I’ve looked at Waun Fach from both sides now, from up and down, and still somehow… I really don’t know Waun Fach at all.
Joni Mitchell didn’t say

I’ve made several visits to the Black Mountains over the years, but I had never climbed its highest peak, Waun Fach (811m), so this year I decided to put this omission behind me by climbing it twice.

Now I know what some of you will be thinking: Waun Fach? Is that the name of a mountain or a Welsh swear word? It sounds like the sort of thing Gareth Bale used to mouth to the camera after spooning a free kick over the crossbar.

I know it sounds a bit rude, but I can promise you that it really is the name of a mountain (there is also a peak in the Black Mountains called Lord Hereford’s Knob, but that’s a story for another time). However, if you’re familiar with the Welsh language (or you’ve been following this blog and you’re recalling an earlier post) then you may also be wondering, how can Waun Fach be the highest peak in the Black Mountains?

The name ‘Waun Fach’ translates from Welsh as ‘Little Moorland’. Most Welsh mountains called ‘Fach’ therefore have a nearby peak called ‘Fawr’ (‘Big’) that is slightly higher. It follows that there should be a Waun Fawr that is the highest peak in the Black Mountains. But there isn’t. Moreover, Waun Fach can hardly be described as a peak at all: it’s more of a big, boggy plateau with a summit cairn placed seemingly at random on its surface. For visitors to Kinder Scout in the Peak District (sometimes referred to simply as ‘The Peak’ by people with no understanding of irony), this will sound familiar.

Since moving to the Cotswolds, the Black Mountains are now my nearest high hills. They are essentially composed of four broad, north-to-south ridges on the border between the Welsh counties of Brecknockshire and Monmouthshire, and the English county of Herefordshire. The ridges contain two county tops (although Waun Fach, which lies in Brecknockshire, isn’t one of them). At the northern end they form a steep escarpment, while to the south they are divided by deep valleys.

Waun Fach is more easily accessed from the west, where there is a major road running up the Rhiangoll Valley and a selection of well-trodden footpaths up to the top. Being a bit of an idiot, however, I decided to do it from the east side first, where access is via a single-track road deep in forest, and footpaths – as will be seen – are, well, not always available.

Waun Fach from the east

My first visit was back in April when the grass was green and rain was still a thing. Those were the days when two months without rain in Britain seemed no more likely than aliens landing in Parliament Square.

There may be no Waun Fawr, but Waun Fach does have a twin about 1.8km to the south-east called Pen y Gadair Fawr (800m) that is far more prominent and ‘peak-like’, albeit a few metres lower. My plan was to park in the Mynydd Du Forest, deep within the Grwyne Fawr Valley. I would climb up through the forest onto the western ridge, then follow the ridge to its northernmost extent, over Pen y Gadair Fawr and Waun Fach. It happens that the northernmost extent is a moorland escarpment at the head of the Grwyne Fawr Valley; I could therefore double back and descend the valley to my car.

The Mynydd Du Forest wasn’t easy to get to. I drove for 16km along a narrow road with few passing places: the sort of road where you pray you won’t meet anyone coming the way, or there would be a Mexican stand off until someone agreed to reverse 100m between hawthorn hedges to the nearest available passing place. The valley was deep and dark, and enclosed by pine forest. By a miracle I reached the substantial car park at the end of the public road without having to reverse.

The Ordnance Survey map marked a maze of forestry roads on the steep hillside west of the car park. OpenMaps marked a further network of trails, but some of these must only have been trails at some point in the dim and distant past. Others were merely cuttings where trees had once been hewn, but had become quite overgrown. In other places trees had fallen across, rendering them impassable. I had been warned of this via a review of the car park on Google Maps. I also used the satellite view on my OS app to confirm whether a trail look liked it still existed. Before leaving home, I used a combination of the OS map, OpenMaps and the satellite view to plot a likely route through the forest and up to the moorland above. To save you the bother of doing this yourself, I’ve provided a link to my GPX at the bottom of this post (that is, if you’re still stupid enough to follow my footsteps after reading the description below).

Things started OK as I followed an overgrown shelf that must once have been a forestry road that had long since been left to go wild. After about 400m I turned off this to take a direct route straight up the hillside, through one of the forest cuttings I had identified on the OS map. This cutting came in three sections, each intersected by a forestry road. The first section was ludicrously steep, straight through the pine plantation with no clear trail, though there was evidence that others had also used it. Towards the top I had to take a wide diversion round a giant fallen tree. The second section was much less steep, with a clear trail through the trees to bisect the next parallel road. The third section was also not as steep, but potentially the most awkward. There were many fallen trees, including one that I had to crawl underneath. When squeezing between tree trunks, I had to be wary of protruding branches at head height with the potential to take an eye out and leave it skewered like a kebab.

By the time I reached the third forestry road, about half of the vertical ascent was behind me. From here I could identify a route to the top of the forest by keeping to roads on long zigzags. I climbed above a quarry and emerged into heather clad moorland just north of the 658m summit of Pen Twn Mawr. It had taken me just over an hour to mix and match a route through the forest, but I had finally escaped.

I was now on a broad, heather-clad ridge. I trudged through the heather to reach the summit cairn of Pen Twyn Mawr. This wasn’t much of a peak, but it was a good viewpoint looking south and south-east to Sugar Loaf and the Skirrid, respectively. Both of these peaks were lower but better-known that the one I stood on. Sugar Loaf is a distinctive, isolated peak that dominates the town of Abergavenny nestling beneath it. It can also be seen clearly from the A40. The Skirrid had been occupying my thoughts recently on account of a slightly odd mystery concerning its shape (the subject of a previous post).

To the west, a parallel ridge containing the summit of Pen Allt Mawr looked high and far away. In reality, it was barely 3km away and only 60m higher than where I stood. I followed a grassy trail along the ridge to Pen y Gadair Fawr. The fringes of the forest sat below the ridge to my right, while to my left was a distant view across hillsides to Pen y Fan, 23km away.

The summit of Pen y Gadair Fawr was perched on top of a flat, grassy platform, almost like the remains of an iron age hill fort. I could see one lone figure walking up to the top while I was still some distance away. But it wasn’t until I reached the summit myself at midday that I met other people, the first since leaving the car park two hours earlier. A proper 2m-wide stone trail, complete with drainage channels, led all the way to Waun Fach. I saw many people walking along it as I sat beneath the summit eating my lunch. I looked down towards the Grwyne Fawr Reservoir where I had camped on a backpacking trip in 2010.

The walk to Waun Fach would have been much boggier had it not been for the incongruous manmade trail. Waun Fach isn’t really a summit at all, but a giant peat bog. Any point on its surface could have been chosen for the summit cairn. The trail snaked across to the plateau’s northern end, where the cairn overlooks the lowlands to the north. This location may or may not be the highest point, but the view is better there than the middle of the plateau.

A trio of hikers asked me to take their photo beside the cairn. I obliged them and returned their camera, only to see them wander off without offering to return the favour. I didn’t really mind, as a selfie was quite sufficient, but it struck me as a bit odd. It’s a bit like waving to get someone’s attention then buggering off as soon as they acknowledge you.

The next part of the walk was along the edge of the escarpment, looking north to the lowlands of the Wye Valley on the Welsh border. It was surprisingly busy. Cyclists raced down the hill in my direction. Luckily I saw them and stayed out of their way. Runners legged it past me and I overtook some groups of my own. The terrain was awkward to begin with, as multiple rutted furrows meant that I had to watch where I put my feet. These ruts petered out, and eventually the route joined soft, short grass that was pleasant to walk across.

The wind was on my back, and I didn’t notice how strong it was until I left the escarpment and turned south to follow the head of the valley down to the Grwyne Fawr Reservoir. Now its full force blasted into my face. There was nowhere to shelter as the trail led gently down between cheeks of rolling hillside, and it was quite unpleasant. After a few minutes I reached a little side valley where I could sit in a sheltered spot in the lee of a bank and eat the rest of my lunch.

When I resumed the walk there was a nice view beyond the reservoir to the triangular top of Chwarel y Fan. I had climbed up to this point during my backpacking trip in 2010 to find myself on a ridge with no obvious top. I had no idea that I was actually crossing the highest point in Monmouthshire. I returned there with Edita in 2024 to tick it off during our quest to complete the Welsh county tops.

This time I kept to the valley. At the southern end of the reservoir I passed the impressive stone dam holding back its waters. Beyond this, a pleasant trail kept high above the valley to reach the top of the forest. I descended through the forest on a horrible stony track that would have twisted all the legs of a centipede. I arrived back at the car park in the Mynydd Du Forest at 3 o’clock.

Waun Fach from the west

My second visit came in late August, by which time it hadn’t rained for over two months and the grass in my part of the country was beginning to resemble the Serengeti, only much shorter (and without the vast herds of wildebeest). In Britain, a few weeks without rain is so unusual that it is considered a national emergency. The previous week, everyone in Britain had received an urgent text message from the government instructing them not to have barbecues. Down the road from me in Cheltenham, a community cricket team had been banned from their local club for setting off fireworks. It was, however, still permissible to drill for oil and burn off the surplus gas.

The Black Mountains’ ridges are notably broad and rolling, but there are two exceptions on either side of the range. On the eastern (Herefordshire) side, a sloping razor leads to the top of the Black Hill. On the western (Brecknockshire) side the exception is known as the Dragon’s Back (also called Y Grib), a narrow undulating crest that joins the broad moorland plateau a little to the north of Waun Fach. It’s supposed to resemble – you guessed it – the back of a sleeping dragon, though perhaps one in need of a massage.

At the bottom of the Dragon’s Back are the remains of an iron age hill fort, Castell Dinas, which gives its name to a pub, the Dinas Castle Inn, on the A479 from Crickhowell to Talgarth. The owners of the Dinas Castle have generously given up one of the pub’s two substantial car parks to hill walkers, albeit for a £5 parking fee.

I could see the lower spine of the Dragon’s Back rising up behind Castell Dinas as I approached the pub car park along the main road. The car park was almost full when I arrived at 9.30, but I found a spot along the verge, and scanned a QR code to pay my fiver.

At the northern end of the car park, a trail led south-east through a tunnel of woodland. I decided to leave the Dragon’s Back for the end of my walk and continued south-east to mount the Black Mountains via another route. The trail was largely flat to begin with, but after about a mile I left the woodland to join a minor road that started rising gradually past farmland.

A runner passed me as I left the road to join the main path up the mountainside. The path climbed steeply through a wooded holloway before breaking out into open moorland. Up it went, slanting to the right. I could see the Rhiangoll Valley far below me as I looked south. Pen Allt Mawr (719m) and the westernmost arm of the Black Mountains rose up beyond.

