The Welsh 3000s

It's 03:58 and I'm stood at Pen y Pass contemplating the challenge ahead of us. My three hill buddies have about 5g of body fat between them and a collective height advantage of 2 feet and 9 inches over me. I know I'm in for a tough day.

I can't complain though, doing the Welsh 3000s was my idea. Having been on my bucket list for years, one inspiring book saw my enthusiasm newly refreshed and I started asking who'd be up for it. One doodle poll later and I had a team just as keen as me.

Pen y Pass. L-R, Debs, Pete, Tristan, Amy

Tristan is an ultra machine. Three weeks ago he came fifth at the Hardmoors 110 (that's 110 miles!) so he's got some serious calibre. Tristan - like most ultra runners - loves to eat, and is very good at reminding everyone else to keep eating too because he just can't imagine why someone wouldn't be eating. He is also constantly cheerful which is excellent for team morale.

Amy is the Queen of prep, clocking up several big days in the hills and a few 30km training runs for good measure. She'd even been out and actually recce'd some of our proposed descents from opposite valleys. Amy hosted our planning session and turned a whiteboard full of scrawl into a meticulously organised spreadsheet of travel and kit logistics, down to the very important detail of each person providing their own poo bags and wet wipes.

Pete is the ultimate mountain man, years of experience in the hills and an uncanny skill of glancing at the map and remembering the entire route. Has been known to rock up to 50 mile events on a whim but he doesn't do any tech and rarely races, so he has this stealth aura where none of us truly know the extent of his physical capability.

Our secret weapon however, is Debs. Debs is the one who's volunteered to drop us at the start, pick us up at the finish and meet us at two checkpoints with food and supplies. She's a crew extraordinare and has made the whole adventure much simpler for us to plan.

For anyone who isn't aware, the Welsh 3000s is a challenge to summit all the mountains in Wales over 3000 feet. There are 15 of them and there's no set route. Our estimated mileage was about 30 for our chosen route. Our strategy was to fast hike, with the possibility of a bit of gentle running on any good downhill or flat bits.

The Welsh 3000s

1. Crib Goch 3028ft

2. Garnedd Ugain 3494ft

3. Snowdon 3559ft

4. Elidir Fawr 3031ft

5. Y Garn 3106ft

6. Glyder Fawr 3284ft

7. Glyder Fach 3261ft

8. Tryfan 3011ft

9. Pen yr Ole Wen 3208ft

10. Carnedd Dafydd 3425ft

11. Carnedd Llewelyn 3490ft

12. Yr Elen 3156ft

13. Foel Grach 3202ft

14. Carnedd Gwenllian 3038ft

15. Foel-fras 3090ft

The Snowdon Massif

A few big groups had set off before us, and whilst many probably weren't destined for Crib Goch, we were determined to try to get to the ridge before all of them. 

Enjoying 'sunrise' over Crib Goch

Pete set the pace and it took all of about three minutes before we had to strip layers. Leaving the safety of the Pyg Track for the climb up to Crib Goch, we were rewarded with a clear route ahead.

The fog rolled in as we neared the top, and stayed with us over Garnedd Ugain (where we caught up with another group and Pete had a mini reunion with some of his mates who were leading).

From there it was busy busy busy on Snowdon, but the clouds did clear just as we reached the summit, I think the first time of maybe six visits where I've ever seen a view from the top!

We didn't hang around though, we touched the top and started tottering straight back down along the Llanberis Path, tracking the railway line beyond Clogwyn Station and then picking our way down the steep, grassy slope towards Nant Peris.

We arrived at the village in exactly 3 hours, and Debs took on the extra role of 'pole fixer' whilst we all refuelled and rehydrated. Amy did have two poles, but they were not a matching pair so trying to make them equal height was a challenge. I'd brought out my 12 year old walking poles and one of them was kaput. Pete managed the tighten the bottom section and handed it back to me, hopeful that it would be enough. I don't think he understood the difference in height between a 5ft person and a 3ft person. With a plethora of poles between us, we set off for a big climb.

"You've just done most people's whole day hike and it's only just 7am!" (Debs)

The Glyders

The grassy, sunny climb up Elidir Fawr

It was a long, grassy climb up Elidir Fawr. In fact it's the single biggest climb of the whole route. We were freshly fed, we had the hill to ourselves, the sun was on our backs and it was just lovely.

