Glyder Fawr

The first time I climbed Glyder Fawr in Snowdonia, it was raining, misty, cold and miserable. The day before I’d climbed Snowdon via the Watkin path with friends I would later trek to Everest Base Camp with, and we’d done it as a training exercise and to get to know each other better. I got to the top of the Glyders twice more between 2007 and 2014. It was about time I went again.

The weather forecast was for clear, cold weather and I knew there would be some snow on the tops of the Snowdonia peaks. I was staying in Bangor and I reached the area in darkness the day before so I didn’t know exactly what to expect. I wasn’t to be disappointed. I set off from the car in a bitterly cold wind and walked along the A5 in the Ogwen Valley until I turned off at the visitor centre to make my way to Cwm Idwal. The last time I was here I was with Rufus, and we’d circumnavigated the lake with one of us paddling and splashing his way along the water’s edge and the other one, knowing his role, throwing stones. At one point Rufus had set off up the steep and winding steps that led into the Devil’s Kitchen route to Glyder Fawr. I’d had to stop him in the end as he was still recovering from a bout of Pancreatitis and I didn’t want him to over do things.

Today, I set off along the same route up into the narrow cleft in the sheer mountainside. From the lake, it’s very difficult to see the route and it looks as if ropes and climbing gear will be required. But close up there is a path amongst the jumble of rocks and boulders that have fallen from the cliffs, albeit one that fades in and out of clarity even as you are walking it. The steps from boulder to boulder are high and it makes for hard going as it’s difficult to get into a rhythm. This morning it was made harder by the ice that had formed where water was seeping onto the path and the verglas on the rocks , which was impossible to see. I only knew it was there when my boots failed to grip and I went flying. The first of three slips due to difficult conditions.

Behind me, Cwm Idwal and the lake slowly lit up and behind them, Pen yr Ole Wen shone brightly in the morning sun. Ahead, the shadows made spotting slippery rocks even harder. I plodded on slowly, straining to reach the next rock step and holding on it case it was icy. Around me, trickles of ice clung to rock faces and icicles threatened to drop as the sun began to melt them. Far below, I could hear the voices of walkers and climbers, mostly hidden by the twisting and confused path.

After what seemed like hours, but was just under and hour, I reached the first proper patch of snow. It was frost hardened and the steps of yesterday’s climbers provided good foot holds. Although I’d brought crampons with me, I hadn’t felt the need to use them as from the start point there seemed to be little snow on the mountain tops, and they were in the car. I carefully made my way across the snow and up to the dry stone wall that marks the end of the big steps and the transition to less steep inclines. Here there was more snow, which was easy to navigate and I was soon in the little cwm with the lake where I had planned to take a break and plan my route up onto the summit.

I sat and stocked up on calories, and the sun kept me warm as I scanned the side of the mountain looking for the path I’d used last time. I spotted a steep gully filled with scree and snow, which seemed the obvious path upwards and it was this that I made for to start the final ascent. The sun disappeared as I started and it went a little chilly. It was much steeper than I first thought and walking on scree was tiring. Some of it was frozen solid and this made progress a little better but every now and then, I’d step on a patch that had thawed and my footing would go. This section of the climb was just hard work without the rewards of new views and I found it very tough. It was difficult to find a stable spot to rest and so I tried to keep going to get it over and done with. As the slope began to ease, and as the sun popped back into view, I came across a large expanse of snow. It was too steep to walk safely on and I wished I’d brought the crampons. But I traversed to the right to an outcrop of rock and made my way along a snow free section until the slope eased off completely. Now all that was left was a short scrabble over rocky ground and the summit was mine.

These rocks, shattered by the repeated freezing and thawing of water in cracks, define the top of the Gylders. It’s an alien landscape of sharp, pointed crags in between which is a carpet of weathered stones. There was a thick frost of the rocks which made them treacherous but at least I could see the slippery patches and I was able to avoid them. To my right, Snowdon and Crib Goch stood out from the haze and to my left, beyond Glyder Fawr’s summit was Tryfan and Glyder Fach. I still had to be careful where I stepped but the summit is flat and it was pleasant walking in the bright, warm sunshine. Every now and then a wind would pick up but just as quickly it would drop again. I took my time walking between the towering crags, which all had snow piled up against them in deep drifts. Ahead, overlooking the Nameless Cwm, a long crescent of corniched snow overhung the vertical drop and I made sure to avoid going anywhere near it.

