GLADMAN

“Radioactivity is in the air for you and me”. So noted an apparently nonchalant Ralf Hutter back in 1975, the detached delivery, glacial tempo and verging-upon-nursery-rhyme simplicity combining to suggest the notion that we are but children subject to nutters with their ‘fingers upon the button’. Perhaps such a simplistic, fatalistic interpretation was inevitable, given the fact that the threat of nuclear annihilation is naturally too harrowing for most ordinary folk to contemplate, let alone undertake rational analyses. And let’s face it, there was zero chance of the latter occurring within Western popular culture... not following catastrophic Soviet incompetence at Chernobyl; not with the trendy, so-called ‘intelligentsia’ of the far-left (aided by various ‘useful idiots’) vilifying democracy, their appeasement of oppressive doctrine thus ensuring the cancerous rise of Putin – mirroring that of Hitler and Stalin – would cancel out the momentous achievements of Gorbachev, so once again enslaving the Russian people. Indeed, one could be forgiven for assuming the civilised world had been infiltrated by a Marxist death cult intent upon pursuing an end of days ‘utopia’ every bit as nonsensical and dangerous as monotheistic constructs? Communist/Fascist? Same difference.

Yeah, so while it was one thing to enjoy watching Arnie’s dystopian terminator deliver those catchy one-liners in the cinema, or appreciate how well John Foxx’s ARP evokes a bleak post-apocalyptic soundscape during ‘Underpass’.... the thought of beginning any walk within sight of the twin, beyond ugly reactors of Trawsfynydd nuclear power station has, over the course of some 35 years, never appealed one bit. Better to avoid the issue, sweep it under the proverbial carpet, right? And yet... in a UK where narcissistic, hypocritical Climate Change ‘rebels’ violently rage at the government’s inability to not immediately ban all fossil fuels... while, er, inexplicably somehow ‘forgetting’ the aforementioned active campaigning against nuclear power back in the day, the vehement protests in favour of the continued extraction of coal... surely ALL options must be back upon the table of rational debate if we are to survive at all? Do we really have a choice but to adopt a new atomic outlook as a matter of urgency? Taking my symbolic cue from this I – at long last – find myself heading towards Trawsfynydd this morning to finally check out a couple of ‘Cairns’ shown on the map upon the foothills of the northern Rhinogydd.

Although ongoing decommissioning of the site was initiated way back in 1991, I admit the initial approach beneath the dam feels a little ‘creepy’ – sinister even – rhythmic heartbeat seemingly substituted by the erratic output of Kraftwerk’s ‘Geiger counter’. Upon forking right, however, the scene soon becomes idyllic, the single track road terminating at Moelfryn-isaf. A little prior to this it is just possible to leave a car and take an overgrown walled path/track – signposted ‘Cambrian Way’ – heading approx west towards Cwm Moch, wherein the map depicts a cairn in that wondrous antiquarian typeface. That’ll do. As they apparently like to say in Yorkshire... among many other things. The route initially resembles a rocky stream bed subsequently accessing very soggy hillside (despite the relative lack of recent rain). Nonetheless, it all looks within the ‘comfort zone’, leaving time to check out another cairn to the approx southeast (SH68383416) later on in the day. Needless to say, however, life doesn’t always go to plan when walking the mountains. Tell me about it?

As I labour to gain height and enter the cwm, what appear upon the map as ‘minor’ subsidiary tops of the northern Rhinogydd rear up to my left with an overwhelming, disorientating presence that makes a mockery of even the masterful OS cartography. I cross a drystone wall and, instead of taking a bearing to the cairn, am instinctively drawn towards the col between Moel y Gyrafolen and Craig Fawr, electing to ascend the former in order to obtain that all-important landscape context. It is a short, yet brutal climb upon trademark Rhinogydd terrain: rock and heather, never an accomodating combination underfoot, I find. Upon reaching the summit (1,755ft) and experiencing the full force of the freezing wind, I pause in an attempt to regain my composure... only to completely lose it once again in very short order as I realise where I am. It’s a wondrous vantage point, the rugged Rhinog ridge stretching away to the west in a linear array of incrementally amplified, progressively disintegrating gritstone; the ambiguous beauty of Llyn Trawsfynydd resplendent below to the east; northern Snowdonia to the, well, north. I decide to seize the moment and continue along the ridge. To see how far I get. Guess the cairn can wait for the return, then?