From there it was a lovely gently undulating section skirting under Mynydd Perfedd (we weren't allowed bonus climbs, team rules) and contouring south before the next climb up to Y Garn. Five mountains down!

The next descent was equally lovely, and even a bit runnable as we picked up the pace. Then suddenly at the bottom, near the Llyn y Cwn tarn at the bottom of Glyder Fawr, more people started appearing again.

The climb up Glyder Fawr was tough. It was all loose rock and sandy shale which gave way as you stepped on it. There wasn't a secure foothold in sight, it was an energy-sapping ascent and was scattered with people who'd just given up and laid down right on the trail. 

One woman apologised for her slightly inconvenient resting location but mostly wanted to vent about her friend who was "definitely trying to kill her" and then just wearily wished us luck as we carried on plodding our way up. The shale eventually ended where the chunkier loose rocks began and we stopped for a snack at the top.

Somewhen around here, Pete realised that one of his shoes was falling apart. He'd accidentally transformed it into a flip flop hybrid and no amount of gaffa tape was going to fix it. Unfortunately he hadn't put spare shoes in the support car, but one call to saviour Debs and she made a round trip back to the campsite to grab them.

From Glyder Fawr it was barely any descent along the plateau to Glyder Fach. Pete nearly got taken out by an over-enthusiastic spaniel as we enjoyed a little bit of proper trail before it was giant boulder time! The big boulders were great fun, leaping across cracks and clambering around. I was having so much fun I didn't even realise we'd reached the top, but when I looked up I saw the wonder that is Tryfan right in front of us. 

Tryfan from the south

Tryfan looks beastly. I suppose it is quite beastly. I had unfinished business since the last time I was here was December 2010 and I was airlifted off. But before we could contemplate getting up there, we had to get off Glyder Fach; it was a steep, loose, scree gully and it was slow going. Nobody told Pete that, he was straight down and sunning himself on a nice rock waiting for the rest of us. I was enjoying listening to Tristan chat away behind me whilst I focused on my feet, and staying upright.

With that tricky descent out of the way, it was a mixture of scrambling and big steps all the way up Tryfan. It felt good to finally get to the top but we didn't hang around long as it was nearly lunchtime and we could pretty much see Checkpoint 2, a lonnnng way down.

It was another difficult descent, with two incidents of note. One where Tristan tripped and had a little lay down, but after taking a moment, regained his composure and dusted himself off (no injuries, only his trousers).

The second was a mini downclimb which I struggled with because I couldn't see how far away the floor was as I hung on with my arms. I got down and watched Amy have exactly the same struggle. Tristan was attempting to explain where she needed to put her feet and guide her down but it was taking too long for Pete, who shouted "just grab her arse!", and Tristan did just that. It worked, it was all fine and Amy really didn't mind. 

It was a joy to see Debs, who'd managed to bag a parking spot right opposite the exit of the trail. She'd laid out a proper table with drinks, snacks and spare shoes, what a hero. 27.5km completed, 8 mountains climbed and everything was great (apart from Tristan's trousers and Pete's old shoes).

The Carneddau

This was the long bit. We had a short stretch of flat tarmac to get the legs going again after our lunch stop and were joined by Debs who was off for a yomp around Llyn Ogwen.

The climb up Pen yr Ole Wen was enormous, very steep and rocky and more scrambley than we had anticipated. It took us a while to get up there but the view from the top was just incredible; you could see right the way back to the Snowdon Horseshoe and across the Glyders, as well as out to the Carneddau where we were headed next.

This should have been the really runnable bit, but my knee wasn't having any of it after taking a battering on the previous big descents. A fast walk and occasional skip was the best I could do and since it was a glorious afternoon with beautiful views, nobody minded.

It was comparitively easy going up and down Carnedd Dafydd, then we contoured across to Yr Elen. Even though it wasn't 'hard', I actually hate contouring and all the foot and ankle twistyness of it, but it didn't take us too long and before we knew it we were at the top. From here we could see the rest of the route and it really didn't look that far, woo!

From Carnedd Llewelyn it basically felt like it was all downhill, bar the mini lumps of the final three hills, it was mostly grass and just lovely for tired feet. 