Without warning, a strong, cold Easterly wind started to blow and the top became much harsher. It was time to go back down. I followed roughly the route I’d taken up but avoided the steep gully by using the path I should have taken, which was longer but less steep and better underfoot. I managed to reach the cwm quickly and stopped to have a flask of soup to prepare me for the drop down through the Devil’s Kitchen again. By now there wwere lots of people making their way up and my descent was slowed by stopping to talk to people, to share the conditions on top and to generally chat about how fine a day it was. By the time I reached the path around the lake I was tired and aching but the worst of the descent was over. While I still had to be careful as the icy paths hadn’t thawed, I could spend more time enjoying the surroundings and appreciating how wonderful this place really is.

Just before I reached the main road, an RAF Hawk jet screamed over head as it negotiated the tight turn around Pen yr Ole Wen and headed off down the Nant Ffrancon valley towards Angelsey and its home. I trudged wearily back along the road and slumped into the car. It had been a long day. I’d been walking for more than 6 hours, covering 7.5 miles and climbing to just under 1000m.

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Falling water

I’m a sucker for waterfalls, as you may know if you’ve read other posts in this blog. I love the challenge of doing something new with the many waterfalls I’ve photographed (and I’ve snapped away at most of the local ones over the years). But sometimes, I just want to lose myself in the taking of the pictures and create something that I really like.

Today, I was in the right kind of mood to just spend time enjoying the picture making process. It was a cold, crisp morning and there was no one around at the two sites I chose to visit. I’ve been to both before but not for a while. Henrhyd falls are situated at the bottom of a narrow but deep valley at the southern end of Fforest Fawr, right on the edge of ‘waterfall country’. The hard sandstone has been undercut by the river to form a 27m waterfall. It;s the highest in south Wales.  The Romans were nearby, with the remains of a fort and camp around a mile away. It’s tempting to think that Romans visited the area; waterfalls were mysterious and magical places in prehistory and inevitably stories would have grown up around the area. In more recent history, Henrhyd was the location for the entrance to the Batcave in ‘The Dark Knight Rises’.

From the car park there is a short but steep path down to the Nant Llech river, which feeds into the Tawe a few miles further along. Across the river, a set of slippery wooden steps lead back up the other side of the valley until the path stops at the waterfall. It was muddy underfoot but the waterfall wasn’t in full spate. I prefer it in this state as the final images can be quite delicate. I used my tripod as a walking pole to negotiate the slimy rocks and managed to find some interesting viewpoints. I started using a10 stop ND filter but the exposure times I was getting were in the order of four to five minutes and the waterfall was largely in shade. So I switched to a 3 stop filter and started making the images.

I also decided to use a high dynamic range technique as the difference between the shadows in the rocks and the highlights on the water was too much for the sensor. This meant I was standing around enjoying the waterfall for minutes at a time and it was cold out of the sun. But I liked the results I was getting so it was worth every moment.

The climb back to the car was much steeper than the descent and I was out of breath by the time I got to the car. Birds were watching me as I walked, jumping from branch to branch just in front of me. Two even landed on a tree trunk within a few feet of me, as if they knew I didn’t have the energy to chase them.

Next on my list for the morning was Melincourt. This waterfall is further down the Neath valley and is where the river Neath has cut away at softer underlying rocks to form a drop of 24m from a lip of harder sandstone. Turner painted the falls in 1794 and it has been drawing visitors every since. Today, it was my turn. Once again, I had to negotiate slippery rocks and this time I set up at the edge of the water so I also had to be careful where I stepped. Cold, wet feet are not the ideal way of waiting for long exposures to be made.

