A View From The Bridge

by D. J. Farrant

As a child I seemed to have an instinctive love of mountains, despite living in a flat part of coastal Lancashire, and I cherished our outings to the famous hill regions. In my last year at school I had a week’s mountaineering in the Lakes and then, on coming down from University in 1959,1 took my first job in Brecon with superb country on the doorstep. I was up on the main plateau of the Beacons in the first few weeks, and came to love this area very deeply.

In 1962 I had the fortune to move to another teaching post at St Bees and forthe next four years I indulged in a spree of climbing, ascending all the Lakeland peaks. The experts introduced me to both rock climbing and winter mountaineering, and I was most fortunate to be there in the hard winters of 1963 and 1964, when snow and ice conditions were absolutely magnificent.

The memories of this time come flooding back: a winter day when we walked across both Loweswater and Derwentwater on the ice; an ascent of a snow gully on the East face of Helvellyn, which began with a walk across the frozen Red Tarn; superb conditions on Central Gully on Great End; an ascent of Deep Ghyll, which took for ever and ended near the summit of Scafell in almost total darkness. Of course there were also the marvellous summer days when we climbed on warm, firm rock and I enjoyed some of the classic routes: Chamonix, Corvus, Ash Tree Slabs, Scafell Pinnacle, Kern Knotts Corner, Tophet Wall. I was also thrilled bysomeof the classic scrambles — Jack’s Rake, Sharp Edge and Broad Stand. Perhaps the greatest joy, though, was the ascent of Napes Needle, the place where English rockclimbing virtually began with Haskett-Smith’s epic solo ascent in 1886. The mantle-shelf is a wonderful moment, and the final few moves are delicate and airy indeed — but what a sensation as one stands on the top and gently rocks the pillar from side to side!

It was at this time that Richard Gowing, an old Oxford friend, also living in West Cumberland, kindly proposed me for membership of the YRC, and I attended my first meet at Mungrisdale in 1964. Much fun was had by all. The conviviality was infectious and I have rather hazy memories of our esteemed former treasurer buying endless rounds of whiskies as the evening progressed.

I had by now drawn up my own list of Lakeland peaks and reckoned to have completed them in the summer of 1965 before moving off to a new appointment in Edinburgh, which enabled me to get to grips with first the Munros (completed in 1974) and then the Donalds (in 1978).

During these 13 years in Scotland I made a number of trips to both English and Welsh mountain regions (frequently on Club meets), but in 1973 I bought George Bridge’s book, The Mountains of England and Wales, which set out to produce a catalogue of all the peaks of 2,000 feet and over in both countries, following a similar ruling for inclusion to that used in Munro’s Tables. I decided to accept Bridge’s list as the definitive one — he also makes the distinction between separate mountains and mere tops — but, if one includes all the tops, Bridge’s tally is 240 in England (including Snaefell on the Isle of Man) and 168 in Wales, for a grand total of 408.1 thought at the time it would be nice to collect them all, and ticked off virtually all the Lakeland peaks (though he had identified a few I had missed) and a few others in different regions, which I had climbed over the years. Some of these sorties to collect outliers were full of interest, including a misty day on Dartmoor finding High Willhays and Yes Tor and at one moment having the eerie sensation of being surrounded by huge, grey, ghostly shapes, which turned out to be the moorland ponies.

Bridge’s regional division is interesting, as it highlights the significantly different characteristics of the mountains. The Cheviots have their own rounded, grassy shape — but what a wild plateau crowns the top of the Cheviot itself! The Pennines are for dry, clear days, when you can walk along rather barren, broad hillsides without too many navigation problems; the big Yorkshire peaks havetheirown special charm, particularly when one walks across the great limestone pavements; the tops of Kinder Scout and Bleaklow present almost impossible navigation problems in thick weather, as one stumbles from a heathery tussock into a glutinous peatbog. For all the awful days, when one had trudged onwards in blinding rain or howling gale to a summit which never seemed to be at the top of the next rise, there have been the absolute gems, when it has been a privilege to enjoy the beauty of our mountains on sunlit, summer days or crisp, clear winter mornings, when the views have been diamond-sharp.

There was a day in the summer of 1975 when we did the main horseshoe of Cader Idris, when it must have been 90 degrees in the valley. There was not a breath of air until we reached the ridge, but what a noble walk this becomes! Cader is a magnificent mountain from any approach and, when we finally strolled down through the high ferns in the late afternoon, we found a glorious pool in the river, in which we wallowed like a pair of contented hippos.

The contrast with this would perhaps be an ascent of the Snowdon Horseshoe in December 1962, when the temperature must have been 70 degrees colder than the day on Cader. The mountains were absolutely ice-bound and, although we had axes and a rope, we would certainly have benefited from crampons as well. The steep Western face of Lliwedd was just about possible but the traverse of Crib Goch in the afternoon was high drama. It was absolute knife-edge, with the recognition that, if one of us fell, the only tactic would be for the other to jump down the opposite side. It was while making this traverse that I witnessed the most remarkable phenomenon which I have ever seen on the mountains: with a mixture of strong sunlight and thin cloud cover above us ourtwo shadows were suddenly vividly thrown across the valley on to the slopes of the Glyders, encircled in the concentric rings of the spectrum. Two superbly delineated Bracken Spectres surrounded by the Glory. It was quite breathtaking, and indeed rather eerie, making one think of the supposed sight of the Crosses just before the fatal fall of Whymper’s party on the Matterhorn. The shadows remained outlined for the full length of the level part of the ridge — well over five minutes — and even now it remains one of my most astonishing personal experiences.

Club meets have figured quite tellingly in a number of these expeditions, especially in Wales. What a magnificent circuit it is to climb Tryfan by the North Ridge, to move on to the Glyders via the Bristly Ridge and return to Ogwen! Derek Clayton and I enjoyed this one summer day, and ended by having to rescue two youngsters, who had gone off route above the Devil’s Kitchen and become cragfast. There was a very wild and wet expedition up Moel Siabod one Easter and a much longer, more serene walk from Beddgelert over Moel Siabod to the Nantile Ridge and down to a high level camp with George Spenceley and Tony Smythe — nine hours, and it felt like every minute of it!

Thus gradually in recent years the target number has reduced, and individual sections have been completed. The Burnhope Seat group took just three days of a Club meetatMiddleton-in-Teesdale, whereas the huge Cross Fell group required a number of different trips. The finest of these was undoubtedly the circuit of Long Fell, Little Fell, Mickle Fell and Murton Fell on a lovely spring day. Mickle Fell is one of those very attractive and remote mountains which offers a tremendous view because of its central position, but is often inaccessible because of firing on the Army ranges. The military are very co-operative, however, and willingly inform you on which days free and safe access can be made. The final walk up the steep dome and across the springy, grass plateau to the triangulation pillar on Mickle Fell is delightful, and the view across to the Lakes in the West, to Cross Fell nearer to hand and down to the main Yorkshire peaks to the South-east is most impressive.

After Mickle Fell there were just three left in England: Long Crag (beside Mickle Fell) and two remote Cheviots, Bloodybush Edge and Cushat Law. To approach the latter I drove up from Teesdale — in itself a fair exercise in cross-country navigation — and again had to encounter large groups of men in khaki in various forms of intensive training. I drove up the Uswayford road as far as possible and then left the car and resigned myself to a long trek to the base of the hill. Suddenlythe post van appeared, however, and I struck an amiable bargain with the local postie — a lift up to the farm in return for hopping out and opening all the gates. I had a quick chat with the farmer and his wife — how mentally strong you must be to I ive on you r own up here with the nearest neighbou rs about five miles away over the green drove-road in a different country! The route from here was now fairly simple and the two Cheviots were duly claimed.

Thus I came to the last peak, Long Crag, which I left until early August. This also involves a long walk in from the road to the Close House Mine, but my good fortune struck again, as a land-rover bou need its way along the track and the factor asked me how long I was going to be walking in the area, as the grouse season was about to start. I assured him that I was aware of the significance of the 12th of August and had no intention of being shot (in the Pennines, if the Army doesn’t get you, the landowners always seem to have a second chance). They were going up to inspect the butts — did I want a lift? Well, yes I did, which again made a long, unexciting walk rather less arduous. When I thanked them for their kindness, the ridge and plateau were not too far away, but the actual summit lay inside the dreaded range boundary. I moved circumspectly beyond the red notices and found the final cairn without any shells whizzing about my head.

So that was the English peaks completed: from Great Gable in April 1955 to Long Crag in August 1990 — an immensely pleasurable and rewarding 35-year odyssey. The Welsh peaks had been dwindling as well, but there were still quite a few of these to be claimed. At least with my present home on the Derbyshire-Staffordshire border, Wales is quite accessible, and I have recently enjoyed becoming acquainted with some of the lesser-known Welsh ranges, such as the Arans, the Berwyns, the Arennigs and Rhinogs. They all contain some superb mountains and I have had some memorable days in each region. The sharply notched ridge of Arrenig Fawr is a fine walk, and on the summit is the poignant memorial to eight American airmen killed in a Flying Fortress crash in the summer of 1943 — a sad thought in such a lovely spot, but what a beautiful last resting-place!

Quite afew of the Berwyns are rather dull, but the central section makes a fine walk. I set out from Tyn-y-Ffridd to walk the horseshoe on a glorious winter day with a considerable fall of snow on the hill. The Eastern side makes a good ridge walk but the best bit is when one turns North to climb the main summits of Cadair Berwyn and Moel Sych. In between the two is a little rocky outcrop, which the Ordnance Survey cartographers have apparently missed, and it is believed that in the next edition of the map a new peak, possibly called Craig Uchaf, will be shown at 2,733 feet, 20 feet higher than the other two and thus the principal peak in the range. The route off this section down the Western shoulder is steep indeed, and requires considerable care, but it makes a most satisfying day.

The main ridge of the Arans is also a superb high level walk, all the better if one has transport at both ends and can start from Cwm Cywarch and gain the height from this beautifully shaped, steep valley before completing a South-north traverse. Sometimes strangers are not welcome on these hills, though, and the region has had a long history of tortuous access negotiations, and to avoid confrontation it is better to stick to the permitted tracks. Aran Fawddwy and Aran Benl lyn are both over 2,900 feet and the former is the highest peak in Wales outside the main Snowdonia area, so they are in themselves worthy of great respect.

Mid- and South Wales have great charm as well. The circuit of Pumlumon is a very rewarding walk with superb views almost the length and breadth of Wales. The four peaks in the Radnor Forest offer a pleasant ramble (with another chance of getting shot in the cartridge-testing range on the South side); and I yield to none in my love of the Brecon Beacons and Black Mountains. If you start beside the show caves at Dan yr Ogof, there is a marvellous walk upon to Bannau Brycheiniogand Bannau SirGaer, which also have the huge precipitous cut-off on the Northern face, which is such a feature of the Beacons. If you then strike back across the moor towards the road, there is a jewel of a tarn just below the main escarpment. It is circular and almost surrounded by steep cliffs and provides the perfect place for a swim on a hot day. Also I defy anyone to take the walk through Cwmgwdi and up on to the summit of Pen-y-Fan without marvelling at the beauty of our British landscape.

Another attractive walk is above the reservoirs in the Elan Valley on to the summits of Gorllwyn and Drygarn Fawr. These are a long way apart, and it is quite a bog-slog between them, but when I was there last May not only did I hear my first cuckoo in what had been a worryingly poor year for these harbingers of summer but, after years of seeking, at last I saw my first red kite — dark at the curved wing-tip, bronze in the sunshine with the distinctive forked tail and rusty-red colouring. My joy was complete that day as I was fortunate to have three further sightings, including one where the bird floated not more than 50 feet above me.

By this time I was coming down to the last five Rhinogs. I had already been on the summits at the Northern and Southern ends of this fascinating ridge and had enjoyed the final scramble up to Moel Ysgyfarnogod from the farm beyond Trawsfynydd. However, the real essence of the central regions remained for discovery in the middle of August 1991. The first day was absolutely filthy: a strong wind, driving rain and no visibility, but I set out anyway to climb Diffwys at the Southern end of the ridge. Navigation was a little tricky, as I kept intertwining with the famous Rhinog Wall, which snakes its way over most of this range and is described as the longest wall in Wales. Eventually I reached the ridge, which is very steep, and, as I plodded up section after section after section, I felt that surely one day the summit would be just beyond the next rise. Eventually I found the trig, point, seemingly hiding behind the wall, so I retreated, glad only to have added the peak to my list and happy at getting down to the car to find some dry clothing.

I watched the TV weather forecast that evening without much enthusiasm, as it still seemed to be blowing a gale, but to my surprise a large red sun was firmly fixed over the middle of Wales for the morrow. And so it turned out. I drove into Cwm Nantcol from Dyff ryn Ardudwy and set off just after 10 am on a warm, sparkling morning. I made good progress up on to Crib-y-Rhiw and Y Llethr and then saw the full magnificence of this range spread out before me. The sun was gleaming on the waters of Cardigan Bay to the West, and there was a clear view from Harlech round to Porthmadog, Criccieth and the whole of the Lleyn Peninsula out to Bardsey Island. To the South and East lay Cader Idris and the Arans, then towards the North the Arennigs and into the main Snowdonia peaks. But what magnificent walking the Rhinogs are for only 2300 feet! Every mountain is extremely steep-sided with huge drops in between — the surface is almost entirely rock with ferns the only vegetation, cunningly concealing huge, unstable boulders. No wonder it is called the toughest mountain region in the country! It would bow in severity only to the Rough Bounds of Knoydart and that only because the latter peaks are higher and less accessible. This is real tiger-country. The descent from Y Llethr to the col just above the beautiful Llyn Hywel is treacherously steep grass, where even in a dry summer it was necessary to proceed with extreme caution. The following ascent of Rhinog Fach is more of a rock scramble than a walk, and is vastly more entertaining than a long, grassy plod. I stopped on the summit for some refreshment, and wondered whether life had anything fairer to offer: gentle warmth, so that I wore only a thin shirt, the superb view all around, magnificent mountains and there, far above, wheeling and plunging at howling speed, a peregrine, the ultimate refinement of the mastery of flight.

The descent from Rhinog Fach to the col is so steep that I did not take the direct route and the height loss is enormous. It took me almost an hour to get to the pass, and I can imagine what a nightmare it must be to get off this mountain in bad weather. The final ascent of Rhinog Fawr was again almost a rock climb — never difficult but always requiring considerable agility. I got up on to the summit dome and grasped the cairn with a great sense of fulfilment. My first Welsh peak had been Corn Du in October 1959, so that these ascents had also taken over 30 years until August 1990. Even to get down off Rhinog Fawr without threatening life or limb is an adventure in itself, but eventually I reached the valley after a memorable seven-hour day, grateful to have saved the best wine until last and for being granted such beautiful conditions to savour it.

When one completes an exhaustive (and exhausting) table, such as Munro’s or Bridge’s, there is always the feeling of “What next?” I think in my case I shall be very happy to climb any of Britain’s mountains again, either alone or with anyone who cares to join me. There will be so many peaks which I really look forward to climbing again, and maybe now I can be a little more selective. I feel that I have been immensely fortunate to have had the time, the resources, the health and the good companions to help me on my way, and am glad too that each experience is safely recorded in my climbing diaries to be read over again with great satisfaction when I get to the point when mountaineering can be only a memory.

Oh, by the way, I haven’t been to the Isle of Man to claim Snaefell yet.