“Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” – Winston Churchill

Finally the day arrived. Two weeks mountaineering in the Bernese Oberland mountains of the Swiss Alps. I was climbing with Steven, veteran of the Chile and Peru trips, and we had an ambitious trip planned (is there any other type?), aiming to push deep into the heart of the Swiss alps and climb some classic mountain routes.

↑ ↓ Evening light on the Jungfrau mountain massif.

At each stage of the journey out, from office desks in Canary Wharf to glaciated alpine mountains, a layer of our complex lives was left behind. The bustling stresses of city life quickly shrink from one’s mind. Deadlines, spreadsheets and bills cease to exist in the high mountains.

Zurich was hot and humid, even when we landed at 10pm. Laden with heavy bags, the walk from the train station to the hostel was unexpectedly draining. The hostel was right in the vibrant heart of Zurich; a great place for a few beers with the locals, keen to quiz us about the summer of discontent in London (the riots had occurred shortly before this trip). Lively revelers wandered up and down the street all night long. Late to bed, exhausted, yet sleep was not forthcoming. I cursed when the alarm sounded at 7am the next morning, but the show had to go on.

By lunchtime, we had arrived at the village of Kanderstag, on the edge of the Bernese Oberland. Lunch and much discussion followed – did we have the willpower to climb up to the mountain hut today? We must, the weather was due to worsen the next day. A final bus up the valley, another bout of procrastinating and then off we went, laden with climbing gear and days of food.

The valley scenery was immediately impressive; steepening flanks ending in crenellated ridges high, high above our heads. The path was excellent but the going still tiring. As we crested the head of the valley, the Kanderfirn glacier came into view, its gigantic proportions a suprise to me. Maybe it was just a sign of how long it’d been since my last big mountain trip in early 2010. The glacier was dry, free from snow, with the crevasses plain to see. Laid bare, great cracks in the ice emanated from wherever the glacier changed altitude or direction. Small rivulets criss-crossed the glacier in half pipes. In places, water collected into pools that appeared bottomless, disappearing into an inky, consuming blackness.

↑ Steven advancing up the Kanderfirn glacier, a miniature figure on a vast field of ice.

↓ Clouds building over the Jungfrau.

↓ The Mutthorn hut stands proud on an island of rock in the midst of the Kanderfirn and Tschingelfirn glaciers. It is 2,900m high and offers all the creature comforts one could need at the end of an alpine day. The food was delicious and plentiful and the staff welcomed us in with a cup of tea on the night of our arrival. It had been a tough first day! We were quite played out after so much ascent, heavy bags and little sleep the previous night. A cold wind and stinging rain had chased us along for the final hour on the glacier. The food, a superb fish dish, tasted all the better for it.

↓ Tshingelhorn mountain, 3562m high, and our first objective. The route involved following the rocky skyline ridge from right to left, or as far as ability and pluck would take us.

We crept out of the hut just before first light, headtorches on top of warm hats, their beams cutting through the darkness. As the sun rose, it brought warmth and hope for the day ahead.

Picking our way between the crevasses, trusting the snow bridges and jumping across voids where necessary, minds were on autopilot. Efficiency was the name of the game at this stage. Heads bowed, one foot following the other, concetrating on not tripping over one’s crampons or letting slack form in the rope between us.

Once one has overcome the inertia of the early morning start, and the bitter cold that comes with it, this is the most beautiful and peaceful part of the day. It is also the time of day when the mind plays tricks. Will I or won’t I be able to climb this mountain? How scary will it be?

An hour after leaving the hut, with the sun just up, we reached the bergschrund that blocked our progress onto the ridge. Steven, full of enthusiasm, powered past the tricky section (we had left second axes at the hut as this was going to be a rocky ridge climb. This made crossing the bergschrund quite challenging however). He set up a belay and coaxed me across. With a good whack of the axe and one hand gripping the top of the ice as a handrail, I gingerly made progress across the face, balanced on the front points of my crampons.

↓ Yours truly midway along the ridge (photo by Steven Cunnane). It was a long, long way but continually interesting. Several abseils, short exposed sections of climbing and plenty of chossy, loose rock. A classic alpine ridge combination.

↓ Steven climbing one of the pitches en route, clipping into some protection before pressing on upwards.