The final trig!

I was so happy when we reached Foel-fras that I gave the trig point a giant hug. The whole section From Carnedd Lleweyln and then descent via Drum (we WERE allowed a bonus peak!) would have been a stunner of a run had it not been for my gammy knee. I managed a totter and just thoroughly enjoyed the long, steady downhill.

As we turned the final corner into the very last downhill, we could see the red Goodgym t-shirt of Debs waving from the gate, we'd made it!

Pete was down well before any of the rest of us and still looked totally fresh, like he'd just been for a short walk to the pub. Amy and Tristan came down with massive smiles on their faces too and we all had a little celebration which mostly involved a lot of stretching and putting on clean socks.

Another massive shout out to Debs, having a crew member support meet you right at the end of the trail is totally dreamy and 100 times more enjoyable than a long yomp on tarmac or a load of car faff. 

We were so fortunate to have great conditions for the day, and I was especially grateful to Pete for doing all the nav (though I had helped a slightly lost fell runner to figure out where he was). We'd finished pretty much bang on my "very ambitious" target and apart from the usual aches of a big day on the hills, everyone was feeling great. So great, that we already started contemplating what challenge we could do next...

Pete pretending he was suffering at the end (he was not).

Dartmoor Long-O 2014

Last year I entered an event that was completely beyond the limits of my general orienteering ability. This year, the two-day event which is run jointly by clubs in the Quantocks and Devon, was taking place in Dartmoor. Over the last year it is safe to say that I have developed absolutely no further navigational competence, but I was only down the road on my holidays so it seemed like a no-brainer.

I roped in/guilt-tripped a vaguely willing friend, Holly, on the proviso that it would be a really fun event to do as a pair. On the first day, Holly would be two weeks away from walking down the aisle and I was made to promise that there would definitely be no leg breaking or any activity that would result in wearing a cast on her wedding day. I agreed to the promise 87% and signed her up.

The Very Ominous OMM

The Original Mountain Marathon is a two day challenge that combines navigation, hiking, fell-running, generally being wet and muddy, camping and the ability to select and carry all the kit you require, but only the kit you require. Becca (my OMM partner and very tolerant girlfriend) and I had started off being very strict about all the stuff we wouldn't take. My one luxury item would be a camera,

Unfortunately this does not all fit in an 18l rucksack

nothing else non-essential. I tried several times over to ram all the essential kit into my trusty (and very light) Inov-8 Race Pro 18, but eventually I had to give in and up-size to a bulkier, 30 litre model.

As the main event drew closer, and the weather forecast became very real, more and more "essential kit" was added to our list. We had gone from deciding to take the absolute minimum to "Sod it, let's just take everything and be really warm! Let's also take loads of chocolate.. and extra meals". Soon enough, even the bigger pack was full to the brim. I'd been trying to convince Becca for weeks that we really wouldn't be running very much with this much weight but it wasn't until the night before, when we did our final re-pack and kit check and she loaded it onto her back, that she finally agreed with me.

A Very Wintry Exmoor

Before deciding to take a bit of a training break and before getting all unfit and not riding my bike for months, I had booked a cottage in Exmoor for a training weekend. It was a chance for Wimbleballers to scout out the course and for anyone else to come and play in the hills. I had imagined a long weekend of spring sunshine, hours in the saddle and the great company of friends. One out of three ain't bad!

The Mildly Perilous Emsworth Epic

I am finally starting to come to terms with the fact that rest and relaxation is the only answer if I want to speed up the back healing process. As you all know, R+R is not something that comes easy for me and I have been trying to think up ingenious ways of doing little bits of exercise without hurting myself such as making far too many cups of tea to increase the amount of time spent lifting the kettle.


With relaxation in mind though, I headed off to Emsworth for a calm couple of days by the sea where I would not be in the danger proximity zone of the gym or be tempted to do anything too active. A land where the greatest danger would be the village patisserie.

A Plod Around Purbeck

Liz mentioned a few weeks ago that she wanted to do her yearly walk around the Isle of Purbeck, I had booked annual leave to join her before you could say "South West Coast Path". 