As for the path beneath my feet, for a long time I couldn’t see more than the brow about 20m in front of me. For all I knew it could go up and up into the heavens. But eventually I crested the brow and my route emerged across a heather-clad moor. Ahead of me was a low 618m col marked by a pile of stones between two unobtrusive summits, Pen Trumau and Mynydd Lisiau.

When I reached the col, a much wider view emerged. I looked across a pastoral valley to Pen y Gadair Fawr and the broad ridge that I had followed in April. Behind me, the eastern cwm of Pen y Fan crowned a distant skyline like a bat spreading its wings.

The trail turned north, and I followed a broad ridge that curved to the right, up and over Pen Trumau and right on up to reach the summit of Waun Fach. As I think I’ve made clear, Waun Fach has to be one of the least distinctive high points of any mountain range; it was no peak at all, just a dark mass on the horizon. A stone trail led across the moor like a city pavement. I reached the summit at 11am, for the second time this year. A father and his two young boys were resting against the summit cairn, but they moved as soon as I reached for my camera to take a selfie.

I had forgotten to pack my sit mat, but I found some rocks in the dry bog beneath the summit, and I sat on a flat surface to eat an early lunch. A large dark cloud hid the sun, casting a gloom across the landscape. I looked north across the curving escarpment that I had followed four months earlier. Amid this rolling landscape, the narrow Dragon’s Back ridge, leading off the escarpment to the left, stood in marked contrast. The landscape was much greener than the parched desert around my home in the Cotswolds. A few hikers passed as I ate my lunch, but it was quieter than it had been in April.

I continued onwards. For about fifteen minutes I retraced my April footsteps as I followed the escarpment north along the same rutted trail. Another pile of stones marked the point where the trail descended to join the Dragon’s Back ridge, but I had a detour in mind. Several GPX tracks that I found while researching the route on my OS app continued to a dead-end point on Mynydd Bychan, the parallel ridge immediately to the north. The routes then doubled back across the top of Cwm y Nant, the combe dividing Mynydd Bychan and the Dragon’s Back. I was intrigued. There must be something interesting there, but what could it be?

There was no footpath, so I descended steeply across open moorland. I didn’t have to go far before I could see a large cylindrical cairn some way down the parallel ridge. When I reached it, I could see that it was fairly modern, but there was no plaque explaining why it had been built. There was a nice view across Cwm y Nant to the Dragon’s Back and across the bottom of the combe to the flat-topped peak of Mynydd Troed, so it seemed as good a place as any to stop for my second lunch.

There was nowhere comfortable to sit in the immediate vicinity of the cairn, but I could see a large area of flat stones about 20m below, so I descended to it. The stones were conveniently horizontal and formed a series of benches. I picked the flattest one and sat myself down. It took no photo of this feature, which appeared to be natural. It was only when I got home and researched the cairn a bit more that I discovered I must have eaten my lunch on top of a 3,000-year-old bronze age burial site known as the Mynydd Bychan Platform Cairn.

I reascended the ridge and skirted around the top of Cwm y Nant to descend the Dragon’s Back. It was an easy and picturesque descent on what had become a sweltering day. I stopped for many gulps of water. There were quite a lot of people who had obviously read the weather forecast and were now coming up the other way after a late start. I raced down past them.

The ridge wasn’t all descent. There were a number of undulations to slow my pace as I plodded back up again. The worst of these was the steep ascent to the top of Castell Dinas, the iron age hill fort at the bottom end of the ridge. There are many iron age hill forts in the North Wessex Downs, close to my home in the Cotswolds. All that remains of them are circular banks surrounded by ditches, but they are all sited high above the surrounding landscape with commanding views. Castell Dinas was much smaller than any of the forts in the North Wessex Downs. It was only about 30m across, and its position far beneath much higher hills meant that I was underwhelmed. Had I explored a little further, however, then I may have been more impressed by the remains of mediaeval castle on the northern side.

I took one last look back up the Dragon’s Back to Waun Fach, then descended the last few steep fields to the car park, arriving back at about 1.30.

You can see all photos from the two walks in my Waun Fach Flickr album.

Route maps

Waun Fach from the Mynydd Du Forest
Total distance: 18.96km. Total ascent/descent: 590m.
View route map and download GPX

Waun Fach via Pen Trumau and the Dragon’s Back
Total distance: 13.63km. Total ascent/descent: 727m.
View route map and download GPX

The viola came first, a long, high note like the sound of a whistle.

It was answered by the first violin: another extended whine, higher still, from what seemed like a different part of the forest.

The viola responded with a deeper note, just as mournful.

The pattern was repeated again and again, but the orchestra never started playing the music. There were no warbles, trills or melodies like a song thrush might make after clearing its vocal cords. The sound of the orchestra tuning was the tune. It was slightly eerie until I got used to it, but it was mesmerising.

We heard this sound once or twice last year, while climbing Pico Duarte, at 3,101m the highest mountain in the Dominican Republic on the Caribbean island of Hispaniola, and also the highest mountain in the whole of the Caribbean.

We usually heard it in the deeper sections of forest above 1,500m, but only occasionally. We didn’t hear it at all during our travels in the jungle and mangrove swamps of Los Haitises National Park, but that was coastal forest. Whatever was making the sound was clearly a mountain dweller.

Edita asked one of our guides what bird it was, and she was given the name higuero or jilguero, clearly a local name rather than its official one. They said you could often hear the bird, but it was very difficult to see.

When I typed jilguero into Google after returning from our holiday, it came back with the European goldfinch (I think because of this page on the Spanish edition of Wikipedia), I knew it wasn’t a goldfinch though. We get dozens of those coming to our feeders here in the Cotswolds. They’re colourful birds and their song is lively, but we’ve never heard those mournful violins.

Now, on our second visit to the Dominican Republic’s Cordillera Central, we had chosen to climb Pico Duarte via the Mata Grande Route on the northern side of the range. This route is more remote than the standard La Cienaga Route that we climbed last year. It is less frequented and involves a longer trek through the forest.

Now the tune was all around us throughout the morning and afternoon. Usually we trekked alone and there was no one to identify the birdsong for us. But once when one of our guides was following behind us on his horse, we heard the sound again and Edita asked him what it was.

‘Higuero,’ he said (which could also be spelled jilguero). He said that it was an ibis and that it was ‘rojo y negro’ (red and black). This didn’t help us at the time, as we hadn’t seen it, only heard its curious call.

We never did see the bird, but we couldn’t forget that call like the sound of an orchestra tuning their instruments.

A few days after our trek finished, we were sitting in a restaurant high above the town of Jarabacoa, when curiosity got the better of me and I opened up the Merlin app on my phone. I use the Merlin app a lot when sitting in the garden back at home. If there is not too much background noise around you, such as the sound of traffic, Merlin is great for identifying individual birds by their song.

Edita had recorded the sound of the jilguero during our trek. If we played the recording to the Merlin app on my phone, would Merlin be able to identify the bird? We tried, but there was too much background noise in the restaurant and on the recording. Merlin drew a blank.

There was another possibility though. If you provide Merlin with your location, it will tell you the likely birds in your area. I knew there would be no jilguero nearby; although we could see forest below us, we were only at an altitude of 600m, far below the jilguero’s range. But Merlin would also let me set the location via a map.

I set the location to a random patch of forest a short distance below Pico Duarte. Merlin came back with a list of 129 birds.

There were only two ibises: the glossy ibis and the white ibis. Neither could be described as red and black, and both made the sound a percussionist might make by rubbing a pair of notched sticks together. Whatever our bird was, it wasn’t an ibis.

I tried listening to the calls of some birds that looked a bit like an ibis (a wading bird with a prominent bill), such as the snowy egret, the western cattle egret and the green heron. But these were squawkers, not musicians.

Then I started going through the whole list one by one and playing their calls (luckily, we were the only people in the restaurant). It was a labour-intensive task, but it was also an easy one. There were no calls that could even closely resemble the jilguero.

On the 31st bird, I struck gold. The sound was unmistakable, though it was somewhat matched by the sound of Edita and myself squealing in unison.

The bird was mostly light grey, though the darker grey of its hood and cloak could be mistaken for black. There was a prominent ruby patch on its throat.

It was no ibis though. It was the rufous-throated solitaire, described as ‘a medium-sized resident of dense, moist montane forests’ with a song that is ‘a series of drawn out, uninflected flutelike whistles given at varying pitches’.

It was no orchestra, but a single musician playing long, weeping notes in succession.

There could be no doubt that we had the right bird. There on the Wikipedia page for the rufous-breasted solitaire was a section on local names, and lo-and-behold ‘In the Dominican Republic the bird is called “jilguero”’.

The rufous-throated solitaire is a member of the thrush family, about 20cm in size, found only on six Caribbean islands: Jamaica, Hispaniola, Dominica, Martinique, St Lucia and St Vincent. Each island has its own subspecies, but in each case the song is the same, first note low, second high, third low.

The mystery was solved with the help of King Arthur’s wizard, but if I ever return to Pico Duarte, I will have to take the more traditional item of a pair of binoculars, or I don’t think I will ever get to see this blighter.

I climbed Lhakpa Ri on 11 May 2007 as part of a commercial expedition by UK mountaineering operator Jagged Globe. The leader of that trip was an Australian mountain guide called Mic Rofe, who also led us up to the North Col of Everest two days later.

Two of my companions that day were Mark Dickson and Ian Cartwright, who feature in several of my published books and diaries. Five years later, all three of us would reach the summit of Everest together.

After trekking from Everest Base Camp up to Advanced Base Camp on the north side of Everest, we spent 4 nights acclimatising there before making our attempt. We spent some of this time on the East Rongbuk Glacier, learning rope and climbing skills with Mic’s expert tuition.

———

At long last, after days of waiting around doing very little, it’s time for some hard physical exercise. We’re woken up with bed tea at 4.30am, but it takes me nearly an hour of faffing before I’m ready to depart. I put on several warm layers; my salopettes, which prove impossible to put on inside the tent; double-layered mountaineering boots; gaiters; down jacket; windproof outer layer; my harness with abseil device, jumar and safety carabiner attached; balaclava; sunglasses; neck buff and warm hat. I finish by putting on warm gloves after getting my fingers icy cold sorting everything else with just my inners. I grab my ice axe and have only my crampons left to fit to my boots down on the glacier before we set off. After swallowing a quick breakfast we’re eventually ready to leave at 5.50.

It’s now light, which makes things a little easier. We start by crossing an icefall onto the main East Rongbuk Glacier. This section is very short, but I know it will feel much longer when we return through it later in the day. The ice is dry with no fresh snow, allowing us to spot any crevasses before we fall down them.