↓ Ascending another one of the steep pitches (photo by Steven Cunnane).

We topped out on the summit of Chlys Tschinglehorn, 3,495m, the first of two summits on the ridge, at 2.15pm. The slightly higher main summit still lay beyond, some way off and out of reach on this day. The ridge had taken longer than expected, mainly on account of the snow and loose rock. It had been a sublime day of climbing though. The descent back to the Mutthorn hut was unpleasant; carefully picking our way down steep slopes and one hideously loose gully, laced with rockfall and no available protection. It was a relief to be back at the hut, where exhaustion caught up with me. Worryingly, the irritation in my throat that I had first noticed that morning had now developed into a menacing cough.

↓ Another view of the evening light on the Jungfrau massif. The next stage of our plan was to venture into the great glaciated wilderness beyond these peaks, staying up high for 10 – 12 days, resting overnight in the huts and climbing as many peaks as we could.

↓ The Birghorn, a peak we had hoped to summit, as it lay just off our route between the hut and the valley. As we approached, all we could see was a tottering summit block surrounded by bands of steep, loose scree. It was unjustifiably dangerous and the peak summarily dismissed. By now my throat was annoyingly sore, irritated by the dry air and a hacking cough. A bout of illness was sadly inevitable. The timing could not have been worse; it would certainly be detrimental to our climbing plans. I had no idea at the time that I wouldn’t step foot on a mountain again during this trip.

↓ Descending the Uisters Tal valley down to the village of Fafleralp. The plan was to spend one night in the hostel, then journey back up into the high mountains the following morning. Sometimes in life one’s best laid plans go to waste. The next day was a write-off for me. After breakfast Steven set off to solo climb the mountain behind the hut. Dejected, I returned to bed, the only place for me.

↓ Reflection in the pond at Fafleralp village.

↓ The ubiquitous alpine cow turns its attention to the paparazzi.

“The cow is nothing but a machine which makes grass fit for us people to eat.” – John McNulty

↓ A waterfall in the Gugginalp valley, on one of my short wanderings from the hostel in Fafleralp.

Each day I hoped I would feel fitter so we could get the trip back on track. My health never did return though and after 5 days in the same hostel, going stir crazy with cabin fever, we pulled the plug and returned home a week early. The disappointment hit hard; I knew how long it would be until the next time.

Postcript: It took me about four weeks to recover from an infection in my left lung. A similar time elapsed before I could bring myself to edit the photos and write about the experience. My climbing boots now sit forlornly in the corner. The mountains remain however, and ruminations of a return trip, if not to these specific peaks then others, flit through my mind.

But it could be a while yet.

↓ Alex Dowsett, the eventual winner of the Time Trial, at full speed on Lower Thames Street.

↓ Another Team Sky rider at full tilt on Lower Thames Street.

↓ Steve Cummings, who finished second in the overall standings, racing past on Lower Thames Street.

↓ Stage 8b – the road race: In the afternoon, the riders completed 10 laps of the 8.8km time trial course to round out the tour of Britain. Here, Team Sky’s Alex Dowsett (I think) rounds the tight hairpin corner next to the Tower of London.

↓ Dowsett and Michael Rogers accelerating out of the hairpin corner on Tower Hill Terrace road.

↓ The Team Sky mechanics following the peleton, ready for any emergencies.

↓ Ben Swift on lap 7 or 8 I think.

↓ Dowsett and Rogers battling with one of the HTC riders at the front of the peleton.

↓ Rogers and Dowsett again.

“Nature never did betray, The heart that loved her.” – William Wordsworth

A few photos from a weekend earlier this year (June in fact!), walking with my mum in the South Lakes. Based in Coniston on day 1 and Ambleside on day 2.

↓ Day 1: We left Coniston on the excellent path of the Walna Sca road. Photo looking up to the cloud-capped fells we were aiming to ascend.

↓ The day’s route began in Coniston, up the Walna Sca road, over Brown Pike, Buck Pike, then to the summit of Dow Crag, before dropping down to Goat’s Hawse, finally over the top of Coniston Old Man and then returning to Coniston.

↓ Breaking for tea before we turn off from the Walna Sca path and head upwards onto the fells proper.

↓ Scrambling over blocks to the summit of Dow Crag, 778m, with our route of ascent along the ridge over Buck Pike in the background.