Apart from a girls weekend in Swanage, I'd never seen any of the Jurassic Coast. I can't believe that all this time I've had an absolutely stunning bit of walkable coastline less than an hour from my doorstep and known nothing of it.


We started out at Corfe Castle, and straight away we were trudging uphill. We were quickly rewarded with a lovely ridge walk atop Brenscombe Hill, and before long we had views out over Studland on our left and Swanage on our right. 

We were aiming straight for the sea, so we beelined across Ballard Down and were soon at the cliff edge, where you can see Old Harrys Rocks apparently. Without leaning over the edge though you can't get such a good view and as I'm trying to have an A&E free 2011 I decided against the whole leaning plan.


Instead, we followed the coast around to Swanage and stopped for a spot of lunch at the beach. I'd like to quickly add here that I was a) very healthy and b) possibly even a little bit posh as I opened my tupperware and tucked into my carrot and cauliflower crudites with a teeny tub of houmous.


From here we headed into the very pretty Durlston Country Park and on turning around at the top to appreciate the view, I could see Old Harrys Rocks safely and risk free. The sun was poking it's head out through the clouds and it was starting to warm up too, lovely.


For the next few miles we followed the Jurrasic Coast, and I was constantly in awe of this really spectacular location. The coast just goes on forever in either direction and you get the feeling of really being out in the middle of nowhere. 


I have a few friends who will be taking part in the "Jurassic Coast Challenge" in March, this involves running a marathon a day for three days. I thought they were all a bit mad before I came and saw it, now I think they are utterly bonkers. Whilst it is absolutely beautiful, the path is rugged, uneven and has a near constant flow of up and down. I couldn't even comprehend the idea of running it. Even if I could come round to the idea, I then came across something quite astounding. Suddenly, in the middle of a very pleasant section of path, the land just cuts away into a steep dip. The clearly very fit Dorset Rangers have made a long and rocky staircase here for the walkers. I called them "The Stairs of DOOM". 


The photos below don't really do it justice, it has to be seen to be believed.

Down these ones..

..and up these ones

Once we'd huffed and heaved our way to the top of the steps, we had a little tea break overlooking Chapmans Pool, a very pretty bay that must get absolutely packed in the summer. The sun was beginning it's descent and an orange hue was lining the horizon, the cliffs in the bay lit up and the whole place looked like some sort of dream. Everybody should do this walk and everybody should see a sunset here.


From this point we made our way inland. The darkness was falling and our last few miles took us across Corfe Common; a nice, gentle, squidgey surface to ease our tired feet. The dusky silhouette of Corfe Castle appeared and we made it to the car just after dark.


All in all a fabulous walk along the coast. But one piece of Eggy wisdom if you do decide to come here in the more summery months. Do some of the walk backwards, unless you want one burnt side of your face.

Puddle-dodging on Thorney Island

As I've spent so much time recently in medical establishments, I couldn't help noticing countless leaflets detailing the "health benefits of walking". It's true, walking is free, simple and mostly injury-proof exercise. I do love a good wander in the country too, the fresh air filling the lungs and all that jazz. I felt inspired to take myself off for a stroll and decided Thorney Island would be the destination for my latest two-footed adventure.

Thorney Island is a little outcrop of land right on the border of Hampshire and West Sussex. The island is used as a military base and public access is restricted to the footpath that skirts around the edge, forming a nine mile stretch of the Sussex Border Path.

Whilst contemplating important adventure factors such as weather, snacks and general topography, I thought back to my previous two walking adventures (excluding the ill-fated Snowdonia trip). For both journeys I had worn my walking boots and on both journeys I had regretted doing so. The terrain hadn't really been tough enough to warrant boots and all they had succeeding in doing was slowing me down. As this would be a much shorter excursion and as it was an official path, I thought it would be more sensible to use trainers and go 'fast and light'.

I arrived at Emsworth train station in the dark and ambled through the very picturesque village centre. The only life was a bakery van making it's morning delivery and then down at the harbour, two fishermen readying their boat.. all lovely, wholesome stuff!

I turned off at the first footpath and very quickly realised that I was walking through a particularly sludgy field. My very lightly covered feet were gradually getting closer to total mud immersion when there it was, gone, right into a huge puddle. I looked onward to much of the same, and resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have slightly soggy feet. The worst bit about this was that running parallel to this utterly ridiculous field/footpath I was in, was a perfectly good road that I would end up crossing anyway. Fiddlesticks.

