A walk around Llangollen (or why I need to learn to love Carol Kirkwood)

I wonder how many walkers, driving up the A5 to Snowdonia have glimpsed northwards as they race passed Llangollen and noticed Dinas Bran Castle on the other side of the valley on its steep sided, spectacular little hill and thought “I really ought to visit that Dinas Bran Castle, on the other side of the valley, on its steep sided, spectacular little hill” but have never actually done so?  Ah, the pull of the Ogwen Valley, the Glyders and the Carneddau.

I have done the same. Often.  I have even visited Llangollen, many times, but until yesterday I had never bothered to find the hour needed to walk from the town to the castle.  Yesterday I did so, as part of a longer walk, and the whole day proved most rewarding.  The walk was part of my, as yet sporadic, attempts to get fit for May’s TGO challenge in Scotland.

This fella looked so lifelike from a distance

The weather forecasters had promised what is now called a “weather window”.  That is what any normal person over the age of 40 would call a few hours of sunny spells in between bands of rain.  The weather forecasters were almost correct, not least because they had added that this particular "window" would get splattered by showers and that a hoolie would be blowing.  As an aside, has anyone ever noticed that the girl next door, Carol Kirkwood, and her ilk now also often refer to rain forecast to occur on “western upslopes”? What in Thor’s name is that all about?  What is a western upslope?  Don’t slopes go down as well as up?  Is a western upslope different from a western downslope?  And what do they mean by a “western” slope anyway?  Do they mean any old slope in the west of the country or do they mean a slope facing west?  I think they might be better using expressions such as “to the west of the Pennines” or similar and even refer to "orographic uplift" rather than pandering to the lowest common denominator.  But then I’m only an old pedant suffering from a chronic case of SKOD.   And another thing.  Ever since Michael Fish cocked up the hurricane warning in 1987 have you noticed how weather forecasters have to scare the living daylights out of us all so that no-one can claim that they weren’t warned?  Bad weather is hyped up (another under 40s expression, I believe) whilst predicted good weather is played down, unless it’s that woman who says “scorchio" all the time.  I like her, I do.  But don’t get me started on the use of the terms “weather event” or “wintery mix”. And, no, I do not need to be told by weather forecasters to “take my brolly” when they have said it is going to rain.



Castell Dinas Bran
A cautionary tale: be careful where you throw used matches

Anyway, the steep walk up to Castell Dinas Bran (for those who do not speak Welsh I should explain that this means  “Dinas Bran Castle”) was a joy.  It is situated in the most wonderful location, with glorious views.  The information board at the top explains that it only existed for 20 years in the 13^th Century before it was destroyed for good by fire.  The board doesn’t explain how the fire started, but I suspect it might have been that Edward I chap or one of his henchman who was to blame, rather than by a carelessly sited candle blowing in the wind.  Either way, I  imagine the Welsh prince who had built the place and who lived there wasn’t too happy, what with there not being much in the way of home and contents insurance back then.

From Dinas Bran I headed down and on to walk north along Offa’s Dyke Path. The path does not follow the Dyke hereabouts but runs, partly on a minor road and partly through open country, along the base of the spectacular limestone escarpment that dominates the hills in this area.  It makes for wonderful walking, until a bit of a muddy trudge down to World’s End Farm. I even passed a field of Highland cattle, setting me up nicely with thoughts of Scotland. The signs on all the World's End Farm gates here about ask you to close them as it is an organic farm and needs this level of bio-security.  Which sounds pretty flawed science to me.  How does a closed gate stop, say, the spread of TB?

Offa's Dyke Path north of Llangollen

 

After World’s End I headed back along lanes to Llangollen following in the footsteps of George Borrow, him of Wild Wales fame.   I like to think that on the occasions today when I did see local residents I didn’t talk such self-aggrandising, patronising b*llocks as he did when he met their predecessors.  I wonder if anyone has ever tried to recreate his walk around Wales?  That would be a great project… 

A poor excuse for a ford, so I walked through the deeper bit to wet out the trail shoes

Walk Statistics

Pack weight: 11kg (extra weight carried included several tins of soup and two litres of water to add weight as part of my TGOC preparation)

Distance: 20km

Height climbed: 920m

Time taken: 4hrs 45 minutes

Food consumed: One dry chicken sandwich, left over from Sunday lunch, two chewy bar things and an apple.