Walking back tot he car along the narrow path reminded me of the easier parts of the base camp treks I’d done; cold, clear mornings and a busy river only a foot slip away down the slope. Fortunately, there were no yaks to push me over.

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A walk on the worm

Rufus had his physiotherapy walk early this morning, around a still and mirror like Broadpool. Apart from the odd car, the silence was broken only by birdsong and the occasional call of a cow to it’s calf.

Back home, it was a quick turnaround for me as I had decided to walk out to Worm’s Head this morning. As Rufus is making his recovery, I am trying to get in some activities that he wouldn’t be able to join me on regardless of his state of health. The walk out to Worm’s Head is over jagged, rocky outcrops and there is scrambling involved as well and no matter how fit Rufus is, there are sections I wouldn’t make him tackle for fear of broken bones.

It was a perfect walking day as I set off from the car park at Rhossili. A coach load of young tourists had just emptied out into the car park and I was determined to get ahead of them in case they were also planning on crossing to the Worm, as getting stuck behind them on any of the rocky crossings would make it even harder going.

At the Coastguard hut, I checked the causeway opening times although I’d already figured out that I had until just before 3pm based on the high tide time. Sure enough, the figures confirmed it was open now and until 2.50pm. I set off down the well worn path of red earth towards the rocks and the start of the causeway.

There is no set path. You pick your own route based on whim. Last time I was here I remember seeing a large anchor seemingly embedded in the rock (although I guess it was partly buried by barnacles and other more modern detritus as it couldn’t have been there long enough to become part of the rocks). Sure enough, there it was  but a lot more prominent than I remembered it.

A few minutes of careful picking between pools, shells, rocks worn smooth by the action of the sea later, I was making my way up onto the welcome grassy slopes of the inner worm. The wind that was blowing was cooling without being cold and the sun was warm on my back. The views back towards Rhossili were already spectacular and would only get better as I went on. I climbed the short incline to the top of the little ridge and walked along with a sharp drop to sea on my right.

I could hear an occasional mournful sound and looking over and down to the rocks below, I saw several grey seals basking in the warm sunshine. Every so often, one would call to no one in particular. It was a haunting sound. In the dark of night it would sound eerie and otherworldly.

I walked on and down to the little causeway between the inner and middle islets. This is a difficult section as the limestone rocks are sharp and there are deep crevices ready to catch and unwary ankle or twist a vulnerable knee. Again, there is no set route and it’s best just to take your time and keep checking every few steps to make sure you’re on track. This is what I did and despite a few twinges from my left knee, I managed to negotiate the rocks and reach the next part of the route. Again, a short climb got me to the top of the middle part of the Worm. On the right as I walked along, a small archway of rock provided a glimpse of the sea to the north. Dropping down to a little natural platform beneath the arch I could see down onto the north shore and more basking seals. As I watched, a small seal dragged itself out of the water onto the basking rock, to the warning grunts from a big seal protecting her pup. All was resolved when the intruder settled on a different part of the rock.

The next obstacle was the sea arch, part of a collapsed sea cave. The route over is solid but narrow in parts and a gusty wind blows through here. It wasn’t too bad today but I’ve heard tell of times when it’s almost been enough to knock you off your feet. I managed the crossing with little trouble and found myself on the final stretch to the head of the Worm.

This becomes a steep but thankfully short scramble. I wasn’t worried by this prospect but the last time I scrambled up rock was at Little Lent Hill on the way to climb Kilimanjaro, 18 months ago. I needn’t have worried and a couple of minutes of ‘three points of contact’ got me to the top. And, of course, it was all worthwhile. the 360 degree views were magnificent.

I set the camera up to take a couple of selfies on the timer and then sat down to enjoy the views. Not long after, I was joined by a couple for whom English was not their first language. Nevertheless, I gave and got a cheery ‘morning’ and after they’d taken the obligatory selfies, they left me to my seclusion again.

It had taken me 90 minutes to reach the end of Worm’s Head and I had plenty of time before the causeway closed. Every year, people are stranded on the headland after leaving it too late and there are deaths as people try to cross when the tide is rising; there is a strong undercurrent that will easily knock you off your feet once the causeway is covered by water.