Now a cursory perusal of the map may well suggest an easy stroll upon what are relatively minor ‘hills’: The Harlech Dome? I mean, according to said map this is the route of The Cambrian Way, after all? Haha, yeah, right. The devil is in the detail, however, the struggle to the top of Moel y Gyrafolen but a foretaste of the pretty extreme topography lying ahead of me, each top requiring a descent/ascent to attain the next. Diffwys (not to be confused with its much higher namesake to the south) may initially appear relatively benign, gently rising towards a seemingly indeterminate 1,893ft high point to the west... but serial slab outcropping of rock alternating with bog soon lets the traveller know where it’s at. Another, more substantial defile isolates Diffwys from Foel Penolau. I hesitate at the cusp of what will clearly be much additional physical endeavour, should I choose to accept the challenge? Hey, the views and vibe are great here, so why bother? That’ll do. Surely? However, while logic must always play a crucial role when upon the uplands – one cannot arse about if one wants to return in one piece – the very fact of being here accepts that the ‘heart’, pure emotive response, will have a significant say. Sure enough, as with Darwin before me (the Great Man of course walking the Rhinogydd during August 1831) the ‘siren call’ is too overwhelming to resist.

So, following a steep descent this traveller, having unwisely rejected an apparent low-level option to his left, is immediately required to ascend almost perpendicular, grassy crags to attain the summit plateau of Foel Penolau. The form of the latter is, quite frankly, bizarre for a 2,014ft mountain: a more-or-less horizontal mass of rock preceding a Dartmoor-esque apogee... as if some mountain god/goddess had, in a fit of pique, sliced the top off with an – admittedly rather large – cleaver. Only to miss a bit? Or maybe it was Idris trying out perches before literally settling upon another, larger version across the way? Think mythological forerunner of ‘The Sofa Company’. Whatever, a small tarn offsets an otherwise spartan landscape, rippling surface water adding a degree of extemporization to the otherwise brutal scene. As I sit and contemplate, mind duly blown (and not just by the wind), I notice the cairn upon adjacent Moel Ysgyfarnogod appears to possess a not insignificant profile from the northeast. A lone walker adds relative scale by plonking himself a little below for a short time and the worm begins to burrow: hey, why not revisit and check it out? The descent to the col negotiating a chaos of shattered rock and boulders is much rougher than earlier in the day, the subsequent grassy ascent to the summit of Moel Ysgyfarnogod a welcome relief.

At 2,044ft, the “Bare hill of the hares” is considered Foel Penolau’s ‘parent’ peak. Indeed, pursuing the analogy further, one might say the latter represents the recklessly unkempt, youthful antithesis of the more refined, mature former? As per my only previous visit here – a somewhat ‘easier’ ascent from Eiddew-bach to the west years back – the summit cairn does not exactly seize one’s attention. To be fair the expansive views have a significant bearing upon this state of affairs: the sublime, muted colours of the Dyffryn Dwyryd leading the eye to Tremadog Bay and, beyond, The Llyn Peninsula... the hillforts Tre’r Ceiri and Moel y Gest... Y Eifionydd, Clough Williams-Ellis’s Italianate fantasy Portmeirion; Y Moelwynion and the heart of Eryri to the north; while to the south the personal terra-incognita of Craig Ddrwg and Clip form a seemingly structureless, craggy wilderness prior to the recognisable profiles of Rhinog Fawr and Fach beyond Bwlch Tyddiad, ‘The Roman Steps’. I advance to the north-western prow of Moel Ysgyfarnogod and gaze down across the curious horseshoe of Llyn Dywarchen to the uncompromising site of the wondrous Bryn Cader Faner. Try as I might, I cannot pinpoint the exact position of the magical coronet of stone... but no matter. It is enough to know it is there.