 

 

 

Preparing for the TGOC: Some Musings

 

If you like nice photos and pictures rather than words then I am afraid this post is not for you!  Nor is it for you if you do not want to read self-indulgent ramblings.  But that's blogging for you!

I am trying to ensure that I am fully fit for the TGO Challenge in May.  It’s my first attempt.  My route has been submitted, returned by the fabulous vetters for some minor amendments and has just received final approval.  I have not planned anything ambitious.  It is primarily a low level route from Mallaig to Stonehaven, linking various valleys and glens (is that tautology?).  If all goes to plan (I know it will not!) I will walk 298km, averaging 23km over 13 days of actual walking.  Height climbed will be modest, at 6244m, averaging 480m a day.  The longest planned day is 35km and the maximum height gained on any day is 803m. The shortest day will be a full day of rest in Braemar.  I only occasionally get to over 550 metres above seal level.  The plan is to camp out on 9 nights and B and B the others.  Despite the modest nature of this compared to the plans of many other challengers I am broadly happy with what I have planned for myself.   I know I will be taking in some fabulous scenery which I intend to appreciate as fully as the weather and my energy levels, aches and pains will allow.  I was also struck by a comment on the TGOC Message Board, or possibly it was on a fellow challenger’s blog, that exhorted us to remember that “this is your holiday – you are supposed to enjoy yourself not spend the time being uncomfortable, exhausted or scared”. Or wise words to that effect.

As a first time entrant I am no expert on planning and preparing for the event.  The TGOC Message Board and comments from other challengers have been a great help, but are no substitute for experience.  For some reason the other day I found myself musing on my elements of preparation, which were jumbled in my head.  It seemed, when trying to get some order into my mind, that they  can be divided into 3 groups as follows:

Planning and logistics:
Issues such as route plan, accommodation, buying any more maps and gear needed, travel to and from the event, re-supplying en route etc

Getting physically fit:
My feeling is that the nearer my attempts to get fit are to replicating the actual event the better they will be for me.**  Thus, I should be working on:

o   Being able to comfortably walk the average daily distances my route plan envisages, preferably on similar terrain (yesterday saw me unnecessarily fording two small streams in North Wales to experience the delights of walking with cold, wet trail shoes)

o   Doing this whilst carrying the weight of backpack I will have on me on the Challenge

o   Creating the time to actually do this rather than pontificating about it! 

Getting mentally fit:
This is the hardest of all and preparing for this is not easy:

o   Visualise and think through the things that I know will challenge my head as well as my body– eg fording rivers, facing killer cows and horses without the need to detour for miles, coping with the discomfort if it rains or snows every day

o   Living with uncertainty eg will there be a decent wild camping spot in the areas I plan to stay, will I have enough fuel, food etc?

o   Missing family

I suspect that mental stamina is at least as important as physical fitness on the event, but it is the hardest to prepare for.  To some extent you either have it or you don’t.  Experience brings more.  I think for someone like me, a first time, middle aged challenger, who is walking alone rather than with a companion or as a member of a pre-arranged group, it might be more of an issue.

This notion of experience bringing mental stamina and confidence was brought home to me when thinking about the simple matter of my kit list.  I pack my day pack without second thoughts as to contents.  I can plan a day’s walk in my usual Cumbrian stomping grounds casually, understanding through 40 years of experience of the area what the terrain will be like under almost any conditions.  I know in advance which routes are within my capabilities and which aren’t.  I am largely confident that I would be able to get myself out of most objective difficulties.

Yet a simple thing such as knowing what it is best to take with me vanishes as the planned experience changes to something well outside the normal comfort zone.  This has, ironically, been heightened by taking note of the views of others.  For example, two years ago I would have never considered anything other than traditional boots and tent for a backpack in the hills.  But I have recently started experimenting with other shelters and footwear, inspired by the ideas of others, read about in blogs and outdoor magazines.  That brings a bit of a dilemma.  Familiarity or weight?  Akto or Trail Star?  Boots or trail shoes? 

These dilemmas go on. Neoair or self-inflating mat?  Clothing to be worn and carried when the weather is so uncertain?  Send food parcels ahead or support the local economy?  Weight to carry versus comfort and safety?   Other worries follow.  Is my route sensible?  Are the foul weather alternatives good enough?  Will that recurrent leg problem re-emerge?  Will that 35km day with a full pack finish me off, especially when I see the sign to the railway station three quarters of the way through it?