↓ Heading into the mist near the summit of Coniston Old Man. The wind and rain afforded only a brief, cold pause at the summit cairn.

↓ Descending the switchback path down to Low Water.

↓ Old mine buildings above Coniston.

↓ Day 2: Dry stone wall near the start of the Fairfield horseshoe. Again, the weather was looking rather dubious. Threatening clouds did produce bursts of rain, even hail, and strong winds ensured a decent drumming.

↓ Raining. Feeling bedraggled at this point. The camera was well protected but raindrops did invariably end up on the lens, producing the spots in this picture.

↓ Just past the summit of Fairfield the sun came out and accompanied us over Great Rigg. The valley of Rydal Beck remained dark and wet.

↓ Rydal Beck

↓ We made a stop to look around the formal gardens of Rydal Hall. Our route took us right past the entrance so a detour was easy to justify.

↓ Formal gardens:

↓ More formal gardens:

↓ The waterfall near Rydal Hall, seen from the viewing hut built on the banks of Rydal Beck.

↓ The waterfall viewed from outside of the hut.

↓ Our final view of the trip – the quintessential Lake District scene:

Photos from the trip can be seen here.

“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountain is going home; that wildness is necessity; that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains of life.” – John Muir

Wise words, and more so than ever in this day and age. I had become one of those tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people. A return to the natural environment was the only likely cure to a cabin fever as bad as I’d felt in a long time. So far in 2011, the number of adventures in the great outdoors could be counted on the fingers of one hand (runs along the Thames in central London don’t count). Last year’s hard won experience had faded and the skills picked up during those journeys long since forgotten. It’s hardly been what you’d call a vintage outdoor year.

A return to the North West of Scotland was long overdue. Both Alistair and I had talked about climbing An Teallach ever since our trip to Torridon two years earlier. Flights were booked, maps consulted and kit was packed. After so long it felt almost therapeutic, albeit distressingly unfamiliar. How many layers to take? Sunscreen or thick gloves? Map case – no, misplaced long ago. Mosquito headnet – yes, found two of them, both brand new in their packaging. Windproof top – no, never did find it. As I said, it had been a while.

↓ Day 1: Driving into the wilds. Suddenly, there ahead of us lay the mountains. Always dramatic, it’s the magnitude – the bulk – of these northern hills when seen from the roadside that causes a sharp intake of breath. This first glimpse of the mountains always sends my spirits soaring. The constant need to re-tune the radio, with an ever dwindling number of stations on offer, only served as a reminder that we were leaving civilization behind. Excitement was building with the beckoning promise of the adventures lying in wait. We had five days in Wester Ross and planned to base ourselves initially at Shenavall bothy. It was an ideal location to spend the first few days walking and scrambling in Scotland’s Great Wilderness.

↓ Roughly 6km after leaving the car, we crossed the shoulder of An Teallach and gazed down upon Loch na Sealga and the Great Wilderness. Grinning at the view, we mentally patted ourselves on the back for our luck with the weather. I felt happy, ecstatic, to just be there, in that particular spot, at that particular time. Before us lay a mountainous stronghold, peak after peak thrusting upwards; ancient citadels of the North West Highlands. Steep cliffs, striking ridges and crenellated summits promised much to the adventurous walker.

↓ Shenavall Bothy is a remote and basic cottage in Wester Ross, with a backdrop of corbett siblings Beinn Dearg Mor, 910m on the left, and Beinn Dearg Beag, 820m on the right. It’s a popular spot and justifiably so, occupying a splendid position in the heart of the Great Wilderness, right at the foot of iconic An Teallach (one of, if not the finest mountain on mainland Scotland).

We depoted the camp gear at the bothy, consumed a more than adequate lunch and set off at 2.30pm for An Teallach. Such tardiness wouldn’t normally be advisable but we had the month of June fighting our corner. With guaranteed light until 11pm we took heart and slung packs over our shoulders – off to do what we mountaineers do best, puff and sweat our way uphill. The effort of each step over such terrain begs the question of exactly why we keep subjecting ourselves to such ordeals under the pretext of “fun”. Why do we come back year after year for more of the grind? Of course, we all know why. It’s the treasure trove of beauty, wonderment and adventure that we seek. We have our maps, and we go forth after our bounty.

