Night walking
Want to see the world in a completely different way? Walk it at night.
Things change more than you think.
IT WAS NOVEMBER 1987 when I fell in love with night walking. In Cheshire. I was 11. And a newly-invested Scout. The Night Hike was spoken of in hushed tones, presumably to scare newbies like me. “The night hike is coming,” our Patrol Leader would intone. “You’re probably gonna die.”
I managed not to die, but the event did bring drama. The proposition was fairly simple: the pack was coached out to Shakerley Mere, some six miles from our hut in Knutsford, and dispatched with maps in teams of three as dusk fell. The aim was to walk back to the hut. There was a midway checkpoint that would ensure all was well. Beyond that, we were on our own.
And it was brilliant. Walking into the night; unfamiliar paths lit by cheap torches out of Woolies; every looming tree some sort of malevolent spectre. For a group of boys at the age where Stephen King becomes required reading, this was the stuff of terrible wonder.
And then it went wrong. We arrived where the checkpoint was meant to be, and it wasn’t. Not even slightly. (It transpired that my group, the last to depart, had been missed off the checkpoint’s list. They had packed up and gone, thinking they’d seen everyone through. It was, apparently, all the fault of Tom Sprott.)
We, of course, had no idea what had happened. Were we wrong? Was our map wrong? Was this some sort of demented initiation rite? After some adolescent quarrelling and weapons-grade swearing, we decided to follow the map and press on. To our credit, we navigated ourselves back to base, where worried parents and nerveshredded leaders greeted us with a combination of ‘where the flippin’ ’eck have you been?’ (from those who didn’t know what had happened) and ‘um, sorry’ (from those who did).
You might think an experience like that could turn someone off night walking for life. But not me. There was something magical about the wrongness, the otherness, the slightlyscariness of it. I loved the sinister doublepinpricks of dancing light that turned out
“It’s a fabulous feeling, heading out from the car park just as the last stragglers of the day are coming back to their cars and thinking ” of warm places with nice food.
to be the eyes of sheep or horses. I loved the way my senses of hearing and smell cranked themselves up to 11 to cover for my vision going dark. I liked the feeling that no other idiot was up and about, doing what I was doing. I liked the fear.
And I’ve loved it ever since. I try and squeeze in a night walk whenever I can. I love walking cities at night too; I can recommend London, Edinburgh, Paris, Munich and San Francisco (and accordingly, films like Before Sunrise and Midnight in Paris.)
My favourite ever night-walk, though, was Snowdon. Holidaying with the family near RhydDdu in the summer of 2014, I managed to obtain permission from the Relevant Authorities to head out after dinner one night, and go climb the highest British mountain south of Scotland.
It’s a fabulous feeling, heading out from the car park just as the last stragglers of the day are coming back to their cars. Through the blue hour and into dusk, I headed up the Rhyd-Ddu Path, but then detoured east to Bwlch Cwm Llan, which put me right at the foot of the least-walked walkable route up Snowdon: the South Ridge. Darkness fell, hard, as I set off up its knobbly spine.
I kept my head torch off for as long as possible, enjoying the sensory thrill as my eyes did their best to keep track of the stony ground. But then as the ridge kicked in, it was time to light up for safety.
The South Ridge is also the steepest route to the top, but it’s a friendly steepness. There’s always good, firm rock to hold on to when the steps get scrambly. And the line is clear and logical. At 3000ft, the ridge joins the Rhyd-Ddu Path and gives out onto Bwlch Main, which in daylight is a fantastically dramatic promenade with sheer drops on either side. In the darkness all I could see was the path ahead; what you miss in terms of spectacle you gain in terms of not scaring yourself silly.
After a final slog, the hard, silent lines of Hafod Eryri, the Snowdon summit café, loomed out of the gloom. By day, the busiest building in Britain higher than the Shard. And even at 11pm on a summer’s night, it gets no peace: as I made my way past the side entrance, I almost tripped over six sleeping bag-clad humans lying asleep in the doorway.
The summit itself was all mine. None of this queuing for the viewfinder, grabbing a rushed selfie and being jostled out of the way by the next triumphant Snowdoneer. This was just me, Snowdon and the stars. I sat my bum on the toposcope and looked about.
Then I saw the best thing of all.
Almost every major mountain in my North Welsh panorama had a tiny light on it. There was another me on Moel Siabod; on the Nantlle Ridge, on Glyder Fawr, on Moel Hebog. It was a shared moment. A fellowship of light. Friends in the darkness.
Were I a genuine hard case, I might have brought a bivy and a sleeping bag with me and stayed out all night. But I’d promised to help with getting the kids up next morning, and I knew there was a decent stash of ale in the cottage. And so the good old, wide Rhyd-Ddu carried me all the way back down with nary a craggy outcrop in sight. Halfway down, I came across a checkpoint. “I thought I’d be here, just in case,” said Tom Sprott.
“I figured I owed you one.”