And then just as my head starts to fixate on these issues I remember or tell myself that I am not alone in all this.  I remind myself that despite the fact I am now nearer 60 than 50 I am actually younger than the average challenger.  I remember that every year almost 300 people rise to the Challenge, and have such a superb time that many come back year-after-year.  And I get my mind back to the purpose of the event.  Yes it’s to walk across the fabulous Scottish countryside and get from west coast to east coast.  But it is also about the pure joy of the experience, about having fun and about meeting what appear to be an amazing bunch of fellow challengers. 

**It has been suggested that some Challengers believe that the best way to replicate in advance their likely Challenge experience as part of their training regimes is to spend large amounts of time swilling back beer and malt whisky.   I refuse to comment  on the grounds that they may catch up with me in Braemar. 

Caldera Cone Meths Drinker Tested

I have always cooked on gas whilst out in the field or on the hill but have long felt, for reasons that escape me, that I ought to try meths.  I want to like meths.  When I say "try meths" I mean use it in the Nigella Lawson rather than the Keith Floyd way ie as a cook and not as a drinker, not that I am suggesting that Keith Floyd ever reached for the purple liquid when he felt the need to rehydrate his body.  My hypothesis is that my fixation on the notion of cooking with meths is related to memories of childhood experiments using my chemistry set which had a small meths burner to heat up various chemicals which we used to mix at random.  Can these sets still be purchased, I wonder, or have risk assessments done away with them?

So after extensive research on various meths stoves ie reading a blog by Andy Howell and asking Robin of Blogpackinglite a question in less than 140 characters, I ordered a Caldera Cone that arrived on Wednesday of this week.  Thus, since opening the parcel I have had ample time to carry out in depth scientific testing both of the burner / windshield system by itself and also to undertake some comparative tests against the main competitor. Indeed, these tests took me over 11 minutes so you can see that "FellBound" could easily come to be regarded as a byword for "thoroughness" in the scientific community.

I am now pleased to be able to report on the findings, which would, no doubt, have been eagerly anticipated in the backpacking world if I should have announced the tests in advance.  Like a North Korean missile testing spokepserson I did not do so, but can now reveal the existence of the research and my conclusions to an open mouthed, drop jawed, stunned community of backpackers and any other people sad and bored enough to read my blog.

TEST 1: The Caldera Cone

Weight: 60 grms
Pot: Evernew 0.9 litre titanium
Quantity of water: 0.4 litres
Boil time: 3 mins 58 secs
Quantity of fuel used: 25 ml
Wind speed at time of test: 0 mph
Air temperature: 13 degrees centigrade

                                                                         
                                              Caldera Cone with Evernew 0.9 Titanium Pot


TEST 2 Electric Kettle (Russell Hobbs)

Weight: 1650 grms
Pot: Integrated with the heating device
Quantity of water: 3/4 of my "I  Love Cheryl Cole Mug"
Boil time: 1 min 14 secs
Amount of fuel used: One spin of that dial thing on the meter
Wind speed: 2 mph (Faster than above because I had to open the kitchen window to get rid of the smell of meths)
Air Temp.: 14 degrees (I think the Caldera Cone may have heated up the kitchen quite effectively)

 

 

Russell Hobbs Model 18256

CONCLUSIONS

The results of these tests must be interpreted with caution. This scientific research has yet to be peer reviewed and validated.  On balance I would suggest that the Caldera Cone would be more suited to backpacking and wild camping than the electric kettle.  The latter, however, is probably cleaner, and more convenient for making a cuppa for your spouse when having a Sunday morning lie in.  However, further research is advised to see whether these results can be replicated.

The meths, incidentally, tastes better with a dash of tonic and slice of lemon.*

*Warning:  Drinking meths indoors before 6.00pm is considered vulgar by all well bred people.  I am also advised that it might not be entirely healthy so take with a pinch of salt. This blog post, not the meths that is.