Once through the icefall, we rope up and head up into a blank basin of thick snow coloured a soft grey in the dull dawn light. Above the basin, two peaks rise above us. The one on the left is flat-topped like the ridge of a tent [this is the second Gardefui peak described in the previous post]. The one on the right, Lhakpa Ri, is slightly higher and rises to a rough point like a clenched fist. Our first destination is the col between the peaks, known as the Lhakpa La. Here we will turn right, along a faintly rocky skyline to the summit. This skyline is our only view of the earth’s surface: between us, the land is entirely submerged in snow and ice.

I find myself at the back of a rope of five, led by Sangye, with Tim, Ian and Mark in a line behind. Tim is the oldest in the group, but Ian, Mark and I have been the quickest until now. If we were worried about him slowing us down, we soon discover that his pace is far from sluggish.

There isn’t much to tell you about the first four hours of the climb. We plod monotonously through deep snow, rising gradually higher into the bowl. The sun is rising above the col, but it never really manages to burn a hole through the dense cloud. Behind us, blue sky appears tantalisingly above the North Col; and the steep cliffs beneath Changtse’s east ridge provide some contrast. They are so steep that hardly any snow clings to their chocolate-brown surface. The summit of Everest, however, hides regally behind dense clouds.

As we ascend, we angle slightly to the left, then back to the right to skirt beneath a subsidiary ridge of the tent-shaped peak [this is the rocky rib that Tilman and Wigram climbed on their first ascent]. After four hours we reach a 150m section of fixed rope below the col. It seems strange to find it here, a thread of human interference in this blank wilderness. The angle of the slope is gentle and we don’t bother to clip in using the technique that Mic showed us. A short distance above it, we take a rest. My altimeter reads 6,700m, which means we’ve climbed about half of the vertical distance.

Just above us on the same crest of snow is the Lhakpa La – the high pass that Mallory crossed in 1921 as he looked for a way to the North Col. For him, reaching the pass was a triumph. He could now see a clear route up to the North Col and the summit of Everest, but nobody ever came that way again. While Mallory had been beating a route to the Lhakpa La from the remote Kharta Valley, his teammate, the geographer Oliver Wheeler, had quietly mapped the more obvious approach up the East Rongbuk Glacier that Mallory had missed.

We never make it to the Lhakpa La. Instead, Mic turns right up the snow slope beneath it, to skirt beneath the rocky skyline we had seen from ABC. It’s physically exhausting. We climb through an area of crevasses. Mic now takes over the lead with the slower rope team of Chris, Petr, Bunter and Nima Dendi. Things are no longer so straightforward. From time to time there is a cry of ‘stop’ when somebody puts a leg in a hole right up to their thigh. Our ropes come to an abrupt halt as we wait for the victim to extricate themselves. But this is as bad as it gets – nobody falls right in, and we pass through this hazardous area without mishap.

The slope becomes steeper the closer we get to the summit. Our pace slows right down as the thin air cuts into our lungs and we gasp for breath. We plod only 20 or 30 paces at a time before stopping for a rest. These stops become longer as Chris and Petr sit down in the snow to get their breath back.

I look up at the steepening snow slope converging to ridges on either side of us. The point of convergence appears to mark the summit, but before we reached the col I noticed a higher summit behind it. We are climbing straight up the middle of the slope, where the snow is deep. Despite our painfully slow progress, everybody seems determined to keep going.

Then Mic, exhausted from breaking trail, asks someone else to take over. The gentle whirr of the wind cuts through the air and I imagine a bell tolling somewhere in the distance. We look across at Sangye and Nima Dendi, but they stay where they are. It suddenly dawns on me that not all Sherpas are the tigers of the snow that we believe them to be. Far below us, in that village of tents at ABC, are the premier league footballers of the Sherpa world, ready to climb to the summit of Everest with the Manchester Uniteds and Chelseas of mountaineering outfitters. Somewhere on the other side of the mountain is camped a similar array of superstars. Ours may have trained with them once, but they’re now playing in the lower leagues with Torquay United. After a few seconds of tense silence, Mic’s team reverses the order of their rope, and Nima Dendi leads off.

We reach a short rocky section. It’s not terribly steep, but Mic decides to tie a fixed rope for safety. The fresh snow has hidden a layer of rock beneath the surface, and now we can’t see what we’re treading on. Chris and Petr are digging deep now, into reserves of energy that are rarely used. They struggle to ascend a short rock slab. They swing backwards and forwards, exhausted, and dangling by their jumars from the fixed line. Mark and I are right at the back. By the time we come to climb this section, we have waited a long time, but we cross it easily.

We now have an easy scramble to the top of the ridge that marks the north summit, but progress is painfully slow. Petr falls over next to me. I assume he is exhausted and I make some friendly comment before moving on. But Bunter, below him on the rope, is more concerned. He shouts at him to tighten the rope and stay where he is.

He scrambles up to where Petr is waiting. ‘Who is Klara?’ he says.

Petr’s daughter Klara is somewhere down at Advanced Base Camp with a separate expedition team, hoping to become the first Czech woman to climb Everest.

‘Klara – why, my daughter, of course,’ Petr replies.

I feel a bit embarrassed. Bunter seems to be treating Petr like a small child, bullying him to get moving. But Bunter is concerned that Petr is showing signs of altitude sickness. Later, I hear both Petr and Chris express their gratitude to Bunter for his help during the climb. I guess some people appreciate different levels of assistance.

We have another delay just a few feet short of the north summit. I stand in an awkward position on steep snow, a hair’s breadth from the top, cursing another delay. Eventually, instead of moving in a line on our ropes, we all step up to congregate on the crowded summit. I can immediately see what the problem is. Sangye is waiting on the narrow snow-capped north summit looking across at the marginally higher south summit. The two peaks are connected by a narrow ridge of snow, but it is fresh rather than consolidated, and therefore much less stable. Were it to fall away, we would tumble hundreds of metres down to a crevasse-riddled glacier. Sangye is unsure about continuing, and after a brief discussion with Mic they decide this is as far as we go. To brave the ridge would mean to risk triggering an avalanche.

I look at my altimeter. It’s reading 7,005m. I have the consolation of climbing above 7,000m for the first time in my life. It’s 3pm, and it’s taken us nine hours to reach here – much longer than we anticipated, though the fresh snow made our ascent considerably harder.

It continues to snow heavily for most of the descent. The tracks we made on the way up have been obliterated. At times visibility is only a few metres – this makes navigation more difficult and it’s hard work breaking trail for a second time. We descend the fixed ropes by means of the Klemheist knot that Mic taught us in base camp. We share a single rope for much of the remaining descent. Initially Chris leads. When he has difficulties seeing the trail, he swaps with Ian, but Ian also has one or two problems: the path through the crevasse field has disappeared, and he needs to make a new one. This time I’m the idiot who falls in a couple of times. But my rope mates dig in to the snow with their crampons and axes, holding me in position until I climb out again.

There is a more embarrassing incident when I take off my pack to put another layer on. I put down my camera bag and it starts sliding down the hill.

‘Whose is that camera bag?’ Bunter says.

‘Mine,’ I reply.

It’s going so slowly that I’m certain it will soon come to a stop.

‘Don’t worry, it’ll stop rolling soon,’ Ian says.

‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ Bunter replies.

The camera bag slows and I breathe more easily, but then it picks up speed again. By now it’s about 50m below us, and heading directly towards the ominous black line of a crevasse.

‘Stop! Stop, you bastard!’ I cry.

The bag doesn’t listen. It now seems certain that my camera is doomed. All my teammates are watching tensely. I start to wonder how deep the crevasse is and whether the bag can be recovered. Then, suddenly and inexplicably, it comes to rest about a metre short of the black line.

Everyone laughs, but it’s not over yet. As we tramp down towards it, I’m almost certain it will drop over the edge as soon as somebody gets within a metre. The fast team of Ian, Mark, Tim and me, head lightly for the crevasse. Ian stops short in case of an overhang beneath him, and hooks the bag off the ground with his ice axe. On the rope behind us, Bunter and Chris start cheering. My companions pass my camera along the rope, but Mark wisely decides we’ve had enough good fortune and slings it over his shoulder. As we move past the crevasse, I note the trail left by the camera bag in its tumble down the hill. There’s no obvious reason why its journey came to an end, but I’m relieved it did. Perhaps our puja worked and the mountain gods were smiling on me. The crevasse looks deep.

Our descent drags on as the light becomes dimmer. At the lowest point on the glacier, we’re met by Kaji and Pasang with some mugs and a flask of hot lemon. It’s a nice gesture, but it means yet another delay – I just want to get back to camp and drink hot liquid while sitting in a nice comfy chair in the mess tent.

The snow has stopped now, and the clearing cloud affords us our first view of Everest as the evening sun touches the North Col high above us. I realise just how fantastic the view from the summit of Lhakpa Ri would have been had the weather been kinder. We cross the icefall as the evening light dims to pitch blackness. I fall into three crevasses. The last of these I see quite clearly; I make a running leap, but I don’t notice that the ground drops away by a foot immediately in front of it, and I end up catapulting myself right in. Then I trip over an invisible snow ridge and get cramp in my right leg.

‘Stop,’ I shout to the others in front of me. ‘I think I need to put my head torch on.’

Mark turns around. ‘Why don’t you take you sunglasses off, you idiot?’ he says.

‘It’s still light, isn’t it?’ I say.

He nods slowly. I take off my glasses, and the world is suddenly brighter.

If our blundering sounds amateurish, then all I can say in our defence is that better men than us have found themselves in a similar predicament. When descending the North Ridge in 1922, the Everest legends Edward Norton and George Mallory came across a similar crevasse field on their approach to the safety of their North Col camp. They struggled through it by the light of a candle lamp. At least my head torch isn’t going to get blown out by a gust of wind.

We reach camp at 7.30pm, after more than 13 hours of exertion. Nobody feels like eating. We sit in the mess tent, swallowing a few mouthfuls of tea and trying to get some warmth back into our bodies. In two days we hope to climb to 7,000m again, on the North Col of Everest.

I’ve recently finished reading Mount Everest the Reconnaissance 1935 by Tony Astill about – it’s going to be hard to say this without teaching your grandmother how to suck eggs – the 1935 Mount Everest Reconnaissance expedition led by Eric Shipton.

The book is subtitled The Forgotten Adventure, possibly because not much has been written about it. The expedition is partly famous for what they didn’t do, which was to reconnoitre Mount Everest (or not). Unexpectedly, the British Mount Everest Committee had received permission from the Tibetan authorities for expeditions in both 1935 and 1936. They agreed that there wasn’t time to organise a full-scale assault in 1935, so Shipton was asked to organise a smaller expedition to check alternative routes on the north side and assess whether an attempt was possible during the summer monsoon season.