I strolled back, using the low level paths as the higher ones seemed to be congested with visitors to the headland. The wind was a little stronger as I reached the jagged rocks of the little causeway but for some reason travelling in this direction was easier. I could see a rough route that seemed smoother than the one I used earlier and so it was, although it took me quite close to the sheer drop on the north side of the headland. Then it was a simple walk down to the main causeway and the crossing back to the mainland.

Back on dry land, as it were, I stood and watched a group of people in the sea far below the cliff tops as they threw a frisbee back and forth. What fascinated me were the four  dogs in the water with them charging back and forth trying to get the frisbee. They seemed to be having enormous fun splashing and swimming around, judging by the barking and wagging of tails. On top of the cliffs, the path was filling up as more people spilled out of the car park and walked towards the headland.

I was glad to be going back to the car now there were crowds around as one of the draws of getting out for me is the solitude. I trudged back to the car, ready to jump in and drive off. But on my right was an ice cream van and I succumbed to the temptation of the siren call of the diesel generator keeping the ice cream cold. The perfect end to a walk on the Worm.

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How does the sun cut his hair?

Eclipse!

Sorry. Over the last few days, the weather has been good enough and the evenings just long enough for Rufus and I to head out to Cefn Bryn after work for a stroll. Every time, there has been a beautiful sunset. I love sunsets (I love sunrises even more). In many photographic circles, they are considered cliched and unworthy, but I don’t move in those circles and so I keep taking my cliches, and enjoying them too.

At sunset, things start to calm down.  Apart from traffic noise, which isn’t intrusive on Cefn once you are out of sight of the road, it gets quiet, and usually still as the wind drops. The light is less intense, shadows are longer and the orange glow makes things appear warmer than they really are. There has been a haze on the last few evenings which has the effect of softening colours and turning everything into pastel shades. And when the sun finally reaches the horizon, it is a deep red colour.

Staying with the sun, there was an eclipse on the 20th, and where I live the moon covered around 90% of the sun. With the help of a welder’s mask and a variable density filter (thanks Pete), I was able to view and get some photos. It was eerie as the skies slowly darkened and when I went to the window in the office, there was a great mix of people all standing to witness the event using a variety of filters, some of which seemed distinctly dodgy. But more importantly, it brought a load of people of all ages and roles together more effectively than any scheduled meeting.

Outside, it was chilly and the shadows were odd. Being used to sunsets coming from the west, it was odd to see the different direction of light as it faded. I can just imagine what the people from thousands of years ago must have thought when their source of heat and light disappeared. And the relief when it started getting warmer and brighter again.

Today, as a reward for behaving at the vet when he had his vaccinations (he always does, but today he had a couple of compliments on how well behaved he was and how healthy he looked), Rufus had two walks. We started off at Broadpool where we were watched intensely by a solitary Canada Goose, who called over and over again. But Rufus didn’t want to play. Then we headed on up to the River Tawe, where despite my best efforts to fall in the river while jumping across between rocks, we climbed up to the waterfalls on the west side of the valley. Compared to last week, when I could barely move from the sofa, I felt so much better. Add to that the warm sun, which made it feel like a summer’s day, and watching Rufus bounding between and over tufts of grass or paddling in the water, and it was a most enjoyable morning.

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Lost Again

Last year, Rufus and I climbed Garreg Lwyd in the mist. Mist doesn’t normally bother me other than when I lose Rufus in it. But he knows where I am and while I’d be straining to spot him, he is usually sneaking up behind me. I can hear the metal rings on his collar clinking together sometimes, which helps. This particular time, Rufus and I kept close together and we walked from Garreg Lwyd to Foel Fraith and back. But on the short descent from Garreg Lwyd back to the car we got lost. When I checked the GPS track later, it was amazing to see how I’d strayed almost in a ‘U’turn back towards Foel Fraith.