The strange case of the growing male appendage

When I was little, my father was 5’ 8” tall.  Now I am big (6’ 3”) he is several inches shorter than he used to be.   People get shorter as they get older.  I don’t know why.  For me this will have a plus point.  By the time I am in my late 90s I reckon I will be able to sit up in my Hilleberg Akto tent when I am heating up the water for the Ready Brek in the morning.  Nor will I have to contort myself into a hideous, hunched up shape when performing in the tent that function which most middle aged men  undertake in the middle of the night, sometimes several times.   It may also mean that I will not constantly brush the condensation dripping sides of the over rated Trailstar.  That shelter, incidentally, is to be the subject of another blog at another time, now that my prolonged field research (3 nights in it) is complete.

So whilst we get shorter, it is also, empirically at least, a fact that certain male appendages actually get longer with age.  Just look at the ears of old men.  They often appear to be of an enormous length.  Having done some extensive research on this subject,  which involved typing into Google the question “do men’s ears get longer with age?”, I find that Italian scientists have now proved that this is, indeed true.  They have discovered that the male ear will grow by about one inch in one hundred years.  Now this raises two important questions.  Firstly, why were Italian scientists working in imperial units rather than metric? And secondly, have Italian scientists nothing better to do with their time?

This brings me on to the matter of other male appendages which also appear to get longer with age.  I am, of course, writing about feet.  Being tall, and perfectly proportioned (apart from my nose being too big and my head too small), I have always had larger than average sized feet.  However, recent purchases of footwear for my hill walking activities have proved disconcerting.  30+ years ago, when I was in my early 20s, I used to buy shoes sized 44 and walking boots sized 45.  For any Italian scientists reading this I should explain that this means size 10 or 10 and a half.  Over the last 3 years I have purchased 3 pairs of expensive, size 45 trail shoes that I have given away to impoverished student sons  (I suspect they binned them once I had gone home)  as they had proved to be too small for me.  A year ago I bought a pair of Scarpa walking boots and ended up purchasing size 47 (that means size 12, Mr Italian).  They are a perfect fit.  Yesterday my new trail shoes, the discreetly coloured La Sportiva Raptors arrived, courtesy of the Royal Mail.  These, too, were in size 47 and seem to be a good fit.  This can only mean one of two things.  Either shoe manufacturers have altered their lasts and sizing policies; or my feet have got bigger.

Now any reader with a forensic mind will be seeing some linkages here. Scientists involved – Italian. La Sportiva Shoes – Italian. Scarpa boots – Italian.  If I was paranoid or a racist I might form a hypothesis that the Italians were playing mind games with British hill walkers.  This could be some Latin inspired plot to lower our self-esteem and make us think that we have over large and unstylish feet to go with our ill-fitting Next and Marks and Spencer clothes, and our poor personal hygiene.  But my first ever proper mountain boots, those size 45s, purchased when the old Tuff Workboots were no longer deemed up-to-the-job, were made by the then popular boot manufacturer Dolomite.  Also Italian.  So I can only conclude that my feet, as well as my ears, are growing with time.  I feel an experiment coming on.  I am off to measure and record the length of my fingers.

(I am sure that all readers will be gratified that I did not use any personal photographs to illustrate this post)

A walk on the Mynd - and a view to the Urals -honest!

Having gawped at my old haunts in the Shropshire Hills from the Berwyn Mountains (see previous blog) in mid-Wales a couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity, and a good excuse, to get out on them last Tuesday.  I had the car booked in for a service in the dealers in Shrewsbury.  The garage being 20 miles from home, and having a few hours to kill, I went off in the courtesy car to Church Stretton, that unspoilt lovely large village, or a small town if you are an optimist, at the foot of the Long Mynd.  Stretton is well worth a mooch if you get the chance.

The weather was pretty dire. Mild - good. No wind - good. Clag, clag, clag, clag - not good. But after wandering round the fabulous antiques markety - shopy type thing, and after finding the most brilliantest cafe hidden down an alleyway, for coffee and cake, I headed off to the closest thing that the area has to a honeypot attraction, Carding Mill Valley, to park the car and start my walk.

If you don't know it, and you have children and you are in the area, Carding Mill Valley is the place to go. It's brilliant for children in wellies. A gentle mountain stream to splash about in; sheep; a ford to wade through; the Lightspout waterfall just up the valley; and a good National Trust tea shop. And it is the start of a range of walks in great countryside which can be made as gentle and short as you like or, as much as the geography will allow, as challenging as you could want with children.