↓ The photo shows Alistair heading upwards over the interminable boulder fields of Sail Liath, 954m, the first top on the ridge of An Teallach.

↓ The splendid main ridge of An Teallach, from the summit of Sail Liath. The two munros, Sgurr Fiona, 1060m, and Bidein a’ Glas Thuill, 1062m, are the prominent peaks to the left and right of the lowest point of the ridge (centre of the picture). Between us and them lay a scramblers paradise; a rough, serrated ridge of impeccable sandstone.

↓ Tempestuous weather filling in as we look to the west, towards the corbetts of Beinn Dearg Mor, left, and Beinn Dearg Beag, right. Clouds had scudded in the from the south west, ending our hopes of scrambling along the ridge in late afternoon sun. Spectacular beams of light pierced through the dirty quilt above our heads.

↓ The fun begins. Alistair climbing a superb layback crack as we ascend one of the numerous pinnacles along the ridge. The climbing was easy enough – no ropes were deployed – but it was exposed. The sandstone was rough and holds were plentiful, inspiring confidence and allowing sufficient enjoyment to vanquish our jangly nerves. Just.

↓ Further along the ridge, more exposure, more hands on experience. With elevated heart rates, blood pumping around the body, and mind focussed entirely on the metre of rock above and below, we were hardly conscious of the wider surroundings. It was a thrilling mountain ridge – a noble opponent that didn’t yield without a good scrap.

↓ Looking ahead to yet more sandstone outcrops on the ridge, minutes before the cloud descended further and engulfed us. The infamous Scottish murk finally settled in and held us in its grasp for the remainder of the evening.

↓ The summit trig point of Bidein a’ Glas Thuill, 1062m, highest point of An Teallach. We reached the summit at 7.30pm in a respectable ole’ blow and thick, wet cloud.

↓ Suitably unimpressed with the weather, we stopped to layer up before the descent down to camp. It was past 8pm by now and gone 10.30pm by the time we reached our tents (pitched outside the bothy).

↓ Day 2: The next morning, camped outside the bothy. Benign conditions greeted us which boded well. The day was likely to be challenging in its length and number of peaks climbed. We set off with vague designs on the “Fisherfield Six” – the six munros that lie on the east and west sides of the Glenn na Muice valley – but it soon became apparent that we were moving too slowly (read: we weren’t fit enough) and the eastern four were challenge enough.

↓ Crossing the Abhainn Strath na Sealga. The rivers were never more than knee deep and fairly tame, though this is not always the case in this area. Two days before our visit, the bothy book recorded a river in spate and impassible. The riverbed was covered in a multitude of orange, red and grey pebbles. The crocs I borrowed off Alistair; leading up to the trip, I had completely failed to even contemplate a strategy for crossing the rivers. (I managed to keep my boots dry for the first two days at least).

↓ Looking west from near the summit of Beinn a’ Chlaidheimh, 916m, down onto Beinn Dearg Mor. We’d both found it a tough climb direct from the valley floor to the summit ridge. Appreciation of a summit is often a correlation of the effort taken to reach it.

↓ On the summit of Beinn a’ Chlaidheimh, content.

↓ Celebrating with a dram of whisky on the summit of Sgurr Ban, 989m, as Alistair reaches his double century of munro summits.

↓ After all that whisky we needed a quick sit down – with views like these it was a day to savour. Ever mindful of the time and miles remaining we had to balance the need to keep moving – to stay the course – with the desire to just sit and survey the land.

Two further munros, Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair, 1019m, and Beinn Tarsuinn, 937m, were traversed that afternoon. Each step carried us further south, away from our camp. Beinn Tarsuinn, complete with its tepui-esque plateau, was reached late in the afternoon; in our weary state, definitely too late for us to contemplate continuing over the two munros on the western side of the valley. Tired limbs were not complaining.

↓ The late evening walk down the valley was as peaceful as could be wished for. A reasonable path carried us swiftly along the banks of the Abhainn Gleann na Muice river. One was spoilt for scenery. The perfect antidote to the stressful city I had left, frazzled, less than 48 hours earlier.

↓ River, tree and mountain. An Teallach forming the backdrop to a serene landscape.

