Saturday 17th November 2018
I was meant to be at a Rave Up in Todmorden, West Yorkshire this weekend. A hot, sweaty, busy DJ gig by A Love From Outer Space, and a chance to catch up with some good friends including Delyth & Lloyd. My ticket and hotel were booked months ago, but just a few days before the event I cancelled with a heavy heart. Why? Well, a train strike was happening for a start - although to be fair I had several kind offers of lifts. There was also an unrelated festival going on in the town and accommodation was scarce, so the best hotel I could find with rooms left was on the hilly outskirts of neighbouring Hebden Bridge. It was starting to hit home what a faff this weekend could be. Mainly though, truth be told I was completely skint. I could easily spend a couple of hundred quid all in when taxis, drinks, and eating out was added up, and fact is I just couldn't afford it - especially when I'd blown loads of wedge recently on all this sodding camping gear...
So I made the call, cancelled my reservation, sold on my ticket, apologised to mates, and resigned myself to a quiet weekend at home.
Then a day or two later I saw the weather forecast and my mind started to turn to The Great Outdoors.
In the last few weeks my two camping experiments had been quite cold. I had hit snow 3 weekends back on the way to The Peak for my first wild camp with my friend Rich. I would have put money on that being the first and last wild camp of the year, but lo and behold the weekend approaching, halfway through November, looked to be sunny and clear (yet cold again) over much of the UK. Despite not wanting to spend any money, I had a few options : an afternoon 'tramping out' under a tarp in local woods (something I've done a couple of times too recently); trying Wonderful Wilderness again (the location of my 'nearly wild' camp in September) for a safe, stress free evening with a nice campfire; to the most hardcore option - my first solo overnight wild camp, up a proper mountain. I kept my options open, sought advice from the family (who were all busy doing their own things at the weekend) and from Rich via messages. By Friday evening I had committed to head off in the morning on the well loaded Vespa to the Berwyn mountain range in Mid Wales and go hardcore.
My destination was the same waterfall I had visited a few weeks back - the stunning Pistyll Rhaeadr. Leaving at lunchtime I enjoyed a sunny and relaxing ride, with clouds just starting to build as I approached hillier country. I arrived dead on 2pm to a rather misty and busy free car park, spent a while transferring the kit from roll bags to rucksack, and headed off under the guidance of my new Ordnance Survey app. This has been a revelation - for 20 quid a year you get access to all of their maps at all the different scales, and of course it points out where on the map you are at any given time - thoroughly recommended. My proposed destination was a small lake not too far from the summit of Cadair Berwyn, at 827 metres the highest mountain in Wales not to be found in a National Park. With around 18kg on my back I headed up a very scenic path affording great views of the waterfall through the damp, cold valley air.
I only had around 3k to walk, and a good hour and a half before sunset, but I found it surprisingly hard work. I'm still new to walking with a big pack, and my 18 kilos were a bit silly as I had luxuries in there (my Italian coffee pot, a frying pan, 3 different size tarps, and a tripod for instance - easily 5 or 6k right there) that most hikers would have lived without. Thankfully the slope was generally fairly gentle up the flank of the valley, and I was chasing the waning sun all the way. I passed two or three walkers on their descent, who looked a little puzzled that I was heading so far upwards at this hour.
It was quite boggy around the Llyn, and 'plan A' was a spot on the other side. However, there seemed to be a small but perfect flat and dry spot on this near side, where the stream branches off to start its descent of the valley (at the bottom right of the pic above). I dumped my burdensome backpack here for now and toddled off (suddenly feeling very light and spritely) to the other side just to satisfy my curiosity and prove I had bagsied the best room at the hotel. There was indeed a good place where, if I pitched with feet into the wind, I would be afforded a view of the lake from my open tent - but being right under the crag of the mountain didn't feel great. A combo of fear of landslides and the already howling wind hitting the face higher up conspired to put me off, so I decided to head back to my rucksack, first taking a photo of the ever darkening but crystal clear sky above the Llyn, with a half moon on the rise.