I return to the cairn and, as is The Citizen Cairn’s modus operandi, proceed to go walkabout to view the structure from differing angles, to gain more than one perspective. OK, so forget the modern surmounting ‘marker cairn’ and idiosyncratic OS trig station and attempt to determine what lies beneath? Sure enough, a substantial, embedded, ‘roughly circular’ footprint extending from the summit crags gradually moves into focus, a structure which, in my opinion, is totally inconsistent with any relatively recent ‘walkers’’ construction. The monument is not marked upon OS mapping, nor mentioned by archaeologists... however I maintain that it is there nonetheless. To be honest – what with experienced observers such as former Snowdonian Warden Terry Marsh asserting “The whole northern section of the Rhinog range is some of the most testing walking to be found anywhere in Britain, compelling lowly Moel Ysgyfarnogod to become one of the most challenging hills in the country” – perhaps this is not so surprising? Suffice to say, if I had known what I was letting myself in for before setting off, I would never have made the attempt at all. But there you are.

I revel in the unique vibe to be sampled here until, mindful that the return leg will be just as taxing as the outward, I reluctantly set off back to the car. Now the intention was to simply reverse my steps... however, upon attaining the summit of Foel Penolau once more I find no way down to the north. Doubling back, a very rough route beside a drystone wall eventually sees me arrive back upon Diffwys, negotiating the copious rock outcropping sapping my remaining strength at an alarming rate. So much so, in fact, that I opt to cut across Moel y Gyrafolen’s eastern flank in lieu of further ascent. It is a schoolboy error, in retrospect, the roughness of the terrain quickly overriding any benefit I might have gained. D’oh! Cwm Moch seems a long time coming, but in due course, I manage to locate the cairn depicted upon the map (although looking at TMA back in Essex it is clear there are others not shown). Ironically, with time now at a premium, the realisation that the monument is rather small and of very simple construction is not a big deal. Horses for courses. Speaking of which, the final descent to the car is made upon legs not unlike those of a newborn foal.

Gazing out across the expanse of Llyn Trawsfynydd sipping tea... I reflect upon the day: my first, long overdue, high-level venture into the Northern Rhinogydd from the east. A day subject almost entirely to improvised actions with glorious, yet utterly unintended outcomes. Granted, the twin reactor blocks of the former power station remain beyond ugly. Granted, suspicion and prejudices – from whatever source and with whatever degree of justification – may have kept me away until now. However, as I drive beneath the reservoir dam in the soft early evening light it is Blondie’s ‘Atomic’, not Kraftwerk’s classic dirge, which enters my head. Haha, replacing a song with such negative atomic undertones with one with an overwhelmingly positive, futuristic vibe? Yeah, if we can somehow isolate the extremists of both left and right and instead focus on rational debate... who knows what our future soundtrack might be? Perhaps my tiny epiphany may presage a brighter future for everyone? But only if enough of us stop and think.

I can’t remember the last time I visited North Wales outside of October, that wondrous Autumnal month when, with the barbecues finally extinguished and the tourists drifting away on the wind like the acrid smoke to warmer climes, the landscape exhales, unleashing a seemingly infinitesimally complex riot of reds, yellows and oranges to overwhelm the senses. Yeah, Nature’s last hurrah – if one didn’t know better, an outpouring of pent-up rage at her treatment by the ignorant masses? – before the battening-down of the hatches for winter. It’s therefore positively odd to see such otherwise familiar hillsides resplendent in a more-or-less uniform raiment of green. Not to mention the Easter hordes clogging up Snowdonia’s roads like fatty deposits within ageing arteries. However, following a couple of years of COVID – the resulting social upheaval further exasperated by the moronic activities of those sickening far left and far right plagues upon humanity – I figure opportunities to breathe deeply the benefits of freedom must be grasped with both hands. Albeit with a touch of arthritis in the fingers, perhaps?