As I continued to negotiate more exceptionally wet and mud-ridden trails, I encountered a couple of chaps in flat caps armed with shotguns and excited-looking dogs. They informed me they were out hoping to shoot some ducks. We made some typically British chitchat about it "being the right weather for ducks" but apparently they weren't coming out to play. Then I came to the gated entrance of the island itself.

When you get to the gate you have a ring a bell and wait. Then, mysteriously, the gate unlocks and lets you in. I noticed there was a teeny camera by the bell. Some soldier has obviously got the easiest job ever: sitting, drinking tea and letting tourists on to the island.

Within half a kilometre I spotted hoardes of ducks, very sensibly staying on the side of the fence where I don't imagine they allow country types with shotguns. I made my way down the Eastern side of the island, teetering on the edge of the path as much as I could to avoid the deep mud. Gradually the mud got worse and worse and the puddles started to get bigger, and bigger. The path was narrow, the tide was in, and there was nowhere else to step. I was on my tiptoes being a proper girl and edging around the small ponds, favouring instead the brambles on the inside edge. It got so bad that there really was no edge left to teeter on. I didn't have a choice, I had to step into the water. I was cursing myself for not wearing my lovely gore-tex boots as my foot sunk into the murky depth. Once I emerged from the other side I stopped, removed the trainers, emptied them out, rung out my socks etc etc. All of that was completely pointless of course as less than 100m further and there was another pond to cross. 

It got to the point where I really didn't care about bothering to try and stay in any way dry, the water was mid-calf deep in places and I ended up happily trotting through, amused at situations I get myself into. As it turns out, trainers were actually a much better option, as the water was so deep it would have gone into my boots anyway and this way at least it squirted out the sides and wasn't trapped inside a layer of waterproof.

Once I hit the Southernmost point of the island, the wind really picked up and I was being buffeted with salty spray. On a sunny day the view out over the Chichester Harbour would have been stunning, today however, it wasn't. I trudged onwards, with watery snot streaming from my nostrils and finding a place to rest on my wind-battered cheeks. I upped the pace to stay warm and soon enough I reached the Western corner of the island. From here I could just about see the harbour at Emsworth and I knew I was on the home straight.

Thankfully the quality of the path dramatically improved and I made quick progress back into the village. I was met here by my sister who took me in and gave me tea and clean, dry socks.. marvellous! Despite it not really being the best conditions for a island walk, I felt hugely refreshed and pleased with myself for getting through it in (reasonably) good humour. 

Sadly the health benefits were lessened by the vast amounts of chocolate I consumed that afternoon, and the Chinese we ate that evening...

If you're considering going for a nice coastal walk I would really recommend Thorney Island. But do it in summer, and wear waterproof socks.

Challenge results!

I stepped on the scales tentatively on Tuesday morning. Whilst I'd done quite a considerable amount of exercise over the Christmas break, and eaten reasonably healthily - I had still been having the odd chocolate treat and glass of something bubbly, plus a delicious meal out at a local Italian restaurant (with THE best garlic bread I think I've ever eaten). So suffice to say I was nervous, was I going to reach my goal of 55kgs?

Adam had challenged me to a ten minute wall sit, which a number of people declared was a physical impossibility.. but I managed 7 minutes and 11 seconds (and will continue to reattempt!)

Sarah B had challenged me the the trek across the Plains which had all gone well. Then you have the lunges, the silly distances on the crosstrainer, loads of turbo training etc etc.

In general, and especially given the season, I thought I had been really rather good and decided I would bear that in mind whatever the result.

..55.4kgs. Damnit! Didn't quite make it, but a good start to the year and still a good amount of December weight lost.

Egg and the Quest to Find Milk Hill

Avebury just before sunrise

As part of the '12 Days of Christmas Challenge', the very imaginative Sarah B set me a challenge to walk from Avebury to Stonehenge - stone circle to stone circle.


I worked out that it would be around 25 miles, just about do-able with nine hours of sunlight. A bit of googling revealed that I could take in the highest point in Wiltshire on the journey too: Milk Hill.