Shipton and his team reached as high as the North Col, where they concluded that monsoon snow conditions rendered a summer attempt too dangerous. The expedition is therefore better remembered for what followed. Having decided their reconnaissance objectives had been achieved, they spent the rest of the expedition exploring the surrounding countryside. In a few short weeks they completed 26 first ascents of mountains over 6,000m high on the north side of Everest, something Shipton described as ‘a veritable orgy of mountain climbing’.

While Shipton did write about the 1935 expedition in his book Upon That Mountain, he covered only their visit to the North Col and not the ‘orgy’ that followed. Tony Astill’s book can best be described as an edited collection of diary entries by the various team members rather than a full narrative account of the expedition. This makes for a sometimes uneven and laboured read; but as far as I’m aware, it’s the only book entirely about this expedition, which makes it historically significant and a valuable piece of Everest literature.

The book was interesting to me because my first 7,000m peak was 7,045m Lhakpa Ri, an easy snow slog lying just across the East Rongbuk Glacier from Advanced Base Camp on the Tibetan side of Everest. I climbed it in 2007 during a one-month expedition by the UK mountaineering operator Jagged Globe. Two days after climbing Lhakpa Ri, our team ascended to the North Col and I realised for the first time that climbing Everest was a realistic goal. Five years later I achieved it by the same route.

I knew that the legendary mountain explorer Bill Tilman made the first ascent of Lhakpa Ri with Edmund Wigram during Eric Shipton’s 1935 Everest reconnaissance expedition, but I had never read any account of the climb. Tony Astill’s book filled that gap for me.

Shipton and team had pitched their Camp III close to where climbers pitch Advanced Base Camp today, around the corner from the East Rongbuk Glacier, beneath the south face of Changtse. On 9 July they discovered the body of Maurice Wilson lying outside the wreck of his tent a short distance above their camp. Wilson was an English eccentric who conceived the idea of climbing Everest by crash landing a plane on its slopes and getting out to climb to the top. He took flying lessons and bought a Gypsy Moth aircraft. In 1934, he succeeded in flying single handed to India, but was denied permission to fly any further. Undeterred, he hired three Sherpas in Darjeeling, snuck into Tibet illegally and trekked all the way to Everest base camp. Until Shipton’s team made their discovery, his fate had been unknown.

Three days later, on 12 July, Shipton opened the route from Camp III to the North Col with two other team members, Charles Warren and Edwin Kempson. Tilman and Wigram had not been acclimatising well, so they were left in camp under strict orders to rest and recuperate.

Despite feeling weaker than the others, Tilman and Wigram didn’t much like the idea of sitting around in camp doing nothing. Looking east across the East Rongbuk Glacier, they were attracted by two modest peaks lying either side of the Lhakpa La, a high pass that George Mallory and his team had crossed on the first Everest expedition in 1921. One of these peaks had been named ‘Gardefui’ by Charles Warren.

Having been there myself, I can see quite clearly from the photo in Tony Astill’s book that the higher Gardefui is the very same Lhakpa Ri that I climbed in 2007. Lhakpa Ri (7,045m) rises directly above a snowy combe. To climb the mountain we had crossed this combe and climbed snow slopes on its left-hand side.

The left-hand margin of the combe is bounded by a rocky rib that passes a minor summit before continuing north-west to reach the second ‘Gardefui’ peak, a 6,896m rock and snow peak that can be seen on the left in the photo. In his 1921 sketch map, expedition cartographer Oliver Wheeler marked the Lhakpa La as being along this rib beneath the second Gardefui peak. However, behind this rib is a snowy col that can more properly be described as a pass. Opinion is therefore divided on which of these features is the Lhakpa La. This is the probable reason why the peak on the south side of the col has since been named Lhakpa Ri.

At 11am on 12 July, Tilman and Wigram decided to take a look at these peaks. Taking a light load of tent and food they set off. Although crampons had been invented a few years earlier, they were still not widely used in 1935. Without them, walking up easy snow slopes could be an exhausting labour, as climbers needed to carve a staircase of steps with their ice axe. It is perhaps for this reason that Tilman and Wigram chose to climb the rock rib rather than the snowy combe. After 2½ hours of steep scree, they were still some way beneath the minor summit. They decided that was enough climbing for the day, dumped their loads and set off back at 1.30. The sun was bright and they found it ‘a hell of a sweat’. It took them as long to descend as ascend, and they were ‘dead beat’ when they flopped back into their tent at Camp III at 4pm.

The following day, 13 July, they had a breakfast of porridge and set off again at 8am, this time carrying climbing equipment and bedding. They reached their previous day’s equipment dump at 10am, picked it up and resumed, now carrying larger packs of around 14kg. The ridge continued up a tongue of very loose scree. With their increased loads, they needed many halts, but they eventually reached the top of the scree at 6,700m and found a rocky platform where they could pitch their tent. By 1pm they were settled in for some rest. Tilman recorded in his diary that it was still blazing hot at 5.30pm.

They left their camp at 7am the following morning, 14 July, bound for the top of the first Gardefui (Lhakpa Ri). It took them an hour to reach the Lhakpa La, from where they took a ridge of crusty snow which steepened to a ridge of snow and rotten rock. This contrasted with my own ascent 72 years later. Our group didn’t climb as high as the pass; instead, we slogged our way up a tedious snow slope beneath it which, like Tilman’s route, became a steeper, more rocky ridge a few metres beneath the summit.

Tilman and Wigram reached the lower north summit and realised they would need to rope up to follow a short, narrow ridge to the main summit. (In 2007, my larger, less experienced group did not take this ridge, contenting ourselves with the north summit, which is about 40m lower.)

They reached the main summit at 10am. Here they would have had a fine view straight up Everest’s rarely climbed north-east ridge to the fearsome Pinnacles that would claim the lives of Pete Boardman and Joe Tasker nearly 50 years later. But it had clouded over and there was no view. Tilman had not enjoyed the ascent and recorded in his diary, ‘damn all high climbing’, which could be interpreted in a number of ways.

After eating biscuits and cheese, they returned to their tent by means of a ‘sitting glissade’ (something most small children would call tobogganing). This enabled them to reach their tent at 11am, only an hour after reaching the summit.

The snow conditions had tired them out and they didn’t feel like tackling the other Gardefui peak as they had intended. (This peak was also known to them as No. 3, but I have marked it on the map above as Gardefui II.)

They had virtually nothing to eat and nothing to drink. They also reported in their diaries that they had nothing to read or smoke, an abstinence that now seems quaint and old-fashioned. They eased their thirst by catching water from the rocks. Despite these difficulties, they decided to stay in their tent another night to tackle the second peak.

It was a wet, windy and cold night, and it snowed a lot. Luckily the second peak was much closer. Setting out at 7am on 15 July, they followed crusty snow along the ridge and reached the top at 8.30. It was cold, and again there was no view. The first ascent was bagged, but they were not tempted to linger. They descended immediately and were back at their tent within half an hour. After eating what remained of their food, they packed up and left by 10.30.

They appeared to take a different route back down, across a glacier – presumably the same snowy combe that my group ascended. They descended in a gathering storm, but were back at camp at 2pm.

While their fitter, stronger companions had been doing the hard work of escorting Sherpas with supplies up to the North Col in pursuit of their summer reconnaissance, these two layabouts had etched their names on a mountain that would eventually become a popular stepping stone for future generations of Everest climbers. It’s interesting to note that it took Tilman and Wigram four days and two overnight camps to accomplish an ascent that can be completed fairly easily in a single long day from Advanced Base Camp.

It snowed hard that night. Avalanches thundered down from the North Col. Shipton and his team would soon decide to abandon their reconnaissance and retreat from the North Col in dangerous conditions. On the plus side, once they were safely down they were able to join Tilman and Wigram on their mountaineering holiday.

In the next post you can read about my own ascent of Lhakpa Ri 72 years after Tilman.

The Everest season is now over, as are the usual regurgitated stories about traffic jams on the south-east ridge. It seems like a good time to report on what is, in my opinion, a far more heinous example of queuing on mountaintops that has emerged in recent years.

I first came across it in 2022, during our erstwhile queen’s platinum jubilee celebrations, which Edita and I celebrated by climbing all 14 Welsh peaks over 3,000 feet in height. As I made my way up to the summit platform of Snowdon / Yr Wyddfa, the peak with two names, I heard a voice ringing out:

‘I say, imagine being the sort of ghastly, selfish individual who would push their way to the front of a queue when other people have been waiting patiently.’

(In fairness, he probably didn’t say ‘ghastly’, but I use the word here to illustrate the sort of person we’re dealing with.) 

The accent was English and the manner a restrained sarcasm that we now call ‘passive-aggressive’. I’m guessing the man was a schoolteacher. It took me a few seconds to register that his remark had been aimed at me.

I was puzzled. I hadn’t exactly pushed my way anywhere; one side of the summit platform had been empty, so I simply walked up to it and asked Edita to take my photo.

It was only after the man had made the remark that I noticed a line of around 20 people on the other side who had been queuing to take their own photos. I had sort of noticed this queue but it hadn’t occurred to me that they were queuing for the summit. Snowdon is a bizarre mountain that has its own visitor centre, cafe and railway station on the top. It seemed much more likely they were queuing for ice cream (which would have been perfectly sensible, by the way). 

There was no sign indicating that you had to queue and no stewards ushering people into a line. On my many previous visits to this particular summit, people have simply crowded together. A bit of jostling was necessary; you had to be wary of selfie sticks swinging towards you, but people were always happy to make room. I’m not aware of any fights ever breaking out over a summit photo. Until now. 

This time, however, an orderly queue had formed and people had chosen to join it. These Brits are crazy.

I might turn the man’s statement back on him:

Imagine being the sort of oddball who walks all the way up a mountain, and then waits for an hour in a queue to take a photograph, when they can just take it. 

Why would you do that? I can think of a few reasons, but none of them make any sense. If you object to sharing the summit with someone else, that in itself is suspect. Summits are for everyone. If you want a photo with no one else in it, just walk to a different part of the summit. Or if you want to pretend there was no one else on the summit platform with you, there are easier ways to remove people from the background than waiting for an hour. ChatGPT and other AI tools will do it in a fraction of the time, and enhance your pectorals at the same time to make you look more ripped. 

Let’s be clear on this: queueing for half an hour or more in sweltering heat to have your selfie taken at the summit of a mountain is not normal. It ranks alongside starting a conversation with your neighbour on a crowded train, facing backwards while travelling up an escalator or wearing a sombrero in a cinema as being one of the things respectable people should never do. And while we’re on the subject of trains, the Northern Line at rush hour is a great example. People just get on with it and squeeze into the carriage. If you try to start an orderly queue then you’re just going to be late for work. 

