile are below, below that are a Cosdon Hill summit photo, and, for comparison purposes, photos of me at the top of Yes Tor in 2007 (rain, wind, darkness) and 2000 (glorious sunshine).

We had originally planned a lower-level walk on the Sunday around the woodland area reachable on foot from Newton St. Cyres, but since everyone's kit was completely waterlogged from the previous day we decided instead to head into Exeter, a short drive away, and do a dry walk around the harbourside there. Not very much to say about that other than it was a pleasant and leisurely six kilometres (just under four miles) and started and ended at the very pleasantly-situated Double Locks pub. Getting to the pub car park did require traversing the narrowest bridge I have ever driven a car over, though, and I am clearly not the only one who approached it with a bit of trepidation judging by the encouraging signage they've deemed it necessary to put on the approach (pics from Google Maps):

That's all very helpful, but to be honest the main thing that convinced me that the Mini would be OK was the sight of my friend Martyn's giant Range Rover squeezing across just ahead of me. Anyway, if you're ever in Exeter and fancy something similar the map is below; I haven't bothered with the altitude profile for reasons which I assume are obvious. 

it's the fort that counts

A few loose ends to tidy up, mostly documenting of interesting walks that I deem worthy of mention here. This isn't exactly that, but is something I missed from my list of What We Did On Our Holidays when we went for a long weekend in Dorset a month or so ago. I see I did briefly mention that we'd been to Weymouth, but forgot to mention that in addition to walking around the harbour area and paying a very brief visit to the beach we also went to Nothe Fort, an interesting fortified complex occupying a site overlooking the harbour mouth and Portland Harbour to the south which has served many purposes over the years since its construction in the second half of the 19th century.

Most of the exhibits in the main central courtyard on the hot sunny day we were there were concerned with its use during the Second World War - essentially the same use as it was put to in the 19th century, i.e. as a base for launching big lumps of exploding metal at seagoing vessels belonging to the enemy; only the flag flown by the enemy and the technical complexity of the exploding devices really changing much over time. 

There was also an interesting audio-visual installation featuring some old black-and-white photographs from the fort's lengthy period of dereliction in the second half of the 20th century, and some recent sound recordings of the people who used to use it as an unauthorised adventure playground during that time; mostly teenagers at the time but in their sixties and seventies when the recordings were made. These were interesting, although as with anything involving old-ish people reminiscing about their childhood adventures there was the occasional unpalatable whiff of Kids Today With Their Bloody Computers and some suggestion that It Never Did Us Any Harm, as long as you don't count Fat Alan who fell off a wall onto a rusty spike and died.

A note on pronunciation; the audio-visual material we watched fairly consistently pronounced it Nothe to rhyme with "betrothe" or "clothe", rather than to rhyme with, say "both", "broth" or "frothy". The picture below shows Huwie and Alys at the controls of a Bofors gun, about to mercilessly shell downtown Weymouth to secure enough beach space to build a sandcastle.