It was just getting light when I arrived at Avebury. I took a few moments to soak up the mysterious atmosphere and then set about locating the White Horse Trail; which I was going to follow for the first part of my journey. The trail took me past Silbury Hill - effectively just an enormous man-made mound - and onwards over the delightfully unspoilt Pewsey Downs. 


The track started to ascend, and I started to get excited about getting up on the roof of Wiltshire. Over the valley I could see Tan Hill, Milk Hill's marginally smaller sibling (by a whole 26cm). Tan Hill is topped with a trig point and it's fairly obvious where it is. Milk Hill, on the other hand, is an elusive beast. The map shows it just as a spot height but you'd think being the highest point in the county would warrant some sort of signage or monument?! I wandered about for a bit, got a bit lost and stuck in between barbed-wire fences whilst committing minor trespassing crimes and eventually found only one thing that could maybe have been the 'summit' (see video).

A white horse in front of
the White Horse

Feeling a bit disappointed with Milk Hill, I cheered myself up by munching on a cereal bar and went on with my walk. I passed the White Horse of Pewsey (just above which was another knobbly bit of hill that could have been Milk Hill) and then ambled through the lovely villages of Alton Priors and Alton Barnes.

The completely frozen
Kennet and Avon Canal

A swift turn off at The Barge Inn (and I almost felt compelled to, with a name like that) led me down to the very iced over Kennet and Avon Canal. The canal is beautiful with a range of barges and boats moored up along the bank.


After I'd meandered along the canal for a couple of miles, I went through another village or two, passed a couple of churches and cautiously crossed through fields with mean looking cows. After all that, I hit Salisbury Plains and I knew I was on the home stretch.




Unfortunately the path I had intended to take off the Plains and towards Stonehenge had been blocked off, so I had to take a diversion which had me finishing my hike at Woodhenge instead. Woodhenge sadly, is nowhere near as spectacular as Stonehenge and really just looks like a giant boy has dropped his building blocks. I'm not entirely convinced that it is a neolithic monument whatsoever! Nonetheless is was a very pleasant spot to finish my walk.


8 hours, 24.19 miles. Challenge complete.

Broken Eggs in Snowdonia

Happy scrambling

Before I start - mum, the title of this blog is meant as an amusing and witty alternative to the previous post's title and I really am not broken.. much.


Refreshed after a whiskey and exhaustion-induced slumber, I stepped outside with my coffee and gleefully admired the starry Snowdonian atmosphere knowing a clear blue sky and some outstanding views awaited us.


Stuffed full of porridge we headed for the Glyders; a range just north of Snowdon. Our first peak would be the 915m of Tryfan. You can't get up Tryfan without using your hands, it's all about the scrambling and climbing. Perfect for me then, I've never really mastered the whole 'balancing on feet' thing (as you'll be very aware of if you've known me for a while) and am a much sturdier unit if I can get my hands on the rock.


There's not really a walk-in to Tryfan, you get out of the car and you start climbing straight away, but as you get higher the route gradually gets tougher to negotiate. As we were on the North ridge, the sun hadn't melted away the ice and there was a lot of slippery rock about. Despite Liz's constant mantra of "Push through your feet, Egg. Your foot won't slip if all your weight is through it", I managed to mostly stay on all fours and ignore her completely. Whilst I knew her advice was sound and very sensible, I also knew I just wouldn't stay upright.

Push through your feet Liz!

Much to Liz's amusement, I was happier when we hit the proper climbing bits and had to pick our way up an exposed crack (I do love an exposed crack) or tricky chimney. Then we'd get to a rocky plateau that you just have to walk across and I'd be concentrating so hard you'd think I was on tightrope.

Just before she did
the "Radford Straddle"

At one point I tottered carefully across a flat bit, stepping tentatively on every dry rock I could find. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I stood on a nice big flat rock and as Liz turned around to say something my feet just skidded out from underneath me - it really is amazing how hard I have to try to stay upright.


We meandered upwards, trying to find areas that were free from ice, even if that meant going up and over more technical ground.


