I woke up and the dog had gone. She had cuddled up close to me in our lightweight tent, in fact I had to fight to get any of the sleeping mat. The previous evening I had driven up into the hills west of Dolgellau, and then walked through managed Woodland Trust forest of Cwm Mynach, and then wild-camped in an isolated spot next to a shallow lake below old Manganese mine works.
Frida had taken herself out for her morning dump in the undergrowth, and after I had made tea I followed her example. Wild camping always feels a bit daring , even when it is freely permitted as on Dartmoor.
Weather good, so decided to tackle Cadair Idris, which looms over the valley of Dolgellau. At 900 m it does not sound particularly high, but is a stiff climb to a dramatic plateau.
We set off – Frida having no idea that we had around 6 hours heavy walking ahead of us, and so she ran around with her usual enthusiasm. As we got up to the moor, we met a farmer on his quad-bike who was charming, told me about his prize sheep, and offered to walk with me and show me a shorter route than my deluded plan.
Plodded on in the heat, dog running all ways, panting. Kept on offering her water.
Just kept on going up, looking up at the peak, suffering false horizons, then finally got up on the ridge to extraordinary view in all directions.
Had only met one walker on my route, but then it became much busier as we walked along the ridge – families, dogs, children – and it was quite crowded at the very top, although this meant that someone could take our photo.
Then a choice. A gentler and popular route, or straight down the steep scree to the fine-looking lake below, a route known as Fox’s Path – afterwards I read in Wikipedia that it has been heavily eroded in recent years making the descent dangerous. I had decided that if others were going straight down, then I would too. So when I saw a man with two small children set off, I joined them. I slid some of the way, fell over three times, and even Frida seemed a bit daunted at times.
Got down in less than two pieces, and into beautiful Llyn y Gadair for a swim. Cold. Very cold. So not a long swim. But tricky to communicate how impressive, and elemental, it was.
Then a perfect descent, long, gentle, through gorse and bracken that reminded me of North Devon. A final couple of miles along quiet roads, striking my stick in time with my usual wartime marching songs – I Don’t Want to Join the Army (obscene), Tipperary, Pack up your Troubles, Goodbyee, plus of course Jerusalem (although always forget the exact words). Promising my hot, tired, loyal and patient dog that we would stop at the first pub. And we did, and it was dog friendly, and serving the popular new product – dog ice-cream.
Then a quick stop for one-pan stir-fry ingredients, and back to the camp-site with an exhausted dog, and a rather decent French rosé. We slept well, and agreed to share the camping mat.