↓ Day 3: Home, sweet home. A Golite Shangri-La 1 tent and inner, pitched with trekking poles. Inside: a Rab Neutrino 200 sleeping bag, Karrimor roll mat, Platypus 3L water carrier, Golite Pinnacle rucsac, MSR pocket rocket stove, titanium billy and Asolo boots. Lastly of course, and most important of all, a cup of tea.

On the cards today, an ascent of Beinn Dhearg Mor (see the second photo). It would have been rude of us not to climb this dramatic looking Corbett whilst we were camped so close. It had dominated our every view for the past two days and had won us over. Looking every bit the younger sibling of An Teallach, another scramble was chosen, this time a grade 3, 2 star line up the east buttress to the summit. It sounded fantastic; whether we ever actually climbed on this route or not we’ll never know. We struggled to match the guide book descriptions to the topography of the slopes we were on. What followed instead was an adventurous selection of exposed ridge scrambling, heather bashing and disconcertingly loose gullies to ascend.

↓ Scrambler’s eye view:

From the summit of Beinn Dearg Mor, a steep and tiring descent followed by a similarly steep and tiring ascent saw us atop Beinn Dearg Bheag.

↓ Views westwards from the summit to the sea – the most spectacular viewpoint of the trip thus far with expansive views across to the smattering of small islands off Scotland’s coast.

↓ Orchids (I think, correct me if I’m wrong!) were scattered about the slopes of our descent route. Dainty, contrary ingredients of this immense and coarse landscape.

↓ Loch Toll an Lochain with An Teallach’s western spur in the background. It felt unusual to be walking along a beach, half way up a Scottish mountain. But we were not the first – deer prints ran all the way along the beach, though we never saw their creator.

↓ Whisky this way. On we pressed, a quickening of pace as our grumbling stomachs hurried us back to camp. A tricky descent followed. Marooned between the outflow of the loch and another river on a steep heathery slope, we slithered downhill above the confluence of the rivers. Clumps of heather concealed numerous little holes and drop-offs, keeping the senses sharp and the fatigue at bay.

↓ Another crossing of our old friend the Abhainn Strath na Sealga river, with the first munro of yesterday, Beinn a’Chlaidheimh, in the background.

↓ Cooking dinner in Shenavall bothy. Tea and two helpings of pasta, tomato sauce and tuna. Truly a meal fit for kings.

↓ After dinner we struck camp, leaving Shenavall bothy behind as we retraced our route to the car. Three weary hours saw us back, finishing the day’s walking the wrong side of 10.30pm for the third day in a row. We were knackered. Totally. But who could complain after the days we’d had.

↓ Day 4: The misty ramparts of Slioch, the hill of the Spear, 981m. As one of the most photographed mountains in Scotland (albeit from the south side of Loch Maree), I was keen to climb this munro. Alas, the weather had broken overnight and a cold morning (hat and gloves were worn, from the car) greeted us as we departed. Early showers thankfully gave way to dry and increasingly fine weather as the day wore on.

↓ The summit dome remained obstinately in the mist all afternoon though. Alistair approaching the top.

↓ Yours truly on the summit of Slioch. We lingered, hoping the cloud would clear – it thinned and so nearly gave us a view but the cold got the better of our curiosity eventually.

↓ Looking along the summit ridge.

↓ Further on, near the munro top of Sgurr an Tuill Bhain, 934m, the cloud cleared to the east but not the west side of rige. Walking along, floating in and out of this sea of vapours, enjoying the views opening and closing in front of our eyes. Summer walking at its finest.

↓ Loch Maree catching the afternoon sun. Undoubtably, the best weather of the trip. The hat and gloves were now well and truly buried at the bottom of the rucksac as t-shirts and sun-cream were pressed into action.

↓ Reflections in one of the many sidestreams that feed the Kinlochewe River into Loch Maree.

↓ Day 5: Slioch, seen across Loch Maree. A brief parting in the clouds teased us. Blue sky peeped out between the torn, ragged edges of a white duvet. Slioch revealed much to us: flanks stretching all the way from the loch shore to the fore-summit, but still the top itself remained elusive. Moments passed in wonder, gazing at this behemoth, remembering to put the camera to one side to appreciate the view whilst I still could.