This disease has spread to other parts of the country. When I climbed Pen y Fan in South Wales last year, another peak that I’ve climbed multiple times without encountering summit fever, there was an even longer queue of people waiting on an even broader summit.

Last month, this behaviour also hit the headlines. Two charity hikers, Jamie Richardson and Richard Theideman, had raised money for a friend with motor neurone disease (MND) by completing the Three Peaks Challenge of climbing Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon in a single 24-hour period. 

They were sunburned and exhausted as they arrived on top of their third and final peak having been on the go all day and all night. If anyone should be permitted to stroll up to the cairn and have their photos taken without waiting for an hour in sweltering heat, these two fine young gentlemen certainly deserve that honour. 

And yet, in their moment of triumph, they were booed and jostled. Someone shouted ‘you should be ashamed of yourself’. One man even tried to stop them touching the summit cairn. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that people blew raspberries. 

We hear about terrible things happening in the news. And now this.

And yet, there is hope. I can see a simple solution to this seemingly intractable problem.

Life is extremely polarised these days, but if two very different sorts of people climb Snowdon, then why not cater for both of them? 

Snowdon’s summit is big enough to accommodate two summit cairns. Those who prefer to just get on with it, take their picture then find a quiet spot to enjoy their lunch can continue to jostle their way onto the summit platform for a team shot with whoever happens to be there at the time. I fall very much into this camp. Even my Everest summit photo has someone behind me taking a selfie with their phone. My Everest summit day took 18 hours. Waiting for another hour on the summit for everyone else to clear off would have been madness. 

To me anyway, but not to everyone. People who prefer queuing for their summit photo should be provided with a separate summit cairn.

But if we’re going to go down this route then it should be done properly. These people should pay a small fee for the premium service. This fee will be subject to dynamic pricing: the longer the queue, the more you will be expected to pay. There will need to be two separate lines for men and women. Each person will have to submit to a frisking from a uniformed man or woman wide enough to block a Messi free kick on their own. They will need to remove any coins from their pockets, along with belts and shoes. Trekking poles must be confiscated. Their bags must be searched. Phones and liquids will need to go into a separate see-through container. If they are carrying alcohol then it will either be confiscated or they will have to down it there and then before stepping onto the summit. Under no circumstances should they carry tins of beer hidden inside a tube of Pringles. 

Then and only then can these file-o-philes be allowed to have their photos taken alone on the summit.

By erecting two summit cairns, the wishes of both sets of hikers can be reconciled. Dangerous handbag fights will be averted, and social media users can go back to arguing about whether people should carry a map and compass (and know how to use them).

If you also feel strongly about this important issue then do please write to Eryri National Park Authority voicing your concerns. If they can afford to build a train station and a restaurant on the summit then an additional summit platform should be straightforward.

It was his sixth attempt to claim a FKT on Everest. His previous attempts have been on the much harder north side, but he diverted to the south side this time after China closed access from the north. He used supplementary oxygen from Camp 2, and reached the summit in 9 hours 55 minutes, beating the previous record of 10 hours 56 minutes set by Lhakpa Gelu Sherpa in 2003.

(Note: for 13 years, the record was believed to be 8 hours 10 minutes, set by Pemba Dorje Sherpa in 2004, but a Nepalese court declared this record void in 2017 after concluding that Pemba Dorje couldn’t prove his claim. The record for an ascent from the south side without supplementary oxygen is even more disputed, and if you’re interested to learn more, there is a good article on Explorersweb.)

When Tyler Andrews took the decision to breathe supplementary oxygen, he would have known that it will lead to questions being raised about his achievement, but he seems to be accepting of this. Supplementary oxygen makes a climb at high altitude much safer, greatly reducing the risk of altitude sickness and frostbite. It’s likely that it also reduces the risk of any long-term effects from lack of oxygen to the brain. For many alpinists, risk is central to the achievement; if you take away that risk, they say, then you’re debasing the climb.

The debate about the use of oxygen on Everest has been around for as long as people have been climbing the mountain. Its use was debated long and hard by the British teams who first attempted Everest in the 1920s. George Mallory was originally against it until he observed the performance of fellow climber George Finch and relative novice Geoffrey Bruce when breathing supplementary oxygen in 1922.

By the time George Mallory returned to Everest in 1924, he had been converted to supplementary oxygen to such an extent that it could be the reason he chose Sandy Irvine as his climbing partner on that last fateful climb. Irvine was a climbing novice, but he was the team member who had the most aptitude with the oxygen apparatus that Mallory now considered crucial to success.

Countless column inches have been written about the relative merits of reaching the summit of Everest with or without oxygen. The debate will continue for as long as people continue to climb the mountain. There will never be consensus.

Continue it may, but is there anything more that can be usefully said on this subject? Well, perhaps.

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while then you will know that I firmly believe that people should be allowed to climb mountains in any way they choose. Over the years I’ve used many methods to propel myself upwards, including aircraft, helicopters, pushbikes, chairlifts and even Snowcats. I also believe that as long as you’re honest, you don’t need to worry too much about which point of the summit you’re standing on, or even which summit.

Record claims require a bit more scrutiny though. People talk a lot about whether oxygen should or shouldn’t be used. They don’t talk so much about HOW MUCH oxygen is used, and this is absolutely crucial. As someone who used different flow rates of oxygen at different times during my time as a high-altitude mountaineer, I thought I would give you my perspective.

My very first 8,000m peak summit was Manaslu in 2011. I had reached Camp 4 at 7,400m without using oxygen. The following day I used oxygen for the very first time. With only 750m to climb to the summit and now with oxygen inside me, I wrongly believed that it would be easier than the previous day. I started out with frozen fingers after struggling with my crampons outside the tent. Only a few metres out of camp, I felt the rubber mask gagging on my face. I had to pull it away from my mouth to breath the outside air.

Climber after climber overtook me. My fingers were in pain and I was going so slowly that the summit felt light years away. Then my Sherpa, Chongba, came to the rescue. He called a halt and fiddled around with the oxygen cylinder behind my back.

When we resumed, I was flying (metaphorically, of course). I raced past all the climbers who had overtaken me. As the blood coursed through my veins, the warmth returned to my fingers. I felt like a superman. Suddenly the summit was well within my reach again. I just knew I was going to make it.

But behind me Chongba, who was climbing without oxygen, was struggling to keep up. He called another halt. This time when we resumed, the climb became a struggle once more. We did reach the summit, but it was one of the hardest things I had ever done.

I only solved the mystery of my Manaslu summit day six months later on my Everest climb. I was teamed up with Chongba again. He explained that the first time we stopped, he had turned my oxygen flow rate up to 4 litres a minute to get me going. During the second stop, he turned my flow rate back down to only 2 litres a minute. It was the only time I ever climbed on 4 litres a minute, and the only time I ever felt a superman at extreme altitude.

On Everest, I used oxygen at a rate of 2 litres a minute from about 7,200m on the slopes above the North Col. Then on my summit day, Chongba turned my flow rate down to 1 litre per minute at the top of the Third Step (about 8,700m) because he was concerned that I might run out of oxygen.

Looking back, I now believe that he made the wrong decision. One litre a minute doesn’t help much when you’re carrying a 4kg cylinder. It may lessen the risk of frostbite but it boosts your performance much less. I also know now that as long as you’re well acclimatised, suddenly running out of oxygen isn’t going to kill you. I’d had my oxygen flow rate suddenly reduced by 2 litres a minute on Manaslu and I’d struggled on.

After Chongba turned my flow rate down to a litre a minute, I slowed to a crawl. Although we reached the summit, I was the last person on the north side to get there that day and my descent became an ordeal.

When I finally staggered into Camp 3 that evening, we had been on the move for 18 hours. It was getting late, and there was no way I was going to descend any further that day. Had we done so then I would certainly have become benighted.

Yet I learned later of climbers who had gone to the summit and descended to Advanced Base Camp the same day without difficulty – almost 2,000m lower beneath the slopes of the North Col. It came as no surprise to learn that these climbers were breathing 4 litres of oxygen a minute. This turns it into a completely different experience.

I know that 4 litres a minute can turn an ordinary climber into a high-altitude superman. Two litres a minute won’t do that, but it will increase the safety margin.

Unlike me, Tyler Andrews is no ordinary climber. He was already a high-altitude superman before he put on that mask. And yet he climbed on 4 litres a minute from Camp 2, at only 6,400m.

From what altitude did Lhapka Gelu Sherpa start using oxygen and what flow rate did he use? Guinness World Records don’t say. Nor do they define the rules of the game. If Lhakpa was climbing on 2 litres a minute and he only put his mask on halfway up the Lhotse Face then these are two different records.

Perhaps these rules are already in place, but if not then I humbly request to define them. Tyler’s not going to like this, I know, but it’s nothing personal. If 4 litres a minute can turn a mediocre climber like me into a high-altitude superman, then it’s surely too much for a record attempt.

I believe that 2 litres a minute is a much better position to set the bar. It increases the safety margin without affecting performance too significantly.

My apologies to Tyler Andrews. He still has the record for a fastest known time on the south side of Everest while breathing 4 litres of oxygen from 6,400m. It’s a bit of a mouthful to say, but it’s still a great achievement.

A couple of weeks ago, we finished bagging all thirteen of the historic county tops in Wales. The historic counties are those that existed until the administrative boundaries were changed in 1974. You can see all of the Welsh ones in the map below.

Unlike those in England, all of the Welsh county tops are proper hills. Our journey provided plenty of variety, from woodland trails to coastal paths, peat bogs, escarpment edges, and some decent hill walks with wide views and airy ridges. To complete them, we took a tour of Welsh mountain ranges, from the well known like the Snowdon massif, Brecon Beacons and Black Mountains, to more obscure ones such as the Clwydian Hills, the Berwyns, Arans, Cambrians, Mynydd Du, Rhigos and Preseli Hills.

I thought you might appreciate a list with route maps, so here it is. If you click on some of the links, you can even read my hilarious trip reports.

1: Caernarfonshire

Snowdon / Yr Wyddfa (1,085m)

Caernarfonshire is the Welsh county in the extreme north-west of the mainland that includes the Lleyn Peninsula and the northern part of Snowdonia. It therefore contains the highest peaks in Wales.

Snowdon, also known as Yr Wyddfa, is of course one of Britain’s best-known mountains. Not only is it the highest peak in Caernarfonshire, but also the highest peak in Wales and higher than any mountain in England. Its rich history caused me to use it as the symbolic starting point for my journey to the highest point in the world, chronicled in my book Seven Steps from Snowdon to Everest.