Carding Mill Valley above the touristy bits

So I set off in the clag up this lovely V shaped valley, following the good path, towards the moorland plateau that makes the top of the Long Mynd. I stopped to watch a couple of parties of school students doing fieldwork, measuring the stream and valley sides. Which took me back a bit to my very distant days as a geography student and to my almost as distant days as a geography teacher.  One of the most memorable fieldwork sessions I ever led, in about 1981 I think, saw one of my O level students, Alison Hall, disappear backwards into a five foot pot hole in the stream bed on a bitterly cold Easter day.  Oh how we all laughed, including Alison herself, who took the mishap in excellent heart.  These days I suspect the responsible teacher would have ended up with a writ for damages at worst; and a thump from an angry father at best.  And possibly both.

After just 40 minutes of gentle climbing I reached the top of the valley and emerged onto the plateau; 5 minutes later I reached the ancient Portway, a pre-historic track that runs across the top.



I photographed these sheep on the summit plateau as I couldn't see anything else

Following the Portway for 25 minutes saw me at Pole Bank, the summit of the Long Mynd. 516m above seal level if you are interested. The "seal level" bit in that last sentence was a typo, but I actually rather like it as a descriptor, so I am going to leave it in rather than correct it. Indeed, from now on " above seal level" will be my wording of choice when referring to the heights of mountains and hills. So much more poetic and accurate too.  The clag was even thicker on the summit, and there was nothing to see except the trig point. The views from here can be superb. On a clear day to the north you can see across the Shropshire - Cheshire Plain, right to the Pennines in Lancashire; the whole of mid-Wales is also on view, beyond the Stiperstones and Corndon Hill, as far as Cader Idris on a good day. Cader must be 40 miles away.  One day I  may blog about a walk up Cader I did at the age of 13 led, if I remember correctly, by one Chris Woodhead, who later became the notorious Chief Inspector of Schools, and scourge of teachers across the land.  Chris taught me at the Priory in Shrewsbury when he was a young and trendy English teacher.  That trip wouldn't have passed today's Health and Safety regimes either!  And to the east?   Well beyond the Shropshire Hills of Caradoc, Ragleth, Lawley, Wenlock Edge, the Wrekin and the Clee Hills you can, I have often been told, see the Urals in Russia.




Pole Bank, the top of the Long Mynd - not a seal in sight, for they are 516m lower down.  Of course they could be hiding in the heather.

Now there is the tiniest bit of poetic licence in this claim. But apparantly if you travel east from the Long Mynd there is no higher ground until you reach the Urals as you pass over the English Midlands, Eastern England, the North Sea and the North European Plain. So if it wasn't for the curvature of the earth, and weak eye sight, you could indeed see the Urals from this lovely little summit in Shropshire. And as a Salopian I am sticking to that story whatever anyone tells me. It's one to bore the kids with after they have walked up to the top. And goodness knows, I bored my two boys with that tale often enough when they were little.




Trying to spot the Urals through the clag at Pole Bank

The return was even quicker. I went down by the same route, although there are so many possible variations, the east side of the Mynd being bisected by a number of delightfully pretty valleys, separated by broad, heather and winberry covered ridges.  But today I had to get back to pick up the car and this was enough for me.  What better way to spend a couple of hours in the fog and drizzle if some fresh air is needed?  None that I can think of.  If you haven't visited Church Stretton and the surrounding area of South Shropshire do so.  You will not have any epics, but will not be disappointed.

 

What were those blue remembered hills?

The Top of Pistyll Rhaedr

Into my heart on air that kills

From yon far country blows

What are those blue remembered hills

What spire, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content

I see it shining plain

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

From A Shropshire Lad by AE Housman 

Shropshire is one of the loveliest and most unspoilt counties in England.  Some will dispute that but it is my home county, if a nomad who has lived all over the country can claim to have a home county.  I was brought up for much of my childhood and teenage years in Shrewsbury, only leaving when I went away to university in Wales, and so it would be hard to convince me otherwise.  It was the beautiful Shropshire hills where I broke in my first walking boots.  The Shropshire Hills rise to about 1800 feet.  This is no great height but it does not detract from their beauty, and there is still relative solitude to be found.

A short distance beyond the county lies much higher ground.  When as a schoolboy I was able to travel further afield I would occasionally walk in Wales.  A favourite range of hills just outside Shropshire was the Berwyns.  I last walked there as a youngster on 19 October 1975 with my old school friend Rob, just a couple of weeks after we had started at university.