loitering within tent

A few notes from our brief trip to Dorset over the Bank Holiday weekend: -

• We stayed in a campsite called The Dorset Hideaway, which does what it says on the tin by being tucked away in a secluded rural spot. "The middle of nowhere" is a relative term, especially in southern England, but it is a mile or two from the nearest villages. Those villages are Shave Cross, which is really just a few houses and a pub which appears to be currently closed, and Whitchurch Canonicorum, which is very slightly larger and has a pub which does appear to be a going concern, though we didn't get a chance to call in. Anyway, the campsite is perfectly nice, though it pushes the "glamping" angle quite heavily (as you'll see from the website) and, possibly as a consequence, doesn't really have enough toilet facilities for us plebs in the tent field, especially on the hottest weekend of the year when it's busy. 
• It's a pretty handy location for the various beaches in the area, though, which is an important consideration when it's scorchingly hot. As it happens the Jurassic Coast isn't the best place for traditional sandy beaches; most of them are either various grades of shingle or, at best, a mixture of sand and shingle. Great for fossil hunting, less good for sandcastle building. The best beach for traditional stuff like that is probably Charmouth, which just happens to be the one we were closest to; other more shingly experiences can be had at Bridport, Lyme Regis, Sidmouth and Exmouth. We did also go to Weymouth, which has a reasonably sandy beach, although as it was Bank Holiday Monday when we went you'd have struggled to see any of the sand through the expanse of shoulder-to-shoulder flesh that was occupying it. 
• We didn't go to the beach in Bridport, but we did go to a couple of food and drink establishments that I deem worthy of mention: firstly Mercato Italiano, somewhat bizarrely situated in a warehouse on an industrial estate but serving excellent pizzas, and secondly Soulshine, a cafe in the centre of town which supposedly does nice food but which we only had time to pop into quickly for a refreshing glass of fizzy rhubarbade. 
• We briefly met up with some friends for a lunchtime picnic after packing up at the campsite on the Wednesday - they live in Bournemouth so we went for something in between there and the campsite. I selected this location, fairly unscientifically, by looking at an Ordnance Survey map and finding a big green area that also had the big blue and white P that denotes a car park. That turned out to be Powerstock Common Nature Reserve, a funny little place tucked away under a disused railway bridge (more on this in a minute) and featuring all manner of delightful species of butterfly, newt, and, thrillingly, a population of rare mud snails who I would hope have the good sense not to slurp out onto the paths to be crunchily trodden on by unsuspecting walkers.
• But enough of that heartwarming gastropod-centric nature crap, you'll be saying, what about this disused railway you so mouth-wateringly dangled in front of us just a bullet point or so back? Well. This is the remnants of the old Bridport branch line which connected with the still-operational main line between Bristol and Weymouth, was earmarked for closure in the Beeching report of the early 1960s but limped on until 1975 before eventually closing. All the track has been lifted and part of the trackbed incorporated into a circular walk round the nature reserve of probably no more than 4 kilometres or so, but which we didn't have the time, inclination or, in some cases, shoes to attempt.

• The bridge itself incorporates a height/clearance warning sign and you just know I checked that shit against the database from the earlier post. This is in a much more commonly-encountered height range than the weirdly low bridge at Bishton so it's already been bagged; the example given is from Bromsgrove. All I would say to whoever daubed the accompanying graffiti, which says, if you're struggling, "STOP DEMOLITION OF THIS BRIDGE" is: well, so far so good, lads.
• Lastly, it was Hazel's birthday on the Tuesday - all I would say here is: if you have chocolate-based presents to hand over on an occasion such as this, then a tent on the hottest few days of the year isn't the best place to store them, at least if you want to ensure they're in tip-top store-fresh condition when they eventually get opened. 

buffering; please wait

It occurred to me after re-reading my earlier parkrun post, which included a picture of me lumbering sweatily towards the finish of my first-ever parkrun in 2013, that I was wearing my Welsh dragon Buff on my head and that furthermore there were probably a whole raft of photos from various outdoor activities over the years which feature me wearing a variety of Buffs in various of the many possible configurations. Moreover, having got a couple of Buffs for Christmas and, honestly, probably having enough of them now I thought it might be a good moment for an audit. So: pictured below is my Buff collection.

A quick run-through:

• The green bamboo-themed one at the top left is the OG, the first one I ever bought, from an outdoor shop in Keswick (possibly Rohan) in probably around 2008. Hazel bought one as well and we had an entertaining trip to a pub just up the road (possibly the Dog & Gun) immediately afterwards experimenting with the various wearing options, to the fascination of various locals.
• The red, white and blue one at top right is technically not a "real" Buff as I'm pretty sure it was from the middle aisle of Aldi, and was therefore almost certainly cheaper. Where it wins over the original one is in being slightly bigger; the extra fabric real estate is very handy if you want to make it into things like the pirate bandana or the beanie hat (see the linked video above for instructions) and have (like me) a freakin' mahoosive cranium. 
• The Welsh dragon one is probably the one I wear the most - you can see that I'm also wearing it in the Llanfoist Crossing parkrun photo in the previous post, for instance.
• The blue one was slightly bizarrely (but awesomely) given away as a free gift when I ordered some cheap maps from Dash4It.
• The one with the Norwegian flag on it was purchased in Oslo when we stopped there on the cruise we went on in July 2023.
• The YesCymru one is a recent replacement for one I had previously (further investigation reveals it was Christmas 2020 - I'm wearing it in the post-COVID Riverfront parkrun pic in the previous post), lost for a lengthy period of time, found in a slightly musty state in my golf bag to much rejoicing and then promptly lost again almost immediately. Commendably they are only a fiver on their website, though, so I just bought another one.
• The parkrun one was a Christmas present from this year, a sort of bonus item alongside the 50-parkrun commemorative T-shirt I also got.