Snowdon is rightly famous and unsurprisingly popular. So many people climb it now that on most weekends, controversially, if you want to have your photo taken atop its summit platform then you will find yourself joining the back of a long queue.

It’s a sprawling massif with many varied routes up, including the Watkin Path, the Snowdon Ranger Path, the gentler Llanberis Path, and the classic Snowdon Horseshoe that follows knife-edge ridges around the crest of a dramatic lake-filled combe.

The Snowdon Horseshoe
Total distance: 10.99km. Total ascent/descent: 1,023mm.
View route map and download GPX

2: Merionethshire

Aran Fawddwy (905m)

Immediately south of Caernarfonshire, Merionethshire hugs the Irish Sea coast south of the Lleyn Peninsula, but stretches far inland, across the peaks of southern Snowdonia to touch the eastern fringes of the Berwyn range.

The Aran Hills form a north-south ridge extending 14km from the shores of Bala Lake to the sleepy village of Dinas Mawddwy, nestling between hills at a confluence of the River Dovey. The central part of the ridge remains above 800m for more than 2km and reaches up to 905m on Aran Fawddwy, the highest mountain in southern Snowdonia.

Less well known than its slightly lower neighbour Cadair Idris, Aran Fawddwy and its sister peak Aran Benllyn give good views of southern Snowdonia’s varied mountain ranges. I recently returned on a day hike from the south, having slept on one of the Arans’ summits during a backpacking trip a few years ago.

Aran Fawddwy and Aran Benllyn
Total distance: 16.93km. Total ascent/descent: 1,070m.
View route map and download GPX

3: Brecknockshire

Pen y Fan (886m)

Brecknockshire spans the mountainous border region of south-east Wales that includes the Brecon Beacons (now known as Bannau Brycheiniog) and the Black Mountains.

Its highest point, Pen y Fan, is arguably Wales’s second most famous peak after Snowdon. The twin flat tops of Pen y Fan and its sister peak Corn Du rise like chimneys above the surrounding landscape, and are unmistakable. Strangely, they seem to look the same whatever direction you look from.

Pen y Fan is the high point on an undulating red sandstone escarpment, which gives way steeply on its northern flanks, and more gently to the south. It’s a mere 45 minutes to the top from the car park at Storey Arms on the west side, but it’s more fun to go up from the north and follow the escarpment edge over many tops, or follow a horseshoe from the Neuadd Reservoir to the south.

Last year I had an enjoyable walk over the quiet outlying peak of Fan Frynych before joining the crowds on the tourist trail, and this is the route described below.

Pen y Fan via Fan Frynych

Total distance: 23.05km. Total ascent/descent: 1,007m.
View route map and download GPX

4 and 5: Denbighshire and Montgomeryshire

Cadair Berwyn (832m) and Moel Sych (826m)

These two peaks are included together because they are only a stone’s throw away from each other on the same rolling ridge. If you’re going to do one then you might as well do them both.

The three historic counties of Merionethshire, Denbighshire and Montgomeryshire converge in the Berwyn Hills of north/central Wales. The borders of all three counties (Merionethshire on the west side, and Denbighshire/Montgomeryshire on the east side) follow the main ridge.

The Berwyn Hills are an isolated area of rolling, boggy moorland far to the east of the main Snowdonia peaks, composed chiefly of a single short ridge.

Edita and I climbed the peaks on one of those annoying days where a promising weather forecast fails to deliver. After driving up from the Cotswolds hoping for a great day out, we found ourselves walking through a soupy mist with views as far as the end of my nose. We will have to go back there again.

The highest point on the ridge is actually Cadair Berwyn’s south top, about 200m south of the point where the Ordnance Survey erected their trig point and marked the summit prominently on the map. Although we must have walked straight over it, I didn’t realise its significance until later. Our summit photos were therefore taken from the lower summit.

Cadair Berwyn and Moel Sych

Total distance: 22.61km. Total ascent/descent: 936m.
View route map and download GPX

6: Carmarthenshire

Fan Foel (781m)

Confusingly, the highland region of South Wales covered by the Bannau Brycheiniog (or Brecon Beacons) National Park is actually composed of three separate mountain ranges. From west to east these are the Mynydd Du (which is Welsh for ‘Black Mountains’), the Bannau Brycheiniog itself, and the Black Mountains (which is English for ‘Mynydd Du’).

The historic county of Carmarthenshire stretches from the south coast into the western part of these mountains. Its highest point lies within the Mynydd Du range, though perhaps just as confusingly, the highest point in Carmarthenshire is not the highest point in the Mynydd Du. The highest point in Carmarthenshire, Fan Foel, lies on the border of Carmarthenshire and Brecknockshire. The highest point in the Mynydd Du is a peak a few metres to the south called – you’re going to love this – Fan Brycheiniog (which you might expect to find in the Bannau Brycheiniog range, but can’t).

As young people say, whatever. Like Bannau Brycheiniog, the Mynydd Du is a sandstone escarpment which falls away suddenly after rising gradually through grassy peat bog. I first encountered these peaks on a quiet backpacking adventure many years ago. The route described below, however, is an easier day hike that follows the base of the escarpment past lakes, before rising up to the top of the escarpment to come back along it, crossing all its peaks in the process.

Beware of taking a shortcut where the route turns abruptly south, or you will miss Fan Foel, the highest point in Carmarthenshire. This means you will have to go back and do it again.

The Mynydd Du escarpment

Total distance: 22.78km. Total ascent/descent: 991m.
View route map and download GPX

7: Cardiganshire

Plynlimon (752m)

Cardiganshire spans the coastline of central Wales, but on its eastern side it rises to meet the spine of the Cambrian Mountains, which stretch for nearly 80km from north to south through central Wales.

The Cambrians lack the steep, rocky summits of Snowdonia and dramatic escarpments of the Bannau Brycheiniog, but what they lack in drama they make up for in remoteness and solitude, with long views and wild grasslands stretching to the far horizon.

Their highest peak, 752m Plynlimon, is a complex mountain of multiple rolling summits connected by broad ridges. It is the source of Britain’s longest river, the Severn, its fourth longest, the River Wye, and a third river, the Rheidol, which flows west into the Irish Sea at Aberystwyth.

I whipped the route below from Richard Gilbert’s classic walking guide 200 Challenging Walks in Britain and Ireland, so beware: it’s a biggie, crossing all of Plynlimon’s highest summits.

The five tops of Plynlimon

Total distance: 30.57km. Total ascent/descent: 970m.
View route map and download GPX

8: Monmouthshire

Chwarel y Fan (680m)

Monmouthshire is the county in the far south-east of Wales, bordering the River Wye and the English counties of Herefordshire and Gloucestershire. It is the most accessible one for me, and I can reach it in around an hour from my home in the Cotswolds.

Parts of Monmouthshire touch the Black Mountains and it’s in this range that its county top can be found. But just like the Mynydd Du range on the other side of the Brecon Beacons (see Carmarthenshire), the highest point in the Black Mountains (Waun Fach) lies in neighbouring Brecknockshire, and not Monmouthshire.

The first time I climbed the highest point in Monmouthshire, Chwarel y Fan, I was unaware of its significance. I wasn’t even aware that I was climbing a mountain. I camped down beside the Grwyne Fawr Reservoir, then ascended to traverse the full length of the ridge above. Chwarel y Fan was the highest point on the ridge. I must have crossed it, but it’s not much of a summit.

It does, however, enjoy splendid views of the famous Vale of Eywas. I returned to Chwarel y Fan with Edita a couple of years ago. The route below is the one we took that day, starting from Llanthony Priory in the Vale of Eywas.

Chwarel y Fan

Total distance: 14.06km. Total ascent/descent: 588m.
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9: Radnorshire

Great Rhos (660m)

The old county of Radnorshire lies in a sparsely populated area bordering England, known as the ‘Welsh Marches’ (‘march’ is a mediaeval term for borderland). On the eastern extremity of Radnorshire is an upland area known less appropriately as the Radnor Forest. While there are some pockets of woodland, the area is principally peat bog.

Somewhere in the middle of a giant boggy plateau is a trig pillar that marks the summit of Great Rhos, the highest point in Radnorshire. To reach it, it’s necessary to tiptoe alongside a wire fence overlooking a military firing range, keeping your eye out for unexploded ordnance.

If this doesn’t sound very appealing, it’s worth noting that there is plenty of good walking nearby. There is also one of my favourite Welsh pubs: the Harp Inn, Old Radnor, which boasts a magnificent garden with a view. We climbed Great Rhos the day after climbing nearby Hergest Ridge, the hill which inspired Mike Oldfield’s seminal prog rock classic of the same name.

Great Rhos

Total distance: 12.34km. Total ascent/descent: 506m.
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10: Glamorgan

Craig y Llyn (600m)

If Radnorshire is the most sparsely populated Welsh county, Glamorgan is comfortably the most populous. It is also the only one that supports a first-class cricket team, who won the county championship as recently as 1997. Sited on the south coast, Glamorgan contains the two big cities of Cardiff and Swansea, and the dozens of former mining communities known as the South Wales Valleys (or simply The Valleys).

The Rhigos Hills form an escarpment at the northern end of these parallel rifts. The land is criss-crossed by forestry tracks and home to many wind farms. The trig pillar marking the highest point in Glamorgan is currently tucked away in forest beside one of these tracks (‘currently’ because the forest will be cut down for timber some day).

The escarpment with the high point is known as Craig y Llyn, though this name (translated as ‘Cliff of the Lake’) must originally have referred to the cliffs beneath it. Thrill seekers may be interested to know that Craig y Llyn is also home to the Phoenix, advertised as the ‘world’s fastest seated zip line’ (though sitting down on a zip wire is definitely cheating).

Craig y Llyn

Total distance: 10.27km. Total ascent/descent: 322m.
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11: Flintshire

Moel Famau (555m)

Flintshire is the county in the far north-east of Wales, bordering the north coast, Dee Estuary and Cheshire. The Clwydian Hills cut through the county from north to south. Composed of deep sea sediments such as mudstone and siltstone, they form a rolling line of upland with views of both the industrial heartland of Cheshire and Merseyside to the east, and the high peaks of Snowdonia to the west.

The distinctive summit of Moel Famau is topped by a squat, roofless tower known as Jubilee Tower, built in 1810 to commemorate the golden jubilee of George III, but partially destroyed by a storm in 1862.

The long-distance trail of Offa’s Dyke Path crosses right over the top. The area to the south has been pleasantly landscaped with a network of forest trails, and two broad tracks lead all the way to the summit. A nice easy one, but very enjoyable.

