Afon Glasyn & Llyn Dinas

Today was a choose-your-own-adventure for the three of us who would not tackle Mt. Snowdon.

We started by following the road past the copper mine we visited yesterday, and then continued on a trail along the Glasyn River.

We passed through land that has been preserved through donations to the National Trust: for its wildlife and natural beauty, for its connection to historical legend, and beloved by the people.

I was pretty sure that we would be hiking this same trail, as a group, tomorrow. I persuaded my comrades to explore a short side path leading to a small waterfall, as it seemed unlikely that we'd veer off the main trail as a group.

It was an easy walk alongside Llyn Dinas, where I was captivated by a house across the lake, nestled at the base of the mountainside. What would it be like to live there? [Dream on.]

When the trail turned away from the water, we headed back. Stone walls are ubiquitous in the countryside. The effort to build them had to be back-breaking (and time-consuming)—but here they are, still standing. No wood to rot, no wires to rust or break—essentially maintenance-free.

Continuing into town, we visited St. Mary's Church. The windows weren't limited to traditional religious imagery: here we found Sir Galahad and St. George.

After picking up a few things in town (more ibuprofen, for me), we headed back to the inn where we're staying. Along the way, a tree with wavy branches caught my eye.

I've been excited to see many unfamiliar plants, like this brightly colored specimen in the St. John's Wort family.

I managed to walk a full 6.2 miles without too much difficulty (because it was essentially flat). I wasn't disappointed to miss Mt. Snowdon (especially after one of the group quietly confided that she enjoyed the Glyders more (fewer people, compared with Snowdon).

Tomorrow is our last real day of hiking, and I am not gonna miss out. I will walk.

Aberglaslyn Gorge

We started the day with a visit to the 19th-century Sygun Copper Mine, conveniently within walking distance of the inn where we're staying.

Since California has significant mining history, I'd toured the site of a historical gold mine. And I knew that Welsh miners were among those who worked in the New Almaden mines, bringing cinnabar-laden rock to the surface. The opportunity to climb up through a section of this copper mine was fascinating.

Our route through the mine deposited us uphill of the entrance—and right next to the trail we would follow to reach the Aberglaslyn Gorge.

The trailhead wasn't obvious. In fact, it looked more like ... a brook. My current hiking boots are waterproof, which had seemed superfluous for my typical outings. [Not today.]

From our hillside vantage point, our view included the inn where we're staying (lower right corner in the next photo).

As we made our way out through the valley, a group of school-aged children approached. I overheard one exclaim “Americans!” as they passed. [Unusual, are we?]

We followed the footpath along the river's edge, grateful for the handholds drilled into the rock around one narrow bend.

Reaching the town of Beddgelert, many of the buildings seemed perilously close to the water, but ... they've been there awhile.

We enjoyed some tea and scones before exploring the town. We were drawn to an outfitter's shop, where a fleece top printed with small flowers caught my eye. “I don't need another fleece top,” I sighed. Our wise guide admonished me: “It's not about what you need, it's about what you want!” She was right; I'd surely have regretted walking away. [Besides, it was on sale.]

Life is all about how you make it.

At dinner, we walked past an unusual (for us) sight: coal burning in a fireplace.

Covering some 5.5 miles today, almost half of which was flat, was tolerable. Ibuprofen helped, but didn't have a lasting effect. As luck would have it, one of the women in our group has relevant expertise (knees, in particular); the problem is with my IT band.

Tomorrow's ascent of Snowdon is off the table, for me.

Glyder Fawr & Glyder Fach

It was a sunny morning in Dolgellau, our home base for the past couple of days; today we would head northwest to explore the Glyders.

Feeling daunted by the description of the terrain (the “Devil's Kitchen,” in particular), I was more inclined to join two others for an abbreviated version of the adventure. But my comrades were fully confident that I could do it, so here we go ...

Our guide shared a legend about a prince's son being drowned in Llyn Idwal by his jealous uncle, after which no bird will fly over the lake. [I did spot two Canada geese in the water (they're everywhere!?), but perhaps they waddled in from the shoreline.]

Before we reached the trickiest part, a couple of young guys passed us, heading down. (Thankfully, we would not be returning this way.) Shaking his head, and moving faster over the rocks than I ever would (in casual shoes, no less), the second one remarked “Let's go for a walk, he said!” At least I knew what I'd signed up for.

The Devil's Kitchen is that v-shaped notch to the right of center in the next photo. With the rockfall fanning out below. Which is where we were going.

Being in the middle of the group allowed me to capture a clear perspective on a section of the climb up Devil's Kitchen. Having handed off my poles to our gracious guide, I'd ascended (more or less) on all fours. I'd decided that the key was to focus, focus, focus. And not look down.

I'm happy to report that we all made it, unscathed, and paused to admire the view on our way to the summit of Glyder Fawr.

To appreciate the scale (and the challenge) of this walk, look for the tiny figure in the field of rocks in the next photo. (That's me, thanks to one of the members of our group who snapped the photo.)

I can imagine how legends about giants might have developed. Thousands of years ago, long after the glaciers had receded, our ancient ancestors could not have conceived how these massive slabs of rock came to be strewn about.

Clear skies rewarded us with a panoramic view. Having ascended the highest peak in the Glyders, we trekked onward to visit a second one.

Early on, our guide had surveyed us about any physical limitations or issues we might have. My ankle was better, but still feeling not quite 100%; when I shared that I had a “cranky ankle” she exclaimed “A crankle!” without missing a beat. The ankle would soon be forgotten on this hike, as I developed a sharp pain on the outside of one knee. All the climbing, and babying my ankle, may have spawned a new problem. I was trailing the rest of the group; putting weight on my bent knee was excruciating, so I was essentially dragging that leg along.