A few bonus Buff-wearing pics, respectively these depict: the original green one, looking at a map with baby Nia halfway up Gray Hill; rocking a textbook pirate bandana cooking up some spicy noodles near the Ystradfellte waterfalls wearing the blue Aldi one; me (wearing the Welsh dragon one) and Hazel at the top of one of the Buttermere fells (either High Stile or High Crag); some heartwarming family shit featuring me wearing the YesCymru one (the old one, before the start of the lose/find/lose again cycle) and another parkrun one, this time of me wearing the Norwegian one while struggling to muster a sprint finish in (successful, as it happens) search of a PB at Riverfront. No pictures featuring the other two yet, though I expect I will wear the parkrun one to a parkrun at least once during 2026; seems only fair.

sudeley, life has new meaning to me

Part two of the mappage catchuppage features a couple of lower-level walks, though not without summit-conquering of a sort, as you may have already seen if you looked at the photo gallery I linked to in the last post. 

Anyway, back in June a group of us decided to get together for a weekend away, as we didn't get to see each other very often for the usual middle-aged reasons: gradual geographical dispersion, kids to be fed and entertained, increasing physical decrepitude, male pattern baldness, piles, gout, etc. We hired an AirBnB in Winchcombe, Gloucestershire with the intention of doing some walking in the Cotswolds and a bit of eating and drinking and general hanging out, shooting the shit and all that. It fell to Steffen and myself to do most of the route-organising and I think we did a pretty decent job, coming up with a long walk on day 1 when we had all day and a slightly shorter one for day 2 when everyone wanted to be on the road back by mid-afternoon. 

Day 1 comprised a 20-kilometre clockwise circular walk starting and finishing at the house and encompassing the highest parts of the entire Costwold group of hills as well as a couple of other points of interest including the Bela's Knap long barrow. The high plateau of Cleeve Hill and Cleeve Common is a pleasant place to be, especially in the warm sunny weather we were fortunate enough to have. Another pleasant place to be is the Rising Sun in Cleeve Hill village where we stopped for a couple of refreshing pints (Otter ales, if I remember rightly) and some light lunch. 

The actual high point of the day, and indeed of the Costwolds as a whole, is the summit of Cleeve Hill at a fairly modest 330 metres (1080 feet). The actual summit is a fairly anonymous trig point a couple of hundred yards from a car park and a couple of radio masts (you can see it marked with a "330" at the bottom of the map below); the grander viewpoint with a single tree, some memorial plaques and benches, another trig point and a toposcope a kilometre or so to the north-west is more impressive, but a few metres lower. Crucially this is also the county high point of Gloucestershire, which enables me to tick that off on my list. Going purely by the county list linked in that magazine article, and not getting involved in an argument about the sense of listing long-defunct counties like Huntingdonshire and Merionethshire, my list currently comprises the following:

England

• Berkshire
• Cornwall
• Cumberland
• Derbyshire
• Devon
• Dorset
• Gloucestershire
• Herefordshire
• Lancashire
• Somerset
• Westmorland

Wales

• Brecknockshire
• Caernarfonshire
• Cardiganshire
• Carmarthenshire
• Monmouthshire
• Pembrokeshire

Scotland

• Aberdeenshire
• Banffshire
• Inverness-shire
• Stirlingshire

In need of sustenance after the walk we had an evening in Winchcombe which included visits to the White Hart and Plaisterer's Arms and a curry afterwards. All very nice, as is the food in the White Hart where those of us who'd come down on the Friday night to wring maximum possible value out of the weekend had gone for dinner.

We had to check out of the house on Sunday morning, so we decided to start day 2's walk a mile or so down the road at Sudeley Castle, which fortunately has a nice big (and free) car park which you don't feel too guilty about making use of without actually visiting the buildings ("castle" is a bit of a stretch; it's a large country house). Sudeley is mainly famous for being the home of Catherine Parr, widow of Henry VIII; she moved there upon remarrying after Henry's death and is buried in the grounds. I must admit I was ignorant of what happened to her after Henry's death, in particular that she'd subsequently married Thomas Seymour, brother of Henry's third wife, Jane Seymour, and that for all the "divorced, beheaded, survived" stuff she only outlived Henry by about a year and a half, dying of complications from childbirth in September 1548 at the age of thirty-six.