Simply put, the traveller in search of more than ‘cheap thrills’ has to adapt. Rise with the dawn chorus and choose itineraries with care. Hence, upon scanning the map – admittedly rather wearily – I settle upon Pen y Castell as an ideal objective to soak up some more of that precious upland vibe in peace. Let’s face it, despite being one of Snowdonia’s most easily ascended 2,000ft summits, no thrill-seeking tourist is going to venture to the empty north-eastern sector of The Carneddau in a hurry. Wot, no zip wires? I set about negotiating the somewhat ‘minor’ roads above Tal-y-Bont to eventually arrive at Bwlch-y-Gaer, the magnificent hill fort Pen-y-Gaer looming to the east. Tempting as the easy option of reacquainting myself with the latter is, I maintain focus and set off along the green track heading west below the little pyramidical top of Pen-y-Gadair.

It’s a pleasant stomp, to be fair, the route initially delimited by tall, drystone walls prior to advancing across an open hillside, views of the looming high peaks of The Carneddau becoming progressively more intimate with every stride. In due course, beyond a plunging, traverse wall, a short yet steep pull finally sees me reach the craggy, ‘castellated’ summit, over 20 years since my last visit. In anticipation of the likely conditions at altitude, I’ve taken the precaution of wearing thermals; nevertheless, the severity of the wind is such that, rain or no rain, overtrousers are clearly an additional requirement today. As I struggle to put them on I lose my balance, feeling a sharp pain in my left hand as I steady myself against the summit rocks. Checking the damage, a stream of scarlet flowing from a gash in the webbing between my fingers is all too painfully obvious. Happy days. Jeez, clearly this ‘castle’ takes no prisoners.

A touch of improvised first aid later, I take stock and survey the scene from my none-too-welcoming perch. As expected, Pen y Castell is a truly wondrous viewpoint from which to take in the course of the sinuous Afon Conwy during the short journey from its rising upon the Migneint above Penmachno... to the sea beneath the drum towers of Edward’s superlative fortress-town, a tumultuous beginning morphing into confident, if serpentine procession. Closer to hand, the magnificently strategic siting of Pen y Gaer is all too apparent – hey, how often does an antiquarian-minded traveller get to enjoy an aerial view of a hill fort? – as is the sublime ‘place’ in the landscape occupied by Tal y Fan itself.

Looking the other way, however, the brutal uplands evoke quite different emotions, a juxtaposition of awe and perhaps a little nervousness when faced with such an uncompromising landscape, familiar summits viewed from unfamiliar angles: the witch’s slide; Pen Yr Helgi Du; a distant Moel Siabod; Craig Eigiau... and Carnedd Llewelyn, the sentinel peak itself. These are mountains I may perhaps never set foot upon again, yet such resignation is ultimately of little consequence if one accepts life is but a collection of memories; an individual the sum of what he/she has done. Ewan MacColl may have asserted that ‘No man has a right to own mountains’, but that does not invalidate the feeling I somehow possess a ‘connection’ to Y Carneddau. ‘Blood bonds’, courtesy of wind-rated incidents, notwithstanding. Yeah, it would appear the ‘high places’ have been messing with our minds since the beginning of time, enticing us to venture into the mist to learn more about ourselves.

Bracing against the wind, the far from steady gaze once again settles upon the most uniform skyline to the approx west: the high ridge of the Northern Carneddau rising from Carnedd y Delw to Carnedd Pen y Borth-Goch, Drum. The intervening landscape rising across Foel Lwyd to Drum appears ‘do-able’ but is of course greatly foreshortened. Very much aware of the effect of such ‘optical rose-tinted glasses’, the knowledge that the extension will demand everything I have precipitates a forlorn attempt to justify staying put. Needless to say, the siren call is too intense, the inner ‘Sergeant Wilson’ cautionary challenge noted for the record yet overridden.