Last week saw me back in the Berwyns, almost 37 years to the day since I had last walked there.  In the intervening years most of my walking has been done in Snowdonia and in the Lakes.   Now, a relocation to the Shropshire – Welsh border area has moved the hills of mid-Wales back into my line of sight, both literally and metaphorically.

Memories flooded back as I drove up the valley to Tan y Pistyll, and one of the “Seven Wonders of Wales”, the waterfall of Pistyll Rhaedr.  And in case you speak Welsh I hasten to add that I know that what I have just written is tautologous, ‘pistyll’ being Welsh for waterfall.  What I had half forgotten, though, was just how lovely the scenery is in this part of Wales and how wild and remote some of it can feel.  Parts still have something of the wilderness about them.  The Lake District it is not.

My original plan was just to have a wander up to Llyn Lluncaws at about 600m above sea level, a corrie lake just below Moel Sych (827m).  I was interested in checking out whether the lake would make a good site for a wild camp at some stage in the future.  However, for the first time in ages the weather was not only dry but there was also more than a hint of sun, and the air was sharp and clear, if quite breezy.  So instead of going straight to the lake, I headed up the path to have a look at the top of the waterfall, and after which I could head up the south “ridge” of Moel Sych and on to the tops.  The waterfall is pretty spectacular and is well worth a visit.  It is best seen from below.  Indeed, from the top you cannot see the fall itself, as the stream plunges over a vertical cliff.  But just standing near the top and seeing the stream disappear so thunderously over the edge is breath taking.

Looking back to those Blue Remembered Hills

So I headed up the broad grassy ridge of the hill.  The long forgotten scenery triggered my memories.  This strange mixture of distant familiarity and seeming newness was heightened by the gear I was wearing and carrying.  Most of my current hill walking stuff was up in Cumbria, so I was kitted out mainly with things I had not worn or carried for quite some time.  The Berghaus Freeflow rucksack I had not used for 6 or 7 years; a pair of old walking poles, replaced by my Pacer Poles two years ago; a pair of Inov8 Roclite 400 lightweight boots, almost forgotten in the back of a cupboard, discounted in favour of some rather sturdier Scarpa boots and some rather thinner Inov8 trail shoes; and my “Smelly Helly” base layer, not worn since I realised you could buy base layers that fit properly, were comfortable and didn’t offend the rest of the family on arrival home.  And the oldest bit of kit was a Karrimor windshirt, bought in the mid-1990s and probably not worn this century.   It was interesting using this stuff again.   What had I abandoned for unnecessary new gear that still stood the test of time?  Well certainly not the rucksack which felt awkward and poorly balanced.  Not the old Brasher poles – nothing can beat the handle design of Pacer Poles for walking efficiency.  And certainly not the ill-fitting, too tight, too scratchy Helly base layer.  But the windshirt was just great.  Very light weight, minimalist and functional.  And the boots, which I had stopped using because they seemed to be ruining my heels and ankles were also good – they were advertised as the lightest leather boots in the world when they came out and are, I think, lighter than my trail shoes by a fair margin.

But that’s enough about gear.  We don’t go out in the hills because of the gear.  Do we? No we do not.  It is a means to an end.  And today the end was fabulous.  As was the beginning. And the middle. And all parts in between.

The fence to the summit

The south ridge is very broad, and marshy in places.  Half way you pick up a fence that runs arrow straight to the top.  Gradients are mainly kind.  The bogs were a minor inconvenience.  I did that self-questioning bit, wondering which side of the fence it would be driest.  It was the other side, of course.  It always is, isn’t it?   I am tall and have long legs.  I could, with a clear conscience, step across the fence with no risk of damage.  Or so I thought.  The fence, indeed, remained undamaged. But as I stepped across I caught my foot in wire at the bottom and slipped as I was half over.  So damage was done.  Not to the fence, but to what I can only politely describe as “my person”.  Male readers will know what I mean.  Of course, on the new side of the fence it was just as boggy; it’s just that the bog was better at hiding itself under a lurid green camouflage.  But it was not a proper bog.  Not the sort of thing you get in the peat of the Pennines or the Scottish Highlands. It was a Welsh excuse of a bog.