Soon after the photo was taken, dark, ominous clouds rushed in and clobbered away the blue sky. The remainder of the day was spent in a monochrome world. A cold wind blew up. Rain slanted sideways. The weather increased in intensity as we wended our way up the corbett of Meall a’ Ghiuthais, 887m. Energy levels were depleted after the long days earlier in the trip. Each step required a conscious mental effort; more a case of the destination being important, not the journey. Determined to “bag” one final hill, we slogged upwards and eventually won out. The summit may have been ours, but the enjoyment belonged mostly to the weather gods.

↓ The final image from the trip was of this lone pine, standing tall above the mountainside, impervious to the weather. Directly across from Slioch, a sentry from yesteryear, caring not for the passage of us walkers, gone in a fleeting moment. Through hail, rain or shine, the lone pine just stands, watching the four seasons play themselves out on Slioch’s stage.

It was with a sad heart that I boarded the 17:10 flight back from Inverness to Heathrow. Hours later, crushed onto the underground train, blackberry flashing emails at me, I promised myself that I wouldn’t leave it so long between trips. Life is too short.

The objective for the day was Elidir Fawr, the northernmost of the Glyderau. It’s 924m, or 3,031ft, high making it one of the fifteen Welsh 3000ers. It’s also a Marilyn, a Hewitt and a Nuttall.

We departed Nant Peris village (old Llanberis) at 10am, chatting merrily but expecting rain. It felt good to be stretching the legs again. The trek across Spain already felt distant and I felt fresh and hungry for more hill time. It felt great to be walking in Wales, especially Snowdonia. It’s as close to home as any mountains feel, my proving ground where I first began this love affair with the great outdoors. I learnt to backpack, to rock climb, to winter mountaineer and to rip up the mountain bike trails here in Snowdonia. It has always been and will always be a special place for me.

The path wound up between the cottages, the great slate heaps of yesteryear towering up on our left side. Looking back we could see the flanks of the Snowdon group wreathed in cloud.

Higher, as we left the cottages and mines behind, the map indicated the path crossing the valley stream some distance above the footbridge. Reluctantly, we ignored the bridge and carried on up the right hand side of the valley. The path became difficult to follow; boggy underfoot. The rain threatened and our spirits were dampened. There looked to be a decent, level path on the opposite side of the valley, taunting us, promising a break from the slow going of the bogs. We never did find the stream crossing that was marked on the map though. Instead we carried on through the soggy terrain, squelch, squelch, squelch.

Higher up, near the head of the valley and just below the cloud base we crossed the now narrow valley floor, over the stream and clambered up to the path on the other side. We passed this ancient stone animal pen. Looking back down the valley we had ascended we could see sunlight on the Snowdon group – had we chosen the wrong hill today?

The path petered out and we were left to scramble directly up a steep gully of grassy humps and slippery rocks to gain the ridge top. Finally, a decent path. Being just beneath the cloud base, we enjoyed some magnificent views of the surrounding hills and the route by which we had ascended.

To the North, on the opposite side of the ridge to which we had climbed up, lay the large reservoir of Marchlyn Mawr, the high level water source for Dinorwig power station. For a brief moment, the cloud parted and we caught a glimpse of the lake. The wind raced across the col we stood on; loose rucsac straps or jacket pullcords whipped around and stung any exposed flesh they connected with. The clouds soon hid the lake again and we climbed onwards and upwards into the gloom. Spirits rose as we closed in on the summit, no doubt helped by the good path we now found beneath our feet.

The summit of Elidir Fawr is covered with shattered rock, very typical of the Glyders range. Elidir Fawr is a small, distinct summit crowned by an obligatory windbreak. We cowered down behind this circular wall for the briefest of breaks, a quick cup of tea and a snack. Just as we got up to leave the clouds parted, dramatically revealing the ridge we had climbed and the lake of Marchlyn Mawr far below. What joy!

We paused a little longer on the summit to witness the clouds racing by, wave after wave of cotton wool. The summit of Elidir Fawr must be a contender for one of the most splendid vantage points in all of Snowdonia. It stands at the north-western end of the Glyders, a distinct and separate mountain. With commanding views of the 3 major ranges, the Carneddau, the Glyders and Snowdon, as well as super views out to sea, the Isle of Anglesy and Puffin Island, it is a mountain I will climb again.