Our next destination was Glyder Fach (with, of course, a bit more climbing). It was windy up there, so we'd all bundled up.

My favorite feature (so far) was Castell y Gwynt (aptly, “Castle of the Wind”), atop Glyder Fach.

We also visited the iconic Cantilever Stone, but surprisingly only one intrepid member of the group chose to clamber up for a photo op. Out of the question, for me; it would take a full-body agility that I didn't have, at that point. We crossed a boulder field and began our descent.

The others pulled ahead (a far cry from my pace yesterday!) and wouldn't come into sight again until about a mile and a half later, near the end of our route. I had begun to wonder whether I could make it down under my own power. Our guide pulled a knee strap out of her pack, which unfortunately didn't have any effect.

We covered 6.2 miles, with some 2,400 feet of elevation gain—most of that (~1,960 feet) over a distance of ~1.4 miles. I believe it's safe to say that this will stand as the most challenging hike of my life—even if you factor out the knee pain.

Three more days of hiking lie ahead. Tomorrow, at least, promises to be mellow.

Cadair Idris

When I did, finally, do a closer reading of the itinerary for this tour, I'd wondered if the details for each day were accurate. Because, if they were, I'd signed up for the most difficult hiking I've ever done.

Today would be calibration day. We were headed for a ridge touched by the clouds, taking the “easiest” route to the summit of Cadair Idris: the winsomely named Pony Path.

There were many other walkers on the trail, this being a weekend day. I was grateful for my hiking poles and boots, and was stunned to see many folks wearing casual footwear. On our way up, we crossed paths with a woman on her way down, shaking her head and muttering about this being quite not the way she'd wanted to celebrate her 50th birthday.

There were no signs along the trail; follow the path of rocks (and our leader). I'm sure the rocks are placed to combat erosion, but they're also hard on one's feet (and often command close attention).

By the time we met the clouds, I'd bundled up with all my layers: rain pants over hiking pants, fleece gloves, fleece vest under my insulated rain jacket, and neck gaiter pulled up over a fleece cap topped by my jacket's hood. When one of the women in our group mentioned that she was cold, our guide pulled a spare jacket out of her (enormous) backpack—our own Mary Poppins with a fresh take on that magical bottomless carpet bag!

Legend has it that if you spend the night on this mountain, you will find yourself either mad or a poet when you awaken. As I picked my way through fields of scree, I considered that I might have already gone mad.

Pay attention: Every. Step. Matters.

As the summit came into view, we learned that our guide has one important rule: Everyone gets there at the same time.

It was cold. It was windy. There was no view. We were proud of ourselves. And hungry.

One member of our group had chosen to huddle in a well-placed semi-circle of piled stones, rather than reach the summit. We joined her there to eat the bagged lunches we'd carried, sheltered from the wind.

Eager to drop below the clouds, we spread out across the scree. I surprised everyone (including myself) by apparently channeling my inner mountain goat and leading the way, while our guide hung back with one of our more tentative comrades.

Some trail segments seemed to have a softer, somewhat less rocky parallel path. I imagine we were meant to stay on the rocks, but it was hard not to seek a little respite now and then.

I did manage to find a spot of color near the end of our hike.

And yes,the details for this hike matched up with what I recorded: we traveled 5.7 miles, with some 2,300 feet of elevation gain overall. And since this was an up-and-back-down hike, that means we climbed 2,300 feet in half that distance. [Yikes!]

Tomorrow promises to be ... harder.

Precipice Walk (Llwybr Cynwch)

Our group would rendezvous at the train station in Chester this morning, and by the time our guide arrived we'd self-assembled and were happily chatting. I'd figured that it wouldn't be difficult to spot the others: backpack-wearing, luggage-toting folks loitering in the seating area. What I didn't expect was an all-woman group!

Cycling through Wales, eight years ago, I was introduced to a place I'd wished I could explore more. I just might have to come back here, I'd thought.

Then a message landed in my inbox last August: Explore the Myths and Mountains of Eryri (Snowdonia). [Sign. Me. Up.]

Our first “walk” (translation: hike) was the Precipice Walk. Now you can begin to see why I'd hoped to see more of Snowdonia ...

The tour's itinerary described this hike as “mellow;” evidently choosing to omit the trail's name (lest we be intimidated).

A native thistle offered a welcome pop of color on a gloomy day, while sheep hunkered down not far from a crumbling circle of stones that might once have provided shelter for shepherds.

In the distance, late-afternoon light reflected off the channel leading to the Irish Sea. Along the trail, gorse blooms spread a little sunshine.

Our group was getting on well: one Canadian, six Americans (including three sisters!), and our English guide. Our pace was comfortable over our 3.5-mile loop, but the remaining walks promise to be more challenging.

We're the inaugural group(!) for this tour—a fact I'd overlooked in that email message last year. All I'd needed to see, then, was “Snowdonia.” As the date for the trip grew closer and I studied the actual itinerary, I began to worry that I might be in over my head ...

Caernarfon

Day five, and I was ready for a rest day (but that's not today). I was feeling a little bit off, and we were slated to climb about 2,000 feet.

Faced with a steep (though short) climb before we'd even warmed up, several of us were quick to dismount (max grade today, 22%).

I wasn't expecting to be rained on. [You'd think I'd learn?] Luckily, it was only a short burