My Welsh County Peaks Odyssey: A Triumph of (Mis)Adventure
The Challenge Begins (March 26th, 2022)
Having stumbled through the COVID years with a distinct lack of personal goals (aside from mastering the art of sourdough baking and perfecting my Netflix queue), I was struggling to find something, anything, to reignite my sense of purpose. One night, while spiralling down the rabbit hole of Instagram, I came across a post about climbing the highest peak in every county of the UK. A spark ignited. While conquering the entire UK seemed a bit ambitious (for a man who considered walking to the fridge a significant athletic achievement), I figured I could at least tackle the Welsh leg. Besides, after months of lockdown-induced inertia, I desperately needed a challenge, even if it was one that involved voluntarily scaling mountains.
But before I even took a single step, there was an issue: what exactly constitutes a Welsh county? There are the 22 administrative counties, dreamt up in 1996, or the 13 historic counties, steeped in history and legend. After a quick Google search (because who needs actual research when you have the internet?), I opted for the historic ones, mainly because there was a handy guide online. Let the games begin!
Where to begin indeed? The first peak that sprang to mind was my old friend, Pen y Fan in Brecknockshire. I've been up this mountain countless times, in every imaginable weather condition. Overnight for meteor showers and sunrises, in hail, snow, and thunderstorms – you name it, I've probably experienced it on Pen y Fan. But I don't think I'd ever been there for a sunset. So, I parked up and trotted up the well-worn path, snapped a quick photo at the summit, and retreated to the ridge to watch the sun dip below the horizon, casting long shadows on the twin peaks.
Southern Peaks and Trig Point Troubles
One peak down, twelve to go. Feeling confident (way too much), I set my sights on my home county of Glamorganshire. This involved a scenic drive to a viewpoint on the Blwch road between Hirwaun and Treorchy, followed by a walk along the ridgeline, past the top of the Zip World launching tower, and finally, to a hidden trig point. Map apps are a godsend; without them, finding this thing would have required a degree in mapmaking and the navigational skills of a bloodhound.
After locating the trig point, I decided to attempt the classic "standing on top of the trig point" pose. I've seen countless people do it, how hard could it be? Now, I'm not exactly what you'd call "athletic," and I'm not a small guy either. My first attempt resulted in me getting one foot on top, but with nothing to push against, I was basically stuck. This trig point was hidden away in the trees, off a forestry road. I hadn't seen a soul since passing the Zip World tower, so I was completely engrossed in my struggle to conquer this inanimate object. Imagine my surprise when a passing dog walker suddenly appeared, letting out a startled yelp. I don't know who was more scared, her, me, or her dog.
"Sorry!" she stammered, her face flushed, while her dog, having regained its bravery, barked wildly at me. I slid off the trig point in a very ungainly manner, hoping to convey that I wasn't some weirdo trying to molest the local landmarks. They walked away, and I made sure there weren't any other surprises lurking nearby.
Okay, second attempt. One foot on the trig point, the other pushing against the side, balance, weight forward, big push... success! Selfie, selfie, selfie. Never again. Getting down was another adventure in gracelessness, involving a jump that can only be described as a sloth attempting to dismount an iceberg. But I was down, and that's all that mattered. A stroll back to the car, and it was on to the next one. Only eleven more to go!
Next on my list was Plynlimon in Cardiganshire. It was a cold April morning (April 1st, 2022), with snow on the ground. A bit further afield, not too high, but not one I would have considered climbing if it wasn't for this challenge. The guide I was following mentioned a car park with an honesty box, and I started the climb with no real expectations. It was an easy walk to the trig point, and the view from the top was breathtaking. Below me was the Nant y Moch reservoir, and beyond that, the vast expanse of Cardigan Bay. To the north, the outlines of the mighty mountains of Eryri (Snowdonia). To the south, smaller peaks, one of which must have been the Pembrokeshire peak, though I had no idea which one. And then I saw it: Pen y Fan, in the distance. I had passed it on the drive here, a good hour away, yet it looked so close. It was at that moment that the true appeal of this challenge hit me. To climb each peak, to trace the lines of the land in my mind, to see how the country was connected – it was an incredible opportunity.
Photos taken, I headed back to the car, filled with a newfound enthusiasm for the rest of the challenge. Bring on the next mountain!
After careful consideration (or, more accurately, a random stab at the map), Chwarel y Fan in Monmouthshire was my next target. This one was a bit odd. I parked at Llanthony Abbey and began climbing a steep path through ancient woodlands and fields, eventually emerging onto a ridge that stretched for miles. All around me were bigger mountains than the one I was on, which made me question how this could possibly be the highest peak. Surprisingly, there were more people up here than on the last two peaks. I reached the point marked as the summit, but there was no trig point, just a cairn. A bit disappointing, but a photo for Instagram would have to do. County number four, done.
But the day wasn't over yet. Since I was in the area, I decided to pop over to Radnorshire and bag the fifth county peak, Great Rhos. It was a late start, around 3 pm, and there was no convenient place to park, so I abandoned the car in a street in New Radnor and began a longer-than-expected walk. It was a pleasant enough stroll until I encountered a huge sign informing me that the firing range I'd been skirting around had been extended, and my map app was out of date. Fantastic.
Annoyed, I pressed on, climbing higher and higher, trying to follow the route I thought was permissible and would lead me to the trig point. I reached a gate with warning signs about explosive devices and live firing beyond. Another detour. I followed the fence line, battling through deep heather, swampy patches that threatened to claim my boots, and even a strange-looking plastic device that I gave a very wide berth. Finally, I reached the trig point, just in time for an unexpected onslaught of snow and hail. Cold doesn't even begin to describe it. I had envisioned a pleasant, dry day, but the weather had other ideas. There was no time to appreciate the view (not that there was much of one), so I hurried off the summit in the opposite direction, having spotted a better-marked path that should keep me out of the MOD danger zone.
As I descended, I could see more of the area, with the Brecon Beacons forming a wall to the south and the familiar shape of Pen y Fan in the distance. My teeth chattered, and my body throbbed with cold as I hurried down the hill, trying to warm up (April 8th, 2022). I got back to the car around 7 pm and noticed a waterfall on the map with an intriguing name: "Water-break-its-neck." Being so close, I had to check it out. The woodland was thick, covered in lichen and moss, and the waterfall was hidden up a gorge that could have been plucked straight from a Lord of the Rings film. Photo opportunity secured, I set off on the dark drive home, happy to have ticked off two more peaks.
Conquering the South (and Getting Lost in the Process)
I was making good progress, with only 2 peaks left in South Wales. One was Foel Cwmcerwyn in Pembrokeshire. I pulled up in the car park I'd chosen for this walk and, with misplaced confidence, headed straight for the highest point I could see, thinking I didn't need the map. Reaching the top much quicker than expected, I was greeted by a round, cotton reel-type stand that indicated all the things you could see from there and how far away they were: Llys y Frân Reservoir, Ramsey Island... and Foel Cwmcerwyn. Wait a minute...
In my eagerness to conquer this cliff, I had gone the wrong way straight from the car. Now I had to go back down and up another peak two miles away. Soul destroyed, I set off. The path to Foel Cwmcerwyn was like something out of a bog snorkelling competition. I always know there's a problem when the water is deeper than my boot. With a few squelchy steps, I found the trig point and was happy to take in the view of its surroundings. The Preseli Hills looked amazing, dotted with stones and monuments from the Bronze Age. I was pretty sure I could see Plynlimon to the north and Worms Head on the Gower Peninsula to the southwest. This adventure was turning into a geography lesson I wished I'd had in school. A return trip through the bog of doom, a change of footwear, and it was time to head home.
The last county peak in South Wales was Carmarthenshire and Fan Foel. A Good Friday (April 15th, 2022) seemed like a good day for a walk. I started the day with a trip up Pen y Fan to see the sunrise, hoping for a cloud inversion, but no such luck. So, I headed to the car park at Llyn y Fan Fach and prepared for a gentle stroll.
Past the fishery, I reached the lake. Take a right, and climb around the edge of the crater left by a melting glacier thousands of years ago. I'd climbed this before and only got so far before being swallowed by the clouds and had to give up. But this was a good day, clear air, not too hot, and enough daylight to walk for however long it was going to take. The path was a bit lumpy. After the initial climb, the track falls, climbs, falls away again, then climbs to Fan Foel. There's nothing to mark this peak, but there's a trig point a little further along at Fan Brycheiniog. I was sure that it was higher, so just to be safe, I headed over there to get a photo. It wasn't until later that I realised it was higher, but it was in a different county. Oops!
I decided to take the quickest route back to the car, which meant heading straight down the side of Fan Foel. My sideways stride and leaning-backwards-almost-to-the-point-of-falling-over technique came in handy. Back at the car, I was finally ready to tackle the northern half of Wales.
Northward Bound (May 23rd, 2022)
For this, I had a plan: take a week off, spend two nights away, and cover all five remaining peaks. In preparation, I scanned Instagram and asked for advice about two of the peaks that looked a bit nasty. The response I got was typical hiker bravado: "You'll be fine!", "It's an easy walk!" Lies, all lies!