With the bad weather well and truly blown through now, the descent route offered a proper view of Marchlyn Mawr. It really is a vast lake for one so high up in the mountains. The valley is wide and the dam suprisingly large.

Peter (my brother) and I were enjoying the day too much to finish here so we continued on, agreeing to meet the others lower down. We climbed Foel Goch, 831m, a little further along the ridge. Again the summit offered a superb panoramic view of Snowdonia and the sea. We chatted about our memories of climbs in Wales, soaking up the scenery. We plotted future adventures and then stopped talking and just sat. It was one of those magic mountain moments; the reason we walk through bogs and clamber over rocks. I wanted to indelibly stamp this final summit in my memory bank (my brother is emigrating to Australia in a couple of weeks).

Peter leaving the summit of Foel Goch.

The descent route stayed up above the valley, so we had no repetition of the boggy horror show from earlier. Now 4pm, we followed and crossed numerous old dry stone walls and more modern fences as we followed the ridge down.

As we neared the cottages of Nant Peris again, two friendly horses trotted over to say hello.

The bold horses venture closer to check out the camera…

The horse’s breath steamed up my lens (UV filter fitted) moments after I took this photo. It had us all in fits of laughter, crowning a superb hill day; one that will linger in our minds long after the mud has been washed from our boots, long after our appetites have been satiated by other hill walks.

I’m using a theme from Graph Paper Press which I’ll be tweaking over the next few weeks.

Also, I’ve got my house in order and put together 2 photo essays from recent mountaineering expeditions to South America. It seemed a shame that the photos only existed on my hard drive, lost amongst the ever growing library. Both adventures were incredibly rewarding; the Chile trip this year was probably the hardest expedition I’ve been on thus far. 3 weeks of remote glaciers and mountains, without mobile signal or internet connection, it was a test of our 2 man team’s self-reliance.

The Peru 2008 trip can be viewed here.

The Chile 2010 trip can be viewed here.

After a flight, a bus journey, another bus journey and then finally a taxi, I reached the little village of Beget where I had finished the first part of the trek. At 4pm I was ready to start walking again. Full of optimism, expecting a week of sunshine, I had gone lightweight and left most of my warm clothing at home.

Leaving the village of Beget under ominous, leaden skies, I could sense that a storm was brewing. Sure enough, within an hour of starting, the distant rumbles of thunder could be heard. An hour later I had to take cover from the worst storm of the entire trip. Torrential rain, lightning and seemingly continuous growling, rumbling thunder. Fortuitously, as the storm passed overhead, there was a nearby ruin so I hid it out, not wanting to chance the rather exposed, open footpath high across the slopes of the gorge.

That night I stopped in the bivouac shelter next to the old church of Sant Aniol d’Aguja. Nestled high in the mountains, with only footpath access, it was a remote, ancient place. It felt like stepping back in time. It remained deep in shadow the following morning, as the steep valley sides caught the early morning sunshine.

The day was bright and beautiful. This was more like it. Maybe the suncream would be needed after all. There were some fantastic cloud formations that lasted until early afternoon when the sun burnt most of them away.

One of the rather special moments of the trip occurred when I caught my first glimpse of the Mediterranean sea, the goal of my long trek. After so many days, when it was no more than an abstract goal beyond the horizon, it was now a real, tangible target. One that was not too far away now.

The old monastery of Convento de Sant Quirze de Colera, passed on day 72, my penultimate day of walking.

The even larger monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes, which sits above El Port de la Selva, passed on the final day of walking.

I’m there! Standing at the Eastern most point of mainland Spain, Cap de Creus, having walked 1,795km from the Western most point of Spain, Cabo Tourinan. I felt alive, excited and hugely satisfied to have made it and completed my goal.

A kung fu kick to celebrate!

YEEEEHAAAA!

I departed at 9am, a little too tardy for my liking, but I soon hit my stride. The few early morning clouds soon dispersed, leaving a blue, blue sky and ever-brightening sun. As I climbed higher, a merciful breeze kept my temperature down. A fascinating old snow drift stood sentinel alongside a waterfall, suprising me in its defiance against the glaring sun.

After an hour or so of walking I reached the frontier ridge where I stood, breathless, one foot in France, t’other in Spain. The wind was fiercer up here, the sleeveless top doing little but preserving my modesty. I crouched on the French side of the border ridge for a short break, out of the wind. The route now headed due E along the frontier for several kilometres, all the while above 2,500m.