I would describe this as a pleasant country ramble, memorable for being spent in excellent company and very pleasant weather rather than for anything exceptional about the details. The eleven or so kilometres (clockwise again; gently uphill for the first half, gently downhill for the second) got us back to the car park just after lunchtime and we eased our collective conscience about the car park situation by buying an ice cream from the cafe before heading off home. A few photos from the weekend can be found here.

the path of least resistance

Following on from the Blorenge and Scottish walks described in earlier posts, a few more maps I spotted in my collection from recent outings and which I thought might warrant a mention here. Firstly, Pen y Fan. Now you'll probably be aware that I've featured ascents of this particular mountain a few times before on this blog; I won't attempt to collate all of them but you might start here, here, here and here. But it is, let's not forget, the highest mountain in Southern Britain, a slightly woolly claim but one which essentially means that if you draw a horizontal line on a map of Britain a few feet south of the summit of Cadair Idris, as I've done below, the highest point in the region south of that line is indeed the summit of Pen y Fan. Yes, granted, you've defined your terms in such a way as to get the answer you want, but it's not an insignificant thing. 

Anyway, sometimes you want to find new and interesting ways to get up and down (and you almost always can), but sometimes you just want to smash up, bag it, smash down again, bish bosh, sorted. Other considerations are who else is coming along on the walk and how much gratuitous extra distance and effort they'll be prepared to tolerate without getting all whiny and annoying, and indeed who is in charge of route planning. I get a bit twitchy if this isn't me, but sometimes it isn't and you have to take an attitude of Zen-like acceptance in the face of whatever ill-thought-out bullshit other people come up with.

Examples, you say? Gladly. Here is the walk we did for my birthday back in February, a time of year when I get a free one-off opportunity to annoy everybody by making them do an activity of my choosing, which of course is going to be some tedious outdoorsy shit. So I'd proposed a trip up Pen Y Fan, which Nia had done a couple of times before but neither Alys nor Huwie had. I can't remember whether we'd done any advance planning for the Scotland trip at this stage but I might have had the thought of using it as a warm-up for the more strenuous mountain walking that would be involved there. My sister-in-law and brother-in-law and their two boys wanted to come as well, so I thought I'd better play it safe and just do one of the quick routes. So we parked up in the recently-expanded Pont ar Daf car park and did a circular route up via the path from Storey Arms and back down the main path which terminates at the car park, a round trip of a little over eight kilometres, or five miles if you prefer, in a clockwise direction on the map below.

What's very obviously apparent both from looking at the contours and the altitude chart a couple of kilometres in, and indeed from listening to the chorus of complaining from my fellow walkers, is that the forced loss and regain of around sixty metres in height in order to traverse the mini-valley containing the Blaen Taf-fawr stream is a bit of a motivation-killer early doors, just as it's a bit of an unwelcome sting in the tail at the end of a fifteen-mile bi-directional traverse of the main Beacons ridge.

Simple, you'll be saying, just use that prominently-marked green path that swings up to the north and, at the cost of maybe an extra half a kilometre across the ground, stays on the contours the whole way. And my answer to that is I'd love to, but it's not really discernible, still less signposted, any more. If you look at Google Maps' satellite view, really zoom in, and squint a bit you can just about convince yourself that there might be a scratch in the ground resembling a path, and if you drop the StreetView man right at the start of the path up from Storey Arms you might just about make out a grassy track ascending through a break in the heather on the left, but I have walked past here a few times, and past where the path supposedly rejoins the main path at the Tommy Jones obelisk, without noticing anything obvious. Next time I'm up there in reasonable weather with no pressing need to keep anyone else fed or entertained I'm going to have a look for it though.

Similarly, while the OS map shows a few alternative paths either side of the main route up from Pont ar Daf, none of those are discernible any longer at ground level. This will be largely because of the considerable path maintenance and landscaping effort that's gone on alongside the car park improvements to reduce the amount of erosion along these heavily-used routes. That does create a feedback loop, though, in that people will then be constrained, or at least heavily encouraged, to only using those routes for ascent rather than fanning out over a number of different routes to the same end-point, and perhaps reducing wear on any individual one. 