My first northern peak was in Merionethshire, a mountain called Aran Fawddwy. If I'm honest, I was just glad Cader Idris wasn't on the list. This was in Eryri National Park but was much less travelled than the big beast I'd be hiking tomorrow. The day was dry but overcast, and fog lingered over the summits. There was always a possibility of it burning off, though. The guide I was following suggested a 7-mile circular walk, and who was I to argue?
The path meandered up a delightful valley, up a hill, down a bit, and back up to the summit of Aran Fawddwy. The wind was quite strong as I reached the peak, which was still shrouded in clouds. The trig point was situated on a steep cliff edge, and every now and then, the clouds would part, giving me a glimpse of a lake below, reminding me of Llyn y Fan Fach and Cadair Idris. I backtracked a few hundred metres and continued my circular route back to the car.
The descent was a gradual decline, mainly uneventful, except for a slip on some slippery rocks by a stream. I landed with a thud, my ankle slightly twisted, and realised there was quite a steep drop to my right. I hadn't seen anyone else all day, and the thought of being injured and stranded out there was not a pleasant one. I got to my feet and hobbled on, hoping the pain in my ankle would subside. Otherwise, the remaining four peaks would be in jeopardy. I returned to the car and continued with my plan, onward to Anglesey and Holyhead Mountain.
A few clouds in the sky, but a much better afternoon. I parked at South Stack and walked the pleasant gravel path to the peak. There were amazing seascapes all around, across the Irish Sea and Holyhead Harbour. I thought I could just about make out the Isle of Man and possibly even Ireland. A few photos, and it was back to South Stack. Only three more counties left!
Early the next morning, I was at the Pen-y-Pass car park for my ascent of Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon) in Caernarfonshire. As always for this mountain, I got an early start, 5:30 am, to avoid the crowds that would inevitably gather later. I reached the first lake before encountering another soul and was happy to see another person mad enough to be up at that hour. I continued the climb to the peak, which, as usual, was shrouded in clouds. Reaching the summit, I battled against the cold wind, took a quick selfie, and sheltered for a short break by the cafe. On my return journey, I enjoyed the looks of awe on the faces of the people climbing as I gleefully descended.
Later that morning, I arrived at Moel Famau in Flintshire. I'd done no research for this one, as it wasn't too high and not too far from the car park. I was greeted by a country park, a good car park, and an easy-to-follow track. At the top, another surprise: a viewing platform called Jubilee Tower. When I reached the top, there were little plaques around the tower, pointing out landmarks in every direction. On a clear day, you could see everything from Cadair Idris to Blackpool Tower. Hidden in a corner was the trig point, my true goal. Photo time, and then a nice stroll back to the car in the warm afternoon sun.
The Final Ascent (May 25th, 2022)
The next day, the last peak of this unusual adventure. I started at the car park for Pistyll Rhaeadr and, after a few essential photos of the highest waterfall in Wales, set off on my way. I planned to do a circular route here, one that had been described as "an easy walk" by an Instagram advisor. I zipped up the first stretch to the top of the waterfall and was already feeling the effects of the previous two days. This was going to be a slog.
Carefully plodding on, I walked through fields of bracken, following a barely-there path. This was part of the Berwyn Mountains, another range left over from the last ice age. Again, it was an area few people ventured to, and I had the mountains to myself. I climbed to what I hoped was the summit. It wasn't. There was another higher point a little further on. I reached that, and still no. This was Moel Sych, and I wanted Cadair Berwyn in Denbighshire, which involved a little dip and another climb to roughly the same height. Clouds blew over the summit, one minute it was clear, the next a whiteout. Finally, I reached my final trig point, and with it, the completion of my challenge. Below me, I could see the lake, Llyn Lluncaws, which translates to the rather wonderful "picture of cheese lake."
I abandoned my idea of the circular walk and went back the way I came. The steep, slippery path was looking far too treacherous for my aching body. I got back to the car, reflecting on the journey and the wonders of Wales I had witnessed.
It wasn't just about ticking off peaks on a list; it was about rediscovering a sense of adventure, pushing my boundaries (and my navigational skills), and appreciating the beauty and diversity of the land I call home. Maybe I wasn't the most prepared adventurer, maybe I took a few wrong turns (or several), and maybe my attempts at trig point yoga were less than graceful. But I'd done it. I'd climbed the highest peak in every historic county of Wales, and in the process, I'd rekindled a passion for exploration that had been dormant for far too long. Who knows what other misadventures await? But one thing's for sure: I'll be ready to face them, map in hand (or maybe just my phone), with a healthy dose of self-deprecating humour and a willingness to embrace the unexpected. After all, where's the fun in doing things the easy way?