Traversing this ridge was simply magnificent. At my feet in every direction were sweeping valleys, bordered by craggy peaks streaked grey/green by the scree and grass slopes. Each valley was bejewelled with a mountain tarn, none bearing the intrusive marks of man’s presence. I climbed four peaks as I walked along this ridge, culminating in the high point of my trek atop Pic Superior de la Vaca, 2824m. Pausing to soak up this scene, I was indescribably happy.

I was never alone up on those high ridges for this was the domain of the Griffon Vulture. Very difficult to photograph well, unless you’re prepared, I witnessed several “fly-bys” only managing this meagre image below.

Further on I had a choice to make. I could drop down out of the mountains to reach the small town of Setcases and pause here for the night. Alternatively I could stick with the frontier ridge, divert from the GR11 trail that I was following onto a variant trail, and thereby remain high up in the mountains. Of course, there was never really a choice. How could I drop down out of this sublime landscape? Who knows when I might experience such a stupendous day again?

Onwards and upwards I went, hours slid away as the afternoon wore on. The path was level for many kilometers and I sped along in a dreamlike state. Everything was in balance. The final peak of the day, Roca Colom, felt bittersweet. It was my final high mountain experience of the trip. I sat for a while, wishing I could briefly suspend time and just be. Just exist in that very place, the warm sun on my face and the world at my feet.

As I left this mountain eyrie behind, I felt the mountain’s spell slowly fade away. I had felt something that day. A magical feeling. The mountains had been more than just a collection of rock, grass and snow. So much more. They had given me an experience I would not forget in a long time. As I turned and looked back for a final time, I could see the mountains were looking back at me. A mountain goat, to whom these mountains were home, was looking down at me, the unfamiliar visitor. He watched as I slowly descended the ridge, turning only when he was content that I had passed.

3 days later, I returned to the UK after 68 days and 1,650km of walking. I finished up 150km short of my goal, the Eastern most point of mainland Spain. So I return next week to walk these final days to the coast and I can’t wait to once again be trekking in the remote Eastern Pyrenees. The altitude will now be much lower, the days much hotter, but the magic of long distance walking will return.

I expect to complete my trek by the 7th August. Upon my return to UK I intend to self-publish a book of landscape photos and stories from this trip, showing the magic of the places I walked through.

Motivation slumped a little around days 52/53. I think it was the cumulative tiredness building up and a case of mountain scenery overload. The days following though, I met some great people, learnt some more Spanish and motivation soared again. Here I am on day 61, with a week left, and I´m soaking it all in, trying to wring every drop from this experience.

Two nights ago I stayed in the hut in the above photo. I shared travel stories with my fellow companions that night – they recounted stories from their fascinating travels to East Greenland…

There were also a group of scouts camped up next to the hut. A lovely moment occured when one of them came over to tell me photography was his hobby. I let him take some photos with my camera and use the tripod. It was a special moment to share the sunset with a budding photographer and see the enthusiasm of this young lad.

The photo shows the route leaving the hut and skirting round Lake Baiau before the climb up to the col.

So, this brings me on to the title of this post. As I mentioned, I´m in Andorra now, with about 270km to do. I have 6.5 days of trekking left before my flight home from Barcelona. This equates to an average of approximately 41km/day which just isn´t going to happen in the mountains. It would also compromise my photographic goals if I was to turn this trip into a forced march…

…And so I´m going to get as far as I can (aiming for Beget or Albanya). Then I´ll return home to England* and come back to Spain later in the summer to walk the final 4 days to the coast. At first I was quite miffed about not completing in the time I had set myself, but upon reflection, my mileage estimates in the Pyrenees were too ambitious, especially given the heavy snow conditions (I lost a day climbing up to a high point, then having to retreat and find a different route becuase of snow; and, I lost a day feeling ill in Burguete). So I´m content with my decision to go as far as I reasonably can, then finish the route as soon as I can get back out here over the summer – whilst the trip still has momentum!

*Unfortunately the return to England is not movable otherwise I would simply move my flight four days later. I´m returning home to see my brother and my dad sail into Hull on the Clipper Round the World Yacht race, an event I wouldn´t miss for the world.