Bumbagging
Norman Hadley pushes ‘going light’ to the extreme
Determined to explore this Welsh mountain hinterland, James Forrest traverses Snowdonia’s Rhinogydd – and finds it a rockier ride than he expected
I CAN TASTE THE DRIZZLE on my lips. Low mist swirls and there’s a foreboding stillness in the air. The high-pitched bleating of a feral goat cuts through the silence, its tone sinister. Is disaster around the corner? I’m blocked by impenetrable craggy walls, choked by a sea of boulders, entangled by knee-deep heather.
The only way out is a plunging gully of scree. This is the roughness of the Rhinogs I came for.
Slightly unnerved, I ride the river of shifting stones down Rhinog Fawr’s southern slopes. The world below my feet is transient and volatile. Every step triggers a rocky avalanche, as if a rug is being pulled from underneath me, and it takes all my hill nous not to hit the deck or jar an ankle. Am I mastering the scree or is the scree controlling me? Like a twig in a fast-flowing stream, I realise it’s the latter. So I abandon self-determination and simply let the terrain take me. It carries me left and right and left again, around a craggy bulge, down a rocky trench, and eventually spews me out into calmer waters – the flat, grassy col of Bwlch Drws-Ardudwy. Phew. I’m alive and unscathed, and wired with the euphoria of exploration.
I’m taking on the Rhinogydd (often Anglicised to Rhinogs) Traverse, a 19-mile, two-day journey down the spine of this rough-hewn, rugged mountain range in Wales’s wild west. Located in a hinterland between the sea and the heart of the Snowdonia National Park, bounded by Porthmadog, Barmouth and the A470, the Rhinogs are wild and remote with a world-apart feel. The kind of place you’re more likely to see a harem of wild ponies than a group of fellow hillwalkers; the sort of landscape so quiet you can almost hear the bilberries swaying in the breeze; and terrain so unkempt and chaotic that every summit feels hard-won. A mountain range for isolation and escapism.
There are several versions of the traverse. Some start in the east at Trawsfynydd and include the northern outposts of Foel Penolau (614m) and Moel Ysgyfarnogod (623m). Others take a looping approach, starting and finishing at the singletrack roads of Cwm Bychan or Cwm Nantcol in the west. But perhaps the best option is to utilise the Cambrian Line railway, starting at Talsarnau, traversing the massif from north to south, and ending at the train station in the lively seaside town of Barmouth. This negates the need for any complex getting-back-to-your-car shenanigans, and instead makes for an eco-friendly and wonderfully diverse linear traverse – the ultimate way to indulge in the Rhinogs.
A FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY
“Is that a horse or a llama?” I ask Ben, my adventure companion
for the weekend, while gesticulating towards a beast silhouetted atop a grassy hill. We’re only 2km into our walk from Talsarnau station, having battled a jungle of brambles at Coed Maes-yneuadd before emerging at rolling pastoral land near Tynybwlch. “Erm, I’m not sure to be honest, but I don’t like the way it’s staring at us.” Five minutes later and the crazed camelid – looking angry with its peaked ears, goofy grimace and aggressive trot – is chasing us out of its field with a bullish confidence. We flee like scared schoolchildren, leap over a gate to safety, and start laughing at our wimpish behaviour. “I knew the Rhinogs were meant to be wild and unforgiving – but I wasn’t expecting llama drama.”
The clag is low, its heavy aura weighing down over the landscape. Light drizzle falls and the air is muggy, leaving us clammy in our Gore-Tex layers. But we still make quick work of the first 5km to Llyn Eiddew-mawr, a tarn nestled under the terraced crags to the west of Craig Ddrwg and Moel Ysgyfarnogod. “How about we stop for some photos?” Ben suggests. “We’re making great progress and don’t want to get to camp too early.”
I’m almost convinced by his self-assurance, but I’ve tackled these mountains before and I know what is to come. The Rhinogs are siren-like, seductively luring you in with whispered promises of easy mileage and unimpressive heights, only to cripple you with untamed ground. It can be like wading through treacle.
The knee-deep heather is a never-ending succession of hurdles to vault, every step involving lifting your legs higher than normal, and the desolate, jumbled boulder fields are a constant barrier to hitting your Naismith’s target.
The gentle start of the traverse sucks everyone into a false sense of security, tricking you into believing the Rhinogs aren’t that bad after all. The first 12km from Talsarnau to Llyn Ddu are relatively mild, with decent paths to follow and unintimidating terrain: a simple up and over from Llyn Eiddew-mawr to the camping field at Cwm Bychan, before ascending the Roman Steps – a medieval packhorse route used to transport goods from Chester to Harlech Castle – towards Rhinog Fawr’s heavily defended upper reaches. During these initial kilometres, feeling sprightly and strong, you’ll inevitably glance at your map and take heart. On paper the Rhinogs are nothing to be feared. The whole traverse doesn’t top 20 miles, and the highest mountain, Y Llethr, is 756m – over 150m shorter than the dinkiest of Munros. Easy, right?
A VEIL LIFTS
Wrong. Out of nowhere, as if two tectonic plates have collided and buckled upwards into a steep, tangled, rocky maze, the heart of