Moel Famau

Total distance: 6.32km. Total ascent/descent: 289m.
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12: Pembrokeshire

Foel Cwmcerwyn (536m)

Pembrokeshire, the sticking out bit in the south-west corner of Wales, is better known for its dramatic coastline of towering cliffs, than for its mountains. I learned in school that the Preseli Hills close to the western tip, have the claim to fame of being the source of the bluestones that were transported to Stonehenge by druids around 5,000 years ago. We were taught that the stones were rolled 150 miles on logs, but having been brought up on Asterix books, I wondered why the druids didn’t just use magic potion.

The high point, Foel Cwmcerwyn, is a windswept grassy top rising above the mines which have now been left to become forested. On a clear day you may be able to see the Irish Sea in three directions, though when I was there we could only manage to spy the sea on the north side. A visit to this region is incomplete without a coastal walk the following day.

The route here starts from a campsite to the south where we stayed. Another good starting point is the pink pub in the village of Rosebush, that looks like it belongs more properly in Mar-a-Lago than South Wales. The pub looks much better on the inside though, especially when you view it through a glass of beer.

Foel Cwmcerwyn, Foel Feddau and Foel Eryr
Total distance: 6.32km. Total ascent/descent: 289m.
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13: Anglesey

Holyhead Mountain (220m)

The least mountainous peak on this list is of course the only one with the word ‘mountain’ in its name. But don’t let that put you off.

Many people who visit the island (and county) of Anglesey in the north-west corner of Wales, only pass through on their way to Holyhead to catch the Dublin ferry. By the time they’ve had their first few pints of Guinness, they’ve forgotten what the place looks like.

Holyhead Mountain, which rises above the town of Holyhead on the outlying Holy Island, is comfortably the smallest hill on this list. But it’s a good one, accessible via a picturesque coast path above the sea cliffs of Gogarth Bay, a legendary British rock climbing venue (I would recommend taking the footpath, however).

If you visit on a weekend then the haunted South Stack Lighthouse is well worth a visit (mountaineers like yourselves won’t mind descending the 400 steps to reach its rocky outcrop then climbing back up again). The area is known for its seabird colonies. Our tour guide on the lighthouse said that people sometimes ask him if they will see penguins. Sadly the nearest ones are in Cape Town.

Holyhead Mountain from Elin’s Tower

Total distance: 6.32km. Total ascent/descent: 289m.
View route map and download

‘It looks like…’

His sighted companion paused, searching for a comparison.

‘Er… buttocks.’

‘Then I’m surprised they didn’t call it the Devil’s Bike Rest,’ quipped the blind man.

The blind man was Chris McCausland, the comedian who has become better known as a celebrity dancer after winning a TV dancing contest.

The other man was Alexander Armstrong, presenter of the TV show Perfect Pub Walks, where middle-aged men go on a summer walk somewhere in the United Kingdom, talk about their problems, then stop for a drink in a pub garden.

Chris and Xander (as he seems to be known to his friends) were tackling a small hill in South Wales called The Skirrid which we were informed had a mysterious cleft that gave the peak a distinctive appearance. After the walk they visited a pub called the Skirrid Inn that is supposed to be the oldest pub in Wales.

It struck me as a bit mysterious that at no point during the show were we offered footage of this strange feature that was supposed to resemble a pair of buttocks. It was a bit of a bummer. Xander seems like a nice chap. Would he have the cheek to make a blind man the butt of his joke in this way?

Anyway, I realised that I had an easy way to solve the mystery. The Skirrid is just a short drive from our home in the Cotswolds, so one weekend earlier this year when Edita was back from Haiti, we set out west, determined to crack it.

The Skirrid is an isolated peak 5km north-east of the town of Abergavenny. I noted it a few years ago, when we drove past on our way to Sugar Loaf, the more famous peak that rises above the town in what someone must once have thought resembled a cone of sugar.

My first assumption had been that The Skirrid must have two rounded, moon-shaped peaks, but I could see by the contours on the map that it’s a single 1km north-south ridge. The map also indicated the ruins of a chapel on the summit, which would make it a holy mountain, but that wasn’t the hole we were looking for. My next thought was that there must be a strange rock formation on its summit somewhat resembling a pair of gluteus maximi.

My guidebook, the Pocket Mountains guide to the Brecon Beacons appeared to bear this out. It described a route that circled the east side of the peak before making a ascent from the north, the opposite direction from the standard tourist trail.

Its description of this back passage, so to speak, contained the following sentence:

There are three explanations for the formation of the notch at the north end of the hill.

Notch, crack, crevice, call it what you will: we were to find the explanation on the north side, and if it wasn’t explained by contours then it probably involved rocks.

(Incidentally, the explanations themselves seem unconvincing, namely: an argument between a giant and the devil, a lightning strike at the precise moment Christ was being crucified, and an earthquake. None seem likely, though the last is more plausible. More about this later.)

My conviction that we were looking for a curious rock formation was further reinforced after we arrived at the National Trust car park on the southern side of the peak. A display board at the bottom of the trail referred to several routes to the summit, one of which was a ‘scramble’ up from the north side.

‘So I guess it’s rock formation then,’ I said to Edita. ‘Perhaps we scramble up the cleft between the two buttocks.’

The main route weaved steeply up through forest on a muddy trail. After passing through a gate in a wall, we branched off the main trail to contour around the east side of the peak on the route that my guidebook described. It was a clear day and we had broad views to our right across rolling Monmouthshire farmland. To our left, the mountain rose steeply above us in a swathe of bracken-clad moorland. There were no strange rock formations on this side; I couldn’t help thinking that the slopes were as smooth as a baby’s bottom.

After circling round to the north side, we were confronted with a faint path up vertiginous grassy slopes. Edita raced up, but my progress was more laboured. Footmarks were slippery. Twice I slid, falling onto my face, and found myself crawling to regain my footing. I felt a bit of an arse. These manoeuvres were down to incompetence, though. This was a steep walk, not a scramble.

A few metres short of the summit, I crossed a broad path girdling the peak. I stopped to turn around and photograph the Black Mountains rising up on the north-west horizon. As I stood in position, the clouds parted, revealing twin shadows on the hillside beyond. I looked at the screen on my camera and did a double take. If I were standing on the stage performing in a pantomime, this was the moment the audience would be shouting, ‘behind you!’

I slowly turned around, but above me all I could see was sloping grass. There were no strange rock formations; no plausible explanation for the buttock-shaped shadow I had seen across the Black Mountains. I turned back, but the clouds had closed and the shadow was gone.

By the time I reached the top, Edita had been waiting there for a few minutes. There was an Ordnance Survey trig pillar, and many people were standing beside it taking selfies. A broad ridge led southwards with views for miles. Everyone had come up that way and nobody else had been stupid enough to take our route.

‘Where are these buttocks then?’ I said.

Edita had no answer. There were no buttocks, and if the devil was watching the he must have been creased with laughter.

There was a marvellous view of Sugar Loaf to the west and the rest of the Black Mountains further north, including the ridge of Chwarel y Fan, the highest point in Monmouthshire, that we had explored a couple of years earlier.

As we descended the summit ridge, we could see Abergavenny in the plains below, and the flat top of Coety Mountain hiding the South Wales Valleys beyond. We walked The Skirrid’s entire length, examining every possible cleft and rock outcrop to see if any of them resembled haunches. The answer was no.

We were back at the National Trust car park by 11.30. We had some time to kill before the Skirrid Inn opened, a few miles to the north in the village of Llanvihangel Crucorney (yeah, I know, the people who named these places had too much time on their hands). We drove slowly around the west side of the mountain looking for buttocks, but there were none.

On the plus side, the Skirrid Inn was a marvellous old stone fortress of a place. We sat on oak tables beside the fire and read about its history. The pub dated back to the 11th century. A room on the upper storey was once a courthouse. Sentences were carried out in situ, and some 180 people are reputed to have been hung from the pub’s beams. Unsurprisingly, some of the rooms are now said to be haunted.

Meanwhile, I was still haunted by Alexander Armstrong and his pair of buttocks. I learned from the National Trust website that the name Skirrid is derived from Ysgyryd, the Welsh word for ‘to shake or tremble’. The Ordnance Survey map even marks the peak as Ysgyryd Fawr.

‘It’s easy to see where this name came from, with the massive landslide on the hill’s northern tip,’ the website went on to say.

Was it? I’d just been up the bleeding northern tip, and all I could say was ‘what massive landslide?’. I’d seen no massive landslide any more than I’d seen buttocks.

The article went on to say that the landslide was formed when Jack o’ Kent, a local giant who is believed to be responsible for a number of geographical features in the Herefordshire and Monmouthshire area, had a wager with the devil.

Jack o’ Kent’s relationship with Satan can be likened to Road Runner’s with Wile E Coyote. The pair entered into a number of bargains that Jack o’ Kent wriggled out of by means of a series of tricks. He bet the devil that Sugar Loaf was higher than the nearby Malvern Hills (don’t we all have bets like this). When the devil realised he’d been had, he tried to carry some soil from Sugar Loaf over to the Malverns to make them higher. But he was clumsy and dropped the soil next to The Skirrid, leaving a mound at its northern end for posterity.

Clearly the article on the National Trust website couldn’t be trusted, but just in case there was a grain of truth in it, on our way home we decided to take a back road up The Skirrid’s western flank. From a farm gateway, we spotted a small wooded knoll on the mountain’s north-west corner jutting upwards like the bones of the lower spine. It formed a tiny notch in the otherwise descending slope about 100m below the summit.

If this was the cleft that we’d been searching for then to say I was disappointed would be something of an understatement. The notch was little more than a boil to a buttock. If Xander Armstrong’s look like this then, frankly, he needs to see a doctor.

My visit felt incomplete, so I returned to The Skirrid a few weeks later after Edita had returned to Haiti. This time I decided to skirt the mountain’s western side to view this mound at close quarters. It was a more pleasant walk than the route we’d take around the eastern flank, wending through peaceful woodlands alive with bluebells.

I emerged from woodland about 500m south of the cleft. As I approached, I could see that the mound to my left rose about 20m above the cleft and was crowned by pine trees, in contrast to the mixed woodland that I’d traversed. The cleft was like no rectum I have ever seen. It was wide enough to sail a ship through (though it would obviously need water).

To my right, I could see that The Skirrid’s summit was guarded by sheer cliffs, in contrast to the grassy slopes on the eastern side. These cliffs were easily explained by the piles of boulders jumbled beneath. There have clearly been many landslides here over the years, some quite recently. Only the one that had formed the tree-lined mound could have happened as long ago as the Lord’s crucifixion.