Summit of Moel Sych

I was soon at the top of Moel Sych, and including my gawp at the top of the falls, several gawps at the views, and a chat with a couple from Lancashire and a solo walker from Shropshire, it had only taken 1 hour and 5 minutes.  The views were absolutely magnificent from the top.  It was a perfect day to be there.  My frustration was the failings of my own memory about the views.  That was certainly Llyn Tegid.  But was that Cadair Idris?  Were those the Rhinogs?  I could not sort out Welsh mountain from Welsh mountain. Even more surprising to me was that my old acquaintances over the Shropshire border appeared unfamiliar today.  “Those blue remembered hills…That land of lost content…The happy highways where I went”.  The Stiperstones?  The Long Mynd?  That guy from Shropshire had pointed out Caradoc and the Lawley but surely they would be behind the Mynd?  Corndon Hill?  Pontesford Hill?  They all had to be there but which was which?   No matter really.  It was magnificent.  Even the flat Shropshire and Cheshire Plain.  And the bright white water tower near my parents’ house in Shrewsbury, a pin prick landmark also visible from so many of the hills of Shropshire and the borders.


The Aran Mountains in Mid Wales

The wind was biting cold.  That was ok with me for it gave me the chance try out the one new bit of kit I was carrying without looking a complete poseur.  My new PhD Dryshell Minimus down jacket.  Brilliant piece of kit in the weather of today.

From Moel Sych to Cadair Berwyn



And then it was onwards along the edge of the magnificent corrie headwall to Cadair Berwyn, also 827 metres high.  I passed the mother of all cairn wind shelters above the headwall and the views down the very steep cliffs to the lake were stunning.  The short 15 minutes between the two hills was a delight.

Llyn Lluncaws from the cliffs

Then I retraced my steps back towards Moel Sych, cutting off down the sidewall of the corrie on a steep, but easy grassy path towards Llyn Lluncaws.  The lake seemed to have a covering of some form of algae and the ground here-abouts did not look promising for wild camps – either marshy or very hummocky and uneven.  And then on along the valley side above the Afon Iwrch and back to the car park at Tan y Pistyll.

 

Above the Afon Iwrch



 

Retrospective view of the walk

The whole walk took me 3 hours 10 minutes.  Short, but highly enjoyable and recommended.



Pistyll Rhaedr

Merciless Attack on Scottish Virgin




Glen Tilt Near Blair Atholl

 

Is it possible to be ‘almost’ a virgin?  Well if it is, in terms of Scotland, I am almost a virgin.

Semi-retirement arrived for me this month.  One of the long anticipated advantages of this is the prospect of having more time to spend in the hills before my body finally rebels and tells me I am too old.  I have formulated various plans and goals about how I may make the most of this opportunity, keeping in mind that as the amount of time I will have available to enjoy myself has increased, there has been a corresponding fall in the financial resources I have to benefit from this time.   I think that is Catch 22, not that I have ever read Catch 22.

One of the things I want to do with this time is the TGO Challenge (TGOC), the unsupported annual coast-to-coast walk across Scotland.  Whilst I have masses of day hill walking experience I have never done any long backpacking trips - 4 days being the most I have ever done.  I also have limited experience of Scotland, despite having walked and climbed a great deal in Wales, the Lakes, and the Alps and over the years done various mountain leadership training courses.  The TGOC seems a great opportunity to rectify this limitation in my CV.

My understanding is that places on the TGOC are hard to come by.  In particular, I have been conscious that the entry form requires potential participants to set out their Scottish experience and I need to increase mine.  Thus, I recently set off on what was to be a gentle introduction to backpacking in Scotland and one that would also allow me to test out some new gear ie my MLD Trailstar, Oook Tub and MLD Superlite Bivi, which Martin Rye (@Rye1966) had recommended as a great combo of gear.  In addition I also had with me a new Neoair XLite sleeping mat, one of my leaving presents from work.  I found later that this had been designed by the devil, but more of that anon.

So at the back end of last week I landed in Blair Atoll at the southern edge of the Cairngorms, found a good spot in the village to abandon my car, and then sat there in the driver’s seat waiting.  It was heaving down.  And I mean heaving down.  Muggy, very warm, no wind but as much water as you ever did see.  I am aware that many backpackers have a sort of fatal acceptance and belief that they take bad weather with them.  I am starting to think like this.  It’s like watching England play at football.  The only way to get them to score is to stop watching.  Irrational but true.  If I watch, they always concede a goal.