At 811m something bad happened. I was stood on a little platform, having a think about how I would get up this next bit of rock. It was a steep slant of rock with a few bits to grab hold of at the top. As if tempting fate, just before I stepped off the ground Liz said "What's the worse that can happen, you'll just slide off and end up back where you are".. So I scrabbled upwards and lurched for my last hand hold. Unfortunately it was icier than it looked and my hand slipped. Sure enough I did slide back down onto the platform (stop reading mum), but I landed unevenly and fell off sideways. Luckily I fell onto another platform just a metre or two below, but as I had reached out when falling, I had landed badly on my hand. I remember seeing my fingers contort and twist as I landed and I thought I must have broken them.


As I sat up, the pain was intense and a rush of light-headedness coursed through me. After checking I hadn't hit my head (which, I think is a first!) Liz sprang into action and got me sat on the rucksack and layered up. I couldn't really tell what it was that hurt but after a few minutes I could just about move my fingers. At some point I told Liz that "I probably haven't broken anything as I have very strong bones" but the point was, I couldn't move my arm and this wasn't a mountain we could walk off.


After a bit of time debating (mainly Liz debating with herself, as I was just rocking back and forth saying "I'm OK, it just really, really hurts" a lot), there was only one thing for it, we had to call in mountain rescue.


They were going to send a helicopter, there was no other way to get off. Liz kept me happy while we waited with the only sensible option, tea and food. When it turned up, I was amazed at the efficiency of the rescue team. My rescuer, Dave, came down on a cable and said those magic words "I think we'll get you some entenox".


They were going to winch Liz in first and fly her back, as it's more fuel-efficient to keep the helicopter flying about rather than hovering, and that would give Dave a chance to assess and secure me for the flight. Liz's 'harness' was effectively a padded loop that went under her arms. Dave said she should keep her arms by her side as she got winched up. I have never witnessed anybody go more stiff, I thought rigor mortis had set in as she got lifted into the helicopter!


I don't know what exactly happened next because I was high on entenox, but Dave thought I may have broken an arm or dislocated my elbow. So he immobilised it and got me into a lovely comfortable sitting chair harness for getting winched up.


I would have loved to appreciate the view of the mountains that we flew through but my head was pulsing with the marvellous feeling of gas, so much so in fact, that I nearly fell over when we stepped off the helicopter.


So we never made it up Tryfan, and it's now at the top of my tick list, but I think I'll try it again when all the ice has melted!


X-rays revealed no breaks luckily, but it's going to take a while for the tissue damage to heal from the impact and I have one finger that is growing exponentially outwards. As Nicky said yesterday "You really will do anything to get out of swimming won't you?" She's not wrong!

Edit: Second X-Ray revealed fractured radial head. Bugger.

Brocken Spectres in Snowdonia

I woke up with a start on Saturday morning in a mountain hut in Snowdonia. We had planned a weekend of wintry mountain fun and I was a teensy bit excited. You can understand my disappointment then, as I stepped outside only to hear the heavy pattering of water. I was moments away from having a rant to myself about "bloody Wales and it's stupid rainy weather" when I realised that actually it was just the noise of the river. Ideal.


After packing an array of spiky mountain tools into our rucksacks we drove up the Llanberis Pass, heading into what looked - incredibly - like a beautiful and bright winter's day. I was chuffed that my first trip up Snowdon was going to be a good weather day. As we ascended the Pyg Track, the snow thickened and gradually became hard packed and icy, the wind became gustier and the cloud loomed over, isolating us from the wondrous view beyond. 

"Walk like you've got a
massive sanitary towel in"
..was Liz's wonderfully wise advice

We stopped to don our crampons as the ground started to get tricky underfoot and at that point I couldn't care less that we couldn't see anything and it was blowing a hooley because, more importantly, I now looked like a full on, kick ass mountaineer.


Progress quickened as we crunched our way up the icy path, picking off the weak and the men who thought they were too hardcore for crampons.


As we neared the roof of Wales we battled through the cloud and were greeted with alpine-like sunshine. We looked down in amazement as the rainbow rings of a brocken spectre materialised on the grey layer beneath us for just a few moments.

Halo of the brocken spectre

The summit was bathed in glorious sunny rays and everybody that got there had the same inane grins on their faces, for a winter's day in Wales this really was absolutely spectacular. We picked a prime spot and scoffed down the obligatory malt loaf and cereal bars before beginning our descent.


Descending has never been a strong skill of mine and this was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most difficult descent of anything, ever, in my life. Loose snow and icy patches covered the mixed rock and scree so every single step was a step into the ankle-wrenching world of the unknown. My silence said everything, I was not happy with all the slip-sliding and zig-zagging. 

When we eventually got to the bottom I breathed an enormous sigh of relief and celebrated  the fact I had made it down alive with a bit of chocolate. I looked over in awe at the next obstacle in our route:  Y Lliwedd. This beast loomed over us with it's forboding rocky frontage. It looked almost impossible to get up, but a closer inspection revealed a playground of scramble-friendly pinnacles. My mood quickly lifted as I scampered up, sheer drops providing me with a steady flow of adrenaline. 


We stopped for a breather (and some tea) at the top of this absolutely superb scramble. The sun was just starting to dip a bit lower as we began our very careful descent. A few tired slips and bum slides followed until we hit the tarmac of the Miner's Path and had just enough energy left to route-march back. As we approached Pen Y Pass car park the bus pulled up and Liz - in what I can only describe as an act of energy-depleted delirium - broke into a run in her enormous mountain boots. If it wasn't for the awesome scramble that would have been the highlight of the day.


Completely exhausted we headed home for massive portions of pasta, chocolate and a drop of whiskey to finish off. These things are staple foods for mountaineers and aren't included in the "unhealthy" box when you've done a big winter day out in the hills! 


Stay tuned for day 2...

A Very Wet Day on the Clarendon Way

Sunny spells. That is what the weather report said about today. I've been wanting to walk the Clarendon Way for quite some time, it's a 24(ish) mile path that links the two medieval cities of Salisbury and Winchester, Cathedral to Cathedral. I chose to do it today as the weather was looking good and I fancied a bit of fresh country air.


I caught the first train to Winchester and arrived just after 8am. It was a cool morning with a pretty winter mist blanketing the city, but I detected a bit of blue in the sky and happily went on my way. 


Anybody who has ever attempted any sort of route that starts in a city will know that the hardest thing is actually finding the start. Luckily as this starts at the Cathedral it's quite an obvious landmark, but even once you get there you need to figure out what sign you're looking for. Once I found it though, I was off and venturing through suburban Winchester.


I must say I wasn't fully inspired by the route, it was mostly following roads that were a bit too small for cars but that cars were using anyway. Saying that I think it would be a great route do to on a mountain bike, as you can easily navigate around the footpaths. Speaking of navigation, if you are going to do this route you should definitely bring a map - I missed the tiny green signs on several occasions and could have gotten very lost if I wasn't checking the map regularly. Some junctions had whacking great signposts and others were totally hidden.


There was a section on the way up to Farley Mount that I reckon would have been a spectacular viewpoint had it not been for that winter mist, which was no longer "pretty" but "soggy". After about two hours I started to feel a very gentle precipitation, "it'll pass, the weather map was definitely clear for today" I thought to myself.


I went as far as I could with ignoring the rain before I begrudgingly had to get the waterproof jacket out, the clouds must have been holding out for me to do this as within minutes it was bucketing down. I was mildly amused that I had managed to choose this particular day to take on this walk, a bit of rain doesn't hurt though.


Another hour later and I was starting to have a sense of humour failure. The rain was still hammering down and I still had quite a way to go. What had been a path was becoming a series of large, puddley obstacles. I trudged on, still with the hope that it would clear up.


Another hour passed, I'd done about 14 miles. My fingers tingled with cold and rain was dripping from my eyelashes, I decided enough was enough. This was meant to be a pleasant wander in the country, not an endurance challenge. I took a detour at the next village and started looking for an alternative route home. I came across a bus shelter, but of course there are no buses on a Sunday. So I found some local taxi numbers but none of them had any availability. I called my sister so she could look up some more taxi companies, but between us we managed to find lots of wrong numbers and very, very busy cab firms.


I was losing the will, but then I somehow managed to blag a lift with a lady who was getting into her car and heading to Andover, ideal. I could get a train from there and get home. In another stroke of luck my Dad was driving back from London and picked me up on the way through, I was so thankful I took him to a cafe for a nice hot lunch.


Lesson learned. Never, ever trust the weather report.