I took a trail leading up through the boulder fields to join The Skirrid’s north-west ridge. I looked back across the mound to Sugar Loaf and the Black Mountains beyond. It was a far more interesting route to the one we’d take two months earlier, but frankly, they make a bit too much of the mountain’s cloven appearance. The mound and the cleft are far from obvious. It had taken me two visits and much exploration to find them, and once again I’d been the only person on that route up the backside. All those people coming up the main trail wouldn’t even notice it was there. These myths and legends are a lot of old coccyx, I thought to myself.

I arrived on the summit under sunny skies. An elderly couple were eating a picnic on a bank of bracken and a group of younger people were crowded around the trig pillar. I tried to take a summit selfie without their faces in it.

It was a nice walk; I was glad to have come here twice and I’m sure I will come again. But pair of buttocks, my arse.

You can see for yourself by visiting my Skirrid Flickr album.

Haiti isn’t a very sensible place to go climbing mountains, but as luck would have it, it shares the island of Hispaniola with the Dominican Republic, a much safer country that happens to be home to the highest three mountains in the Caribbean: Pico Duarte (3,101m), La Pelona (3,095m) and La Rusilla (3,044m).

Until last year, the Dominican Republic had never featured on my list of holiday destinations, but this seemed an opportunity not to be missed. So last August, I crossed the Atlantic and met Edita in Santo Domingo, the Dominican Republic’s historic capital city, a few hours’ drive from Edita’s place of work.

With the help of a local trekking agency Guias de Alturas, we embarked on a fabulous three-day hike through jungles and pine forest to bag the three summits.

Now that’s our reason for climbing the peak, and I hope it sounds reasonable enough. But what of the dog that features prominently in nearly every frame of this video of our ascent?

If you lived a comfy life at the park entrance, why would you follow a pair of strangers for three days in searing, humid heat, up 2,000m of mountain and back down again?

I know what you’re thinking: food. It hoped we would take pity on it and give it some tasty snacks.

More fool the dog. I had to climb the mountain myself, over 2,000m on the first day, and I needed all the energy I could get. Think me heartless if you will, but I was damned if I was going to share my packed lunch. Not with Edita; not with anyone I hadn’t invited (well, maybe with Edita).

At what point was the dog going to realise that it was following a skinflint? When would it turn around and head home? As you will see, it didn’t. It followed us for every waking hour, night and day, to the highest ends of the island and back down again.

So if it wasn’t following us hoping to be fed, why did it come? Did it just enjoy the hike? Perhaps it was a peak bagger, ticking off another ascent, aiming to climb the mountain more times than any dog on earth.

We named the dog Karim, after the first Dominican to climb Everest. Here’s Karim the dog’s ascent video. If you look closely enough, you may just catch glimpses of Edita and myself in some of it too.

There is 20 minutes of footage, but if you prefer reading or looking at pictures, you can read my blog post about it or look at my Flickr album.

Ascent of Pico Duarte, Dominican Republic

Watch on YouTube

At 3,101m, Pico Duarte is not only the highest mountain in the Dominican Republic, but the highest in the whole of the Caribbean. The ascent involves a strenuous three-day trek through the jungles and pine forests of Armando Bermúdez and José del Carmen Ramírez National Parks.

We climbed the peak via the standard route from the village of La Cienaga on the eastern side. This involved a 1,700m ascent on the first day, from the national park headquarters at 1,100m, over the Descanso Alto de la Vela and down to high camp at La Comparticion (2,480m).

Our intention to climb 3,044m La Rusilla on the way was abandoned when we realised there was no trail and it would involve 400m of bushwhacking.

On the second day we climbed Pico Duarte and La Pelona (3,095m) from La Comparticion. The former is a marvellous viewpoint across miles of forest and jungle. The latter is broad and forested but well worth a visit. We were joined on both summits by a stray dog that had followed us all the way from the park headquarters. We named it Karim after the first Dominican to climb Everest.

On the third day we had an enjoyable run back the way we had come to La Cienaga.

One range between myself and Snowdon, however, was less distinct – so much so that I completely overlooked it while describing the summit panorama to Edita in her summit video.

The Arenigs are a lesser known area of mountains in south-east Snowdonia forming a roughly triangular 500km² area bounded by the A470, A5 and A494 roads between Dolgellau and Betws-y-Coed. You may be wondering, if they cover such a large area, how can I completely overlook them? Most of the peaks are not very high, in the 500m to 600m range, which meant they weren’t snow-capped that day in February.

Only three Arenig peaks surpass 700m, but one, Arenig Fawr, towers over the rest. At 854m, it’s more than 100m higher than the next biggest, 751m Moel Llyfnant. Had I been paying attention in Edita’s summit video, I would have spotted its snow-covered top rising quite clearly in front of Snowdon.

In the spirit of learning, I typed the word arenig into Google Translate to find out its Welsh meaning. My opinion of AI was further strengthened when it came back with arenaceous. You will know from last week’s post that I strongly suspect Google Translate of guessing when it doesn’t know the answer. This time I wondered if it had even gone as far as ‘doing a Shakespeare’ by inventing a word. I had to turn to a proper dictionary written by actual humans to learn that arenaceous is indeed a real word meaning sandy. Unfortunately, the summit of Arenig Fawr is grassy not sandy, so at this point I gave up trying to learn Welsh and opened a cwrw.

Arenig Fawr is the birthplace of the Arenig School of art, a short-lived early 20th century art movement that seemed to involve – and I should stress that I’m no art critic – producing exaggerated paintings of mountains in garish colours while drunk, and as quickly as possible before the sky clouds over.

On a more tragic note, like Rhinog Fawr, Arenig Fawr was the scene of a fatal air crash. In August 1943, during the Second World War, an American B-17 Flying Fortress aircraft set off on a night training exercise. It crashed into the mountain, killing all eight US airmen on board. There is now a plaque to their memory on the summit.

The mountain is only a short drive west of the point whence we’d started our climb of the Rhinogs. The bright weather was set to continue, so it felt like a good opportunity to climb it the following day.

Arenig Fawr is more usually climbed from the north-east, where the crag of Y Castell and lake of Llyn Arenig Fawr provide a picturesque foreground, like an outer rampart and moat. But to climb the outlier of Moel Llyfnant at the same time, it is easier to start from the north-west, so I chose this route instead.

It turned out to be a shorter walk than the previous day, when we’d arrived at our car tired and exhilarated after our challenging jaunt up and over the Rhinogs, To recover, we enjoyed a relaxing evening at the George III Inn, Penmaenpool. Our room overlooked the estuary where the great mountain explorer Bill Tilman spent his time between expeditions writing some of the best travel books ever written. Beyond the estuary, the northernmost Rhinog of Diffwys provided a backdrop. As rooms with a view go, it may not have quite matched the one we had in Plockton, with a view across Loch Carron, but it was up there.

We arrived at a lay-by just off the A4212 north of Arenig Fawr at 10am the following morning. We crossed a river on a minor road and took a footpath along a disused railway embankment. A short distance beyond this, a farm track slanted upwards across open grassland.

Two peaks appeared on our left. The one on the right looked distinctly higher, but on the map I could see no smaller peak rising to the north of Arenig Fawr. We turned off the farm track to take a rough path up a boggy hillside toward the left-hand peak, following the line of a dry stone wall.

A group of three young lads appeared on the hillside in front of us. They evidently weren’t regular hill walkers, as they were stopping to rest every few minutes. We trudged past them as they slumped on a bank looking exhausted (if I sound smug here, I should point out that, as usual, I was trailing in Edita’s wake and must have looked equally shagged out to them).

The mystery of the left-hand peak was explained when we topped the brow of a feature marked on the map as Craig y Hyrrdod (‘Crag of Rams’). It was no peak at all; merely a shoulder of Arenig Fawr. Once above what we thought would be our first summit, we could see our hillside narrowing to a ridge and continuing to rise as it curved towards the right-hand peak, which was the actual summit of Arenig Fawr.

We reached the top shortly before midday and took selfies standing on the summit wall. A large plaque had been erected to commemorate the fallen airmen. Another rock had been scrawled with graffiti and signed by a previous summiteer. Edita was ashamed to note that it bore a Lithuanian name and was dated only last year. She rearranged a section of wall to hide its unsightly presence from view.

The panorama was less hazy than it had been the previous day, but although the sun was bright, visibility was far from perfect. Arenig Fawr is quite an isolated peak. Nothing in close proximity approaches it in height, and those peaks that do – the Arans and Cadair Idris to the south, and the Snowdon massif to the north – appeared only as faint outlines on the horizon.

It was too early for lunch, so we continued across Arenig Fawr’s south top before descending to an enchanting area of hummocks and lakes high above the surrounding countryside. It would be a prime location for a wild camp.

We ate our first lunch at 12.30, beside a cairn looking west to the gentle whaleback of Moel Llyfnant, the Arenigs’ second highest peak. To reach its summit, we could see that we would need to descend 200m to a bare col that looked suspiciously like a bog, before ascending 250m up the side of the whale.

Suspicion became certainty a few minutes later. We descended grassy slopes, following the faint traces of a path. But it was the wrong path, and it petered out on the fringes of the bog. Rather than retracing our steps back up the hillside to locate the correct trail, I decided to start wading across. Edita, however, is wiser than I am. She imagined me sinking slowly into the mire, until only my walking pole rose above the surface, like the final scene from Lorna Doone.

As my route became increasingly squelchy, a voice cried out behind me.

‘Stop it. Come back. You’re going to drown.’

We doubled back and found a way around the fringes of the bog to regain the proper trail, which followed a bank of more solid ground. The path continued up the east flank of Moel Llyfnant but again petered out short of our destination.

We became separated as we traipsed up steep, heather-clad slopes. Somewhere beneath the summit, we met up again, each heading in opposite directions. We eventually found the summit the other side of a wire fence. We arrived at 2pm and enjoyed a memorable second lunch looking across acres of open hillside. Apart from the fence, there were few signs of human habitation for miles around. To the east, beyond the bog we had crossed, Arenig Fawr really did have twin summits now, the lower south top giving it the appearance of a grassy Elbrus.

Our descent was rapid, across soft, green, gently declining slopes on the north side of Moel Llyfnant. Before we knew it, we had joined up with a forestry track, which took us past a derelict stone building and through a short burst of pinewood to reach the farm track we had taken on the way up.

We reached our car at 3pm after a memorable couple of days in two of Snowdonia’s lesser known mountain ranges. We will return.

You can see all photos from our walk in my Rhinogs and Arenigs Flickr album. And if you’re worried about following my GPX track below, you can rest assured that I reprogrammed the route to avoid my mazy way through the bog.

Route map

Arenig Fawr and Moel Llyfnant
Total distance: 13.45km. Total ascent/descent: 838m.
View route map and download GPX