Anyway, after killing time eating my sarnies in the car, the rain eased and I donned the old Paclites and in the middle of the afternoon I set off up Glen Tilt.  This was to be no epic.  No navigation challenges, very little height.  Just me, a rather too heavy pack, some new scenery and a fabulous low level walk.

The River Tilt was a bit of a revelation.  You just do not get rivers like that in Cumbria, my regular stomping ground.  In the Lakes the streams always look crystal clear, and they gurgle at you like a contented baby.  If it rains hard they sound a bit like a baby crying for its dinner.  Lah, lah, lah.  In contrast, the Tilt was a brown seething mass that would challenge and, I suspect, defeat the most talented of white water canoe specialists.  At first I wasn’t certain if this was its “normal” state.  However, I began to notice that trees that must usually be well above its banks were in the water.  It was very much in spate.




River Tilt

 

And so I made my way along the track up the glen, passing on the way a few delightfully isolated cottages, some the haunt of holiday makers, others those of estate workers.  Forest Lodge was supposedly 8 miles from the road.  It felt a long 8 miles.  To someone less used to the Scottish terrain the notion that you can walk 8 miles along a valley without gaining much height is quite foreign.  But Forest Lodge was reached and passed.  I had now been walking for about 3 hours, and about 30 or so minutes after the Lodge there was a wide expanse of flat, if hummocky ground alongside the river.  There were already 4 tents here, but it was easy enough in this spacious environment to find a spot to camp without spoiling the peace of others.  Within 5 minutes the Trail Star was up, the practice pitching in the garden having paid off.  And a few minutes later it began.

I had heard about the Scottish highland midge.  But nothing had forewarned me as to just how terrible it is.  I was going to say that it hunts in swarms.  But “swarm” doesn’t do it justice.  The attack started slowly enough.  I started to notice the occasional irritating bite on my hands and along my lower back where my shirt wasn’t tucked in properly.  Nothing to bother about really.  I had even prepared myself with a midge head net and some of the legendary Avon Skin So Soft, allegedly used by the Royal Marines to keep the wee beasties at bay.  I spread this over my hands, face and arms and sure enough I soon started to notice the tiny creatures dying, stuck to my oily skin.

I started to prepare my dinner.  The swarms became multitudinous.  I leapt around, waving punching and slapping the air.  I cursed, alternately, the midges and the midge net, the latter because it seemed to make the heat rise to sub-tropical levels.  The attacks continued.  My face, my scalp my arms, my ankles, my back.  Nowhere was safe.

I retreated to the Trailstar.  This of course, was a complete waste of time being a single skin, door less shelter.  At this point I cursed, very mildly, because he seems such a nice chap, @bryanwaddington for his tweet to me at the end of May “My advice would be to use the Trailstar a bit before ordering an Oookstar…”  Bryan wasn’t to know he was advising a moron.  I now know that an Oookstar nest or similar is essential in Scotland in the midge season.  The inside walls of the TS were almost completely black as hundreds of thousands of the devil’s spawn made themselves comfortable, waiting for me to climb into my sleeping bag.

Ah, but I could defeat them.  I had the Superlite bivi.  I zipped myself in and peered through the midge net.  And got hotter.  And hotter.  I couldn’t breathe.  I opened the net.  They launched themselves at me.  Whilst I tried to fend them off the Neoair attacked me from below, bending and wrapping itself around me like the most amorous of boa constrictors.

The next 8 hours are now a blurred memory, a wakeful, prolonged nightmare.  I didn’t sleep for more than an hour the whole night.  I had naively thought that the midges would need their sleep too.  They didn’t, or they fed on me in shifts.  I will not describe the indignity of an attempted early morning ablute, save to say that the midges showed no respect.

The weather was still but the skies dark.  I was packed early and I headed off back down the glen.  After an hour or so the heavens opened again and I spent the next two trudging wearily back to the car.  As I got to the end of the estate road the sun came out.  I had long since decided I was a complete whimp to allow a few insects to spoil my two days.  Getting home again and seeing myself in a mirror, made me realise just how tasty I had been.  The dreaded lurgy itself never made a man’s body look so red, spotty and blotchy.  I counted over 100 bites just where my watch strap had been.  The Scots and all lovers of Scottish hills must be far hardier than I ever imagined.  Next time I will be more aware and better prepared….