First off was a morale boost of a hot chocolate, so it was BCB Crusader cookset out and placed on a newly acquired square foot of of soldering mat (to be 100% sure of not scorching any grass). By the time this had been made and drunk it was about 5:30pm and pitch black. Thumbs started twiddling. I thought I may as well crack on with a scran to keep busy, and it was out with my new folding frying pan for the trusty smoked sausage and Uncle Ben's rice combo. All very nice, but that took me only until 6pm.
Time to practice some night photography then - perfect. Except my camera just would not turn on at all. This spooked me out somewhat as the batteries were reading full earlier in the day. Perhaps it was cold? I wore it around my neck and under my coat for a good while, and it got quite warm, but still no luck. It was all a bit Close Encounters, and my mind started to recall that this exact mountain was the site of one of the UK's most high profile alleged UFO incidents. In fact, the area is known to some as 'The Welsh Roswell'. I was more cross than spooked though - the tripod and camera were now extra dead weight that I could have ditched had it decided to die before I was up the mountain. So anyway, this part of the story is not illustrated for this reason. In the morning when it was light I could at least use my phone.
Still a good 12 hours of ever colder, damper inkiness to get through, sat under my tarp. I admit to missing Rich a bit, whose company had been so genial in these early evening hours last time. Another friend Tomo had recently sent me a gift of a radio series, the airline based sitcom 'Cabin Pressure', which I had the foresight to download on my phone earlier that day and proved to be a great source of comfort and amusement. I was often too distracted and edgy to follow every word, but just the soothing familiarity of Aunty Beeb, fine comic acting and an enthusiastic audience did me the world of good. Small hip flask out (Jameson's this time), I was having an evening of sorts. Once the whisky was supped, there was a last cuppa, then I retired to the tent for more (appropriately named) Cabin Pressure and movie podcasts in the warm comfort of the sleeping bag until I dozed off around 11pm.
It was a cold night, with the damp not helping - the nearly freezing fog was even rising up under the sides of the tent. In fact, I was warmer under the tarp in a way, where at least the breeze was stopped 100% - the tent had 'ample ventilation' which basically meant 'wind howls through it'. Still, probably healthier from a condensation point of view - even if it did seem to be letting it in. But sleeping in my big coat, hat and sometimes even gloves I remained warm. A good solid 4 hours of kip, then I was wide awake from 3am to 5:30, but nodded off again for a final hour before dawn. Getting in and out of this tent is very awkward due to the single entry point and 'arse first' technique, but a cheap, small folding foam pad from Millets was a godsend in providing a place to kneel or stand whilst I got boots on and off for the inevitable wee-wees. The noise of the wind up on the summit was constant all night, but it made me all the more thankful that I was down here in the naturally sheltered crater, where wind was much more manageable. All in all I was fairly relaxed, comfy, and felt safe. Result!
It was getting near 7am, the sky was creeping from black to grey, and so it was up to get some brekkie. First on was the espresso pot, after a bit of faff getting the ice cold meths to light (a spell with the bottle in my pocket warmed it up enough to take a spark). As it was brewing, I made a headstart on a few clearing up chores and the thick low cloud gradually started to break.
Everything warmed up, the clouds burnt away with the rising sun, and around 8am I sat on a little ledge in front of camp ready to tuck into a porridge and tea to enjoy a quality moment with my stunning view. I had one mouthful and was suddenly very aware that there was a human shape a few yards away to my left. A man in his 50s (bearing an uncanny resemblance to Malcolm McDowell) wearing some good hiking gear and a very pro camera round his neck was stood looking at the pool and mountain. We bid each other good morning and struck up a very pleasant chat. He had driven a fair way to the area in the dark to get up here at the crack of dawn, no doubt to have the place to himself. I felt really bad that my scruffy camp and even scruffier presence was ruining that moment for this nice man, although he was too much of a gent to look disappointed. He eventually said farewell and headed off up the slope to the summit to get on with his planned 17 mile walk. It was a reminder that I was probably being a bit too leisurely about packing away before I was rumbled - remember, this sort of thing is not strictly legal. I took one last good look at my hotel room - both the cheapest and most scenic I've ever stayed in - before sadly packing up camp. I could have happily stayed there watching the clouds wisp over the escarpment for hours. Days even!