In short order ‘Wilson’ appears right: substantial height loss followed by a steep ascent is perhaps my primary bummer when walking in the hills. However, an encounter with a pair of ubiquitous Carneddau ponies raises the spirits and renews my vigour. OK, lacking 4x hoof drive as I do, they soon leave me standing, but for a brief moment, I savour stumbling along with the wild horses. Hey, living the dream! The ascent of Foel Lwyd alongside the fence line is very steep indeed; consequently, it’s a marked relief when the angle eases for the final approach to the great cairn surmounting the near skyline. Naturally, there’s a price to pay, the landscape a veritable bog in places. But there you are. One last push and I’m finally there: Carnedd Pen y Borth-Goch.

Now in most other upland contexts Drum, rising to a very respectable 2,529ft, would represent a primary focus of any day spent in the Great Outdoors. Here, upon The Carneddau however, it is readily apparent that only Citizen Cairns can appreciate the true significance of the summit, for as I vacate the lee of the ridge and once again feel the sledgehammer force of the wind, facial muscles contorted as if auditioning for Peter Gabriel’s iconic 80’s MTV stalwart, the presence of 3,092ft Foel Fras rearing above to my left makes it abundantly clear that Drum, topographically speaking, is but a relatively minor player. That much is obvious. However, observe the massive circular footprint extending beneath the farcical ‘muppet shelter’ (preferably not headfirst and wind-assisted!) and it SHOULD also be obvious that relative height is but a part of the story, a simplistic view ignoring other important factors lost in the mists of time integral to who we once were. Yeah, so why doesn’t Foel Fras possess the remains of a once-massive cairn if it is so much higher? Do people just not think anymore?

It’s not just the route-marching SAS wannabees and ‘jolly hockey sticks’ trekkers who appear unable to interpret a map, or at the very least wonder why the word ‘cairn’ is annotated here in antiquarian typeface? To consider why the summit is covered by such an extensive circular feature serving no apparent modern purpose? Oh no. Check out most guide books and Drum is summarily dismissed as either a ‘staging post’, a ‘meeting of fencelines’, or featureless top lacking ‘inspiration’, whose one redeeming feature is apparently a ‘large shelter’ to take refuge within from those nasty mountain elements. I have two observations: 1) that this ‘shelter’ exists due to the wanton vandalism of a once fine Bronze Age funerary cairn by an ignorant – not to mention criminal – element of so-called hillwalkers seems to have escaped such authors; 2) shouldn’t those experienced enough to publish ‘guides’ to our high places exhort the need for visitors to dress appropriately and not rely upon huddling within ‘shelters’, like frightened sheep avoiding the views they presumably came to enjoy, in order to mitigate their dangerous lack of foresight? Just saying...

Surveying the scene I, unlike our expert writers, am immediately consumed within the melodrama of simply being right here, right now. Senses battered, optic nerves overwhelmed by the sheer volume, the intensity of light. As one might have expected, the vista to the east is an expanded version of that from Pen y Castell earlier in the day.. think of those ‘definitive versions’ of classic albums record companies flog to ageing punters (ahem) nowadays: extra tracks, copious sleeve notes.. stretching all the way beyond Tal y Fan and the former Axe Factory upon Penmaenmawr (not electric guitars, apparently) to the Great Orme, sweeping right to gaze out across the Conwy Valley to the distant Denbigh Moors etc. Continuing right, the heart of The Carneddau takes centre stage, insight brought to an abrupt hiatus by the bulk of the aforementioned Foel Fras. Unseen from here upon Drum, the ridge continues beyond Garnedd Uchaf to Foel Grach (both featuring Bronze Age summit cairns) to the highest of them all: Carnedd Llewelyn itself. Well, at least if you discount the burial cairn which presumably once graced Yr Wyddfa (aka Snowdon), that is.