A couple of schools of thought on this one; Cameron McNeish, author of a couple of excellent books on Scottish mountain walking that I own, is a fervent advocate of people being, as he puts it, goats rather than sheep and making their own ways up, on the grounds that this reduces wear and tear and prevents a single furrow being worn into the ground that then needs repair and reinforcement. I'm quite sympathetic to this viewpoint, though the counter-example I would offer is Waun Fach in the Black Mountains, recent-ish recipient of exactly the sort of hard landscaping and path constraining that McNeish decries, but which I don't think anyone could rationally say is a worse place to be on top of now than before. 

My second ascent of Pen y Fan this year was as part of the I Am Pen y Fan charity challenge organised by SightLife, the charity my wife works for, and at the start of which we were seen off by charity patron Ceri Dupree, who didn't join us for the walk as the fabulous sequined Welsh flag dress he was wearing would have been rather constricting, not to mention a bit chilly on a wet and windy day. You will see from the summit photo that Huwie resolutely rocked a green sequined tailcoat the whole way to the top as a tribute, though. 

Route-wise this was as vanilla as it gets, just straight up and back from the car park, with a small loop on the way up for those who deemed it desirable and/or necessary (i.e. pretty much just me and the kids) to bag Corn Du. The summit photo I've reproduced above also features in this ongoing Twitter thread and in the recently-updated mega-gallery of trig points and mountain summits. 

river deep, mountain high

More exciting outdoor-adventurousness news as promised, but first a bit of scene-setting: we went on holiday to Scotland at the end of July. It's a long old drive so we stopped off on the way to visit our friends John and Tracey at their home in Silverdale, just south of the Lake District. We were only there for a day or so but did get to do a bit of exploring, in particular the spectacular coastal location at the northern end of Morecambe Bay. 

Morecambe Bay is a vast expanse of estuarial sand and mudflats and fairly notorious for its shifting landscape and dangerous tides, and most famously (in recent times anyway) for the incident where over 20 Chinese cockle-harvesters drowned in 2004. Just to demonstrate the fickle nature of the landscape, there was until recently (properly recently as in a few weeks before we were there) a vast flat expanse of sand extending out from Silverdale Cove to the main channel of the River Kent as it emerged from its mouth a couple of miles to the north, but recent heavy rain had induced a sudden course change and the river had turned south, carved out a great gouge in the sand and created a substantial sand cliff only a couple of hundred yards from the beach, which Alys and Nia kindly posed by for scale and subsequently hilariously pretended to push their little brother off.

Despite the apparent foolhardiness of attempting such a thing, guided walks are periodically available, weather and tide conditions permitting, and a person with the grand title of the Queen's Guide To The Sands (well, presumably King's Guide these days) has the job of scoping out a safe route. As publicly-accessible walking routes go it's probably not as dangerous as the Broomway in Essex - less chance of being maimed by discarded military ordnance, for instance - but definitely not to be trifled with. It is at least still passable, though, unlike the Wadeway in Chichester Harbour where you would now disappear into a canal halfway across.

Anyway, we didn't do any of that, preferring to head home for a refreshing beer and a soak in the hot tub. The following day we headed off to continue our journey north to our destination of Hunter's Quay holiday village near Dunoon on the Cowal peninsula, which I see I mentioned here. I see that I laughingly make reference to there being no point building a bridge across from the mainland (the intervening channel being basically the confluence of Loch Long and the Firth of Clyde) as it wouldn't get much use. That may be true, but more pertinently it's a couple of miles across and would therefore be a fairly major feat of engineering, not to mention one spanning a major shipping lane. Whatever, there isn't one, and so once you've got as far as Gourock (which you do by basically heading north into Glasgow and then turning left) you are obliged to queue for a ferry. Anecdotally, and I'm not saying this justifies the cost of a bridge, the ferry terminals were pretty busy in both directions when we crossed, and by no means everyone got on the first one that showed up.

Anyway, the holiday village was perfectly nice, featuring the usual chalet-slash-static-caravan accommodation and the usual array of food and drink facilities plus some entertainment for the kids. I'm always unavoidably reminded of Hi-De-Hi in places like this but it was actually perfectly nice. More importantly a) Hazel had managed to wangle a super-cheap deal for a short break and b) a shortish drive north (no ferries required this time) takes you to the north end of Loch Lomond and the vicinity of the Arrochar Alps, some of Scotland's most southerly and therefore most easily accessible Munros. Technically the most southerly Munro is Ben Lomond, but from where we started it's rather awkwardly situated on the east side of the loch, and in any case I'd been up it before, back in about 1999.

