A Wild Weekend in the Rhinogydd

Poring over maps during the endless lockdown of winter 2020/2021, my fingers would often find their way over to the part of the map most devoid of human occupation, tracing the intricate knots and near-tangle of contours depicting the crags, lakes and folds of the Rhinogydd. This quieter part of Eryri has always captivated me, since a single image of a ragged hawthorn backlit by low winter sunshine alongside the Roman Steps, was burned into my conscious forever when I picked up what was likely the first guide book I ever read in the 1980’s. That guidebook was no doubt the most formative book I’ve ever read, and set me on course for a life of curiosity and exploration, and a love of the wild, mysterious places of which Wales has so many. I’d made several visits to the Rhinogydd mountains over the years, but had yet to explore the southern side. After months repetitively tracing the local pathways at home; so familiar and comfortable to me that I could wander blindfold in the dark and still make my way back to my own front door, I wanted instead to lose myself in a wilder, more uncomfortable landscape, to feel comforted by the rugged and untameable mountains of the Rhinogydd.

Spring was late in arriving. We set off through the lowlands, walking under gnarly oak trees in a small patch of celtic rainforest, which remains in places in some of the steep sided lower river valleys of the Rhinogydd. The leaves were yet to bud, but the songs of chiffchaff and warbler spoke of spring and lifted my spirits as sure as the sap was rising through the surrounding trees. Having been many months since carrying a heavy pack, we were quickly tired and stopped for a rest next to the river gorge and an old ruined building. It may look wild enough now, but this valley was once a route through to an area of gold mining, and traces of the route and old buildings can be seen.

We continued uphill, through oak lined pasture land and farm tracks, before heading into more modern plantation forestry. The dense conifer woodland is in no way as biodiverse or enchanting as the celtic rainforest which we’d left behind, but as it has been in existence widely across Wales for my entire lifetime, it is part of the landscape of the Wales that I love. Much of the forestry has recently been removed. We stopped for another break next to a lake, which is open to view from the track now that there are no trees. It was both starkly beautiful and slightly depressing at the same time. We sat eating our lunch and listening to some noisy geese swimming on the lake, their honks echoing round the valley. Then we started to climb steeply.

Our route took us through the old gold mines and their buildings. We marvelled at the effort made to work this rough landscape, and were grateful to those who had gone before for their beautifully constructed stone bridges. The views opened up and we took them as an excuse for a rest. The climb became ever steeper, and we had to really dig in to avoid being pulled over onto our backs like helpless turtles by the weight of our packs!

Finally we reached our summit for the day; not a peak, but a bwlch, or saddle, between two peaks. High up the grass had been bleached yellowish-white by the long winter, and the surrounding landscapes were yet to wear any of the colours of spring. The wind was being squeezed over the ridge so we sheltered for a while behind the enormous dry stone wall which runs like a spine along the length of this part of the Rhinogydd.

Elated from having finished the day’s climbing, we skipped down through knee-deep bog to the shore of a beautiful lake. We pondered over the best spot to pitch for a good while. The choice was between boggy ground or slightly less boggy but more tussocky ground. In the end we settled for the straightforward boggy ground. It was golden hour and too early in the year for midgies, so we sat outside our tents cooking dinner. The lake was glassy and every rock, crag and fold of the mountain was reflected a deep bronze in the water. We watched the sunset over the coast, enjoying the shifting spectrum of colours on the lake, and waiting for the first star to appear before getting into our sleeping bags. The night was cold but calm and we estimated afterwards that we’d managed a good two hours sleep.

We didn’t linger long in the morning. As the sun rose behind the slope which was sheltering us, the light inched towards our camp and the morning’s shadow retreated. We drank tea and packed up while it was still early enough to leave no trace of our presence. We climbed back up above the lake towards the bwlch that we’d summitted the day before, then continued up, to reach the peak of Diffwys, the second highest peak in the range. From here the layers of hills faded into the distance in paler and paler shades of blue. There were views over to Cader Idris, and as we descended the rolling grassy slopes, to the Mawddach Estuary and out to sea, we were interrupted from our strolling by a herd of feral goats. At one time the uplands of the Rhinogydd would have been grazed widely by goats, as no other animal could thrive on the bone-breaking terrain of the steep crags; the goats removing vegetation from the harder to reach spots meant that less nimble cattle and sheep wouldn’t be tempted into areas where they would perish. Nowadays the goats are entirely feral and unused to humans, in fact they seemed completely surprised to see us, and eyed us curiously before high tailing it off into the distance.

Grassy slopes turned to stone wall-lined tracks, and open mountain became more organised, boundaried pasture as we descended towards the Mawddach Estuary. We reached a junction in tracks with an ancient marker stone; an old route to Harlech. Tempting as it was to take the old stone track to Harlech, we were also tempted by the thought of getting our bags off our backs, so we continued downhill, down a lane and back into marshy pasture and a steep sided woodland gorge to the sound of chiffchaff and warblers once again. Reaching Bont Ddu, we crossed the road; the loud mechanics of passing cars violent to our wind and river-caressed ears. Jolted, we decided against walking the mile along the road that remained to the end of our journey. Instead, we turned to walk alongside the muddy estuary, and feeling rough around the edges from two days of effort and tent-head, the sparkling water of the Mawddach proved too much to resist. We dove in and swam, cooling our limbs off until the rapidly rising tide threatened to cut us off from our path home.

This is a story and not intended to be advice or information. We always leave no trace and go Adventuresmart.