Hahaha. So, in a manner of speaking, our myopic authors are correct in that evidence/context suggests the former great cairn upon Drum was – hey still remains – part of a much bigger picture. One might surmise an integral part of a major Bronze Age ritual procession approaching the sentinel peak from the sea? Suffice to say I pity the fool that views such a notion as ‘insignificant’. Incidentally, I also note with a degree of tragi-comic hilarity, mingling with disbelief, the substitution of Garnedd Uchaf upon the latest iterations of OS mapping with ‘Carnedd Gwenllian’. That (apparent) welsh nationalists should choose to attempt to score cheap political points in lieu of actively promoting – and more important still, PROTECTING – the remaining tangible remains of the prehistory of these uplands is, frankly, to court nothing but contempt from The Citizen Cairn. Shame on you! Surely the past needs to be acknowledged and, as far as possible, understood, warts and all – not warped for political ends like the mechanical deceptions of a myriad doomed Winston Smiths complicit in their own subjection? What about the ancient VIPs who were PHYSICALLY commemorated upon these high summits millennia before the Princes of Gwynedd drove a wedge between North and South Walians that exists to this very day? A division that not even Glyndwr could, even temporarily, fully overcome? I ask again: What about them? What about those who lived and died here before the concept of ‘Wales’ apparently even existed. Do they simply not matter?

To the west, Cwm Anafon carves a deep fissure between Drum and Llwytmor (2,785ft), the latter not only one of the most strenuous ascents of The Carneddau (the brutal south face of Pen Yr Ole Wen notwithstanding), but also cairn-less, this, to my mind, re-enforcing the idea of ‘procession’ inherent here? The mountain was the scene of a Heinkel III crash during WW2, the ghost of the decapitated ventral gunner said to still walk the environs. Suffice to say I haven’t seen him myself and would no doubt say “Serves you right”, if I did. That, or run away as fast as I could. Although, come to think of it, do ghosts retain a gender? Can ‘headless’ ghosts even hear? It is all very puzzling. Anyway, coming full circle, Anglesey and the coast take centre stage once more. Time to retreat from the summit to drink it all in away from the steady stream of Easter Bank Holiday arrivals. Along with some very welcome coffee.

Sure enough they all – without exception – huddle within the ‘shelter’, hurriedly consuming unseen lunches. We observe each other with shared bemusement: just who IS that crazy man sitting out in the wind taking in the glorious views while we enlightened ones huddle here clad in entirely inappropriate attire missing it all? One such occupier asks me if I’m waiting to enter and takes great offence when I inform him that I wouldn’t in a million years since this ‘shelter’- and all others like it – should not exist. Needless to say, he has no idea he is cowering within the rearranged material of the last resting place of a Bronze Age VIP. “But doesn’t every mountain have a cairn?” A-ha!!! By jingo, I do believe he’s beginning to think! I leave him to ponder the thought that, since this cairn was recorded as apparently intact as recently as 1956, where is the former occupant now? Cast aside to the four winds? To his credit, the realisation appears to hit home.

The more I regard the footprint of the former great cairn, the more substantial and well-defined it appears to these eyes. Consequently, it is a major drag to finally come to the inescapable conclusion that I must leave to begin the downward journey. To be fair, if this had been October such a point would have been reached hours ago. ‘Horses for courses’, as they say. One must trade such a benefit for the downside of mixing with the Easter hordes. Speaking of things equine, my gloriously unkempt friends wisely keep well clear of the stumbling biped this time around as I retrace my soggy steps to Pen y Castell, the ponies albeit visible – not to mention audible – from a distance.

Here I pause for a while to survey the wondrous scene amongst the crags, somehow managing to keep my balance and not fall over in a bloody heap. I have to say that this summit deserves a full day’s hang on its own merits. Duly noted. Looking down into Cwm Dulyn I think I pinpoint the ring cairn/four-poster/kerbed cairn/take-your-pick at Hafod-y-gors-wen (SH73366742)? Or maybe not. I certainly identify Moel Eilio across the way, but not the iconic tree adorning the Cae Du cairn at SH75206616.

Whatever, I reflect upon a day very well spent as I finally make the car and properly attend to my physical wounds. Hey, I conclude I’ll live as long as I keep the wound clean, I guess. As for my current state of mind, having experienced what remains of the great stone pile Carnedd Pen y Borth Goch upon ‘insignificant’ Drum? Well, suffice to say even our trekking friends may understand this one: to say it’s good is a ‘no-brainer’.