So, emboldened by everyone's conquering of a rather wet and soggy Pen y Fan for my birthday in February I devised a walk (basically this one) that would bag two Munros and offer the possibility of a crack at The Cobbler, just short of Munro height but an interesting scrambly challenge. I had mentally earmarked that last bit as very unlikely to come off, but it's good for Plan A to be ambitious as long as there's a Plan B you can fall back on. 

There's a car park by the shores of Loch Long just outside the village of Succoth, which I expect you can make up your own jokes about - you know, Elizabeth I visiting and declaring "the mountain view enchanteth most delightfully, but the neighbouring village sucketh most egregiously", that sort of thing - anyway, point is it offers a good starting point for the walk. If you've been paying attention, though, you'll have clocked that Loch Long is a sea loch, and that therefore you are going to be obliged to gain all 3000+ of those Munro feet without a head start. Moreover, if you follow the anticlockwise route I'd devised, the usual route of ascent up Beinn Narnain, the first Munro, is a relentless direct upward slog along the remains of an old cable railway, of which only a few lumps of concrete footing remain. Once you get out of the woods the relentlessness eases off a bit and it's quite pleasant, though challenging. Eventually you arrive at a pretty intimidating wall of rock which you have to find a scrambly way up to get onto the summit plateau and bag the trig point. Beinn Narnain is 926 metres or 3038 feet and (depending which list you use) is around 257th of the 280-odd Munros on the current list.

It's not the Black Cuillin, but it is far from easy - considerably more challenging than a good few of my previous Munros, and I was and am inordinately proud of the kids for giving every impression of enjoying the whole thing and seeming engaged by the idea of coming back and doing some more in future. I should also add a word for Hazel who had sustained a badly bruised ankle in a comedy incident with a shot putt at school sports day a couple of weeks earlier but clearly didn't want to let the side down and struggled up anyway. That constraint did mean that we had to abandon the idea of bagging the day's intended second Munro, Beinn Ime, which was disappointing but which I was half-expecting before we'd even set out. 

The walk out down the valley which separates Beinn Narnain from The Cobbler is a delight, as it's a pretty good path alongside a pretty river and affords excellent views of the Cobbler's knobbly profile in particular. A bit of steep zig-zagging back through the woods and you're back at the car park. After a long and strenuous walk like that a pint is very much in order and I heartily commend to you the Village Inn in Arrochar which has excellent ale from the Fyne Ales brewery. Two things to say about Fyne Ales: firstly haha, you see what they did there, and secondly I'd had them before in a pub in Edinburgh in 2011.

Anyway, the important thing here is that this was the kids' first Munro, and the first time I'd had an opportunity to add one to my list since back before we had kids. We actually did three Scottish trips with our friends Jenny and Jim and on those trips bagged four, four and zero Munros respectively, so this was actually the first one I'd been up since 2010. My personal count now stands at fifteen. 

Route map and altitude profile are below: total distance is about twelve kilometres or seven-and-a-half miles.

Just to cap off the holiday activities, once we came to the end of our stay in Dunoon we headed back across to another quite similar holiday park just east of Edinburgh for a couple of days and spent some time doing the usual tourist-y stuff in Edinburgh including a trip down into Mary King's Close which was very interesting, and a walking tour of locations relating to JK Rowling (a former resident of Edinburgh) and the Harry Potter books. I would describe this as a commendably game attempt to get some tourist mileage out of some incredibly tenuous connections: once you've been to the site of the former cafe where she sat and wrote some of the early books you're reduced to pointing at various knobbly buildings and saying: hey, might this not have been partial inspiration for Hogwarts? Go on, squint a bit. Our tour guide was an engaging enough bloke, though, and it was pretty good fun. We didn't have time to climb Arthur's Seat but we did have time for me and Nia to have a crack at the Meadowmill parkrun on Saturday morning. Anyone fancying a bit of Scottish parkrun tourism should be aware that most if not all of the Scottish ones start at 9:30am rather than 9am. Not sure if this is a daylight thing or just a bit of bolshy being different for the sake of it.