Whilst a bit more efficient than previous pack ups, it was still an hour all told, but as ever I followed the golden rule of 'leave no trace'. I'd arrived with no evidence of any previous camps (despite wild camping happening here a fair bit) and I wasn't going to be the first to mess up this magnificent spot. Rucksack on (a little bit lighter for the consumed food and water), I headed up to the summit, a further 200m above me. This was the only genuinely scary part of the trip as it was steep, craggy, slippy and the wind up there was easily 40mph. It caught my huge rucksack side on like a sail, and it was a struggle to stay sure footed on what seemed (to this numpty anyway) like an already fairly perilous ascent. My glasses were even in danger of blowing away! I was pretty exhausted and relieved to get to the top, which despite the incessant biting easterly wind offered spectacular views in all directions - including over my little cheese lake.
The Llyn from above - my home for the night was the pointy bit at the top left, and my scary climb was the ridge going up to the right above it.
The Summit
It was still quite hazy looking east and south, so promised views of Shropshire and The Brecon Beacons were not forthcoming. To the west it was much clearer, with Snowdonia tantalisingly calling in the distance.
By the time I had surveyed the ridge it was gone midday and time to think about returning to the Vespa. I took a different route down, on the opposite side of the valley, which proved challenging in a different way due to some very boggy patches, making progress slow and energy-sapping. In fact, half way down I had a sort of funny turn where I went quite faint and had to have a sit down. I put this down to a combo of a lack of calories for breakfast (I had nothing left to eat by now), jelly legs (descents are much harder on the knees) and a general lack of fitness for the task. It's an eye opener for me, as in some ways I'm a reasonably fit bloke - just a few weeks back in the longer days of summer I was fitting in 10k runs a few times a week, well under an hour, no problem. But here I was struggling to manage to walk way less than 10k over two whole days. Goes to show how different tasks demand different types of fitness. I must get fitter for this task!
Menopausal flushes aside, as I neared the lower ground there was a nice aspect of the Rheaedr valley, which was reassuringly pretty and lush after the wild and windswept uplands. It put a bit of lead back in my pencil anyway.
Eventually after some confusion in the last half mile I was back at the waterfall base (fairly busy with visitors) and repacking the Vespa for the ride back. This was a crisply sunny and chilly affair punctuated by a pub stop or two for a bit of sustenance and warmth. I didn't stop to take any pics of the Vespa in situ this time, and got home just as it was getting dark. A big, warming tea of hotpot was most welcome.
At around 9:30, shattered, in jarmies and ready for bed, the doorbell rang - this is very unusual for us. I asked who it was before opening, and it was a policeman, asking if I was the owner of a red Vespa, (licence plate blah blah blah) which had recently been in Wales...
My mind started to race. Surely wild camping isn't so much of a crime that they come to arrest you that same evening? And how seriously must I have missed a speed limit for a home visit?
The PC was very nice about it all - turns out someone had reported that a Vespa had been left on the free car park at the waterfall overnight. Whether they thought it could be abandoned after a crime, that it belonged to a suicidal waterfall jumper, or a stranded hiker will remain a mystery. I came clean and told the PC that I left it there overnight whilst I wild camped in the mountains above. He was totally alright with this, and when I asked him if I should have done anything different he said no, it was just one of those things that need clearing up sometimes. He bid me goodnight.
Is it bad that a brush with The Law all added to the pleasing naughtiness of this memorable night away from home? It had been a good choice to go out there at short notice in this lucky window of weather, and hopefully another valuable turning point for me. I was still sad about not making the gig, but there would be more opportunities for those. Instead of being 200 notes worse off, I had brought the whole thing in for less than 20 (including petrol, food, whisky and pub stops). Not bad for a room with a view in one of the most scenic places I'd ever been.
© Rich Lane 2018