This morning, we headed back to Garreg Lwyd and, typically, it was under a heavy blanket of cloud again. This time I was careful to make sure that the GPS track was working from the start so I had a reference point should I get lost again. It was hard to say how much visibility there was as there are very few landmarks to judge by on this mountain. The climb up, not too strenuous, reminded me of the terrain on my first Munro – Maol Chearnn Deag. There were lots of limestone boulders making picking a route hard,. I was conscious of Rufus’ small paws and I didn’t want him to struggle, but he was picking his own way over the rocks far more confidently that I was. His four paw drive made light work of the slippery surfaces.

Just before we reached the cairns, a figure loomed in front of us. A fellow walker, faint in the mist, passed close by and I guessed that the limit of visibility was about 20 yards. I don’t think he saw us. Shortly afterwards, I reached a line of rocks and I knew that by heading left (north) I would hit the cairns. Sure enough, in a couple of minutes, the large main cairn rose from the mist and in front of it was the trig point. This one seemed to be made of local stone and nearby was an older, collapsed trig point pillar.

We didn’t linger at the cairn and instead made our way a little further to the East. It was hard to notice the downward incline without reference points but as soon as I recognised it, we turned to head back to the cairns. Rufus was doing a fine job of spotting the easier paths, and he was also keeping within visual distance of me. Heading back in what I thought was the same route towards the cairns, we eventually passed them on the left – they should have been on the right. Even within 100 yards or so, I was becoming disorientated.

I checked the tracker and, keeping an eye on the path, we set off back towards the car. We were off track and we ended up passing through a wide boulder field. Even Rufus paused to check his footing but had no trouble crossing it. I tried to guide him along easier routes, but he kept heading back to the rocks as if he enjoyed the challenge. Our path ran parallel to the one we took coming up and that was fine for me. I knew we wouldn’t emerge on some precipice this way. As we descended, the mist thinned until eventually, I could see the main road and then the car park.

The point of today was to test my knee on longer ascents and descents. so instead of jumping in the car, we decided to explore the quarry. Herbert’s Quarry provide limestone for building and farming up until the 1930s. I’ve been here a number of times and I’m always taken by the exposure of the quarry to the elements. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to work here – walking here for pleasure is tough enough in the winter!

We walked over the workings, along little paths and up the sides of spoil heaps. We left the quarry behind and walked along a sheep track towards Foel Fraith for a while until we started encountering the hill fog again. After a brief rest stop, we turned back for the car. But we were distracted on the way back by little outcrops of rock and the views north, where the hill fog ended and the sun was shining. Well, I was, Rufus was interested in the myriad scents blowing on the wind.

Back home, there was much sleeping. And my knee seemed to have survived the ordeal. The route we took can be seen here.

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I must go down to the sea again…

I have a confession to make. I spent the morning looking for bathroom tiles. I’m sorry. I should have been out climbing mountains, racing cars or saving kittens. I don’t know what came over me. Promise you won’t think any less of me? Please?

But this afternoon, despite the driving rain and storms lashing … er, well some light drizzle, I headed back down to Mumbles to get some more photos of the beach and waves. I had nothing in mind, and in fact I was feeling decidedly uninspired as I walked up to Bracelet Bay. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather so I guess it was that. But as soon as I’d made my way down to the beach, I started to see picture opportunities and the camera therapy kicked in. I spent an enjoyable hour snapping away at anything that interested me. 

I’ve said before that photography is a means by which I find relaxation and it’s one of the ways I de-stress (not distress, which would be wrong).  Today was a classic example of how it can take over and lift my spirits. Not that I was particularly down. I just need a bit of a lift. Maybe it was because I couldn’t find the tiles I wanted… er… I mean couldn’t do the football-drinking-man things I wanted to do.

I was particularly fascinated by the waves breaking on the shore. I was using my ultra wide angle lens (10mm at the wide end) and getting the camera down close to the water. So close, in fact, that there were splashes of foam on the lens that I had to keep cleaning off. I managed to avoid getting it (and myself) soaked, though. You can see from the photos below that there was a lot of ‘oh, that looks good, I’ll snap that’ randomness going on. Sometimes that’s how it goes.

I have another confession to make. I’ll probably be out looking for tiles again tomorrow. Be kind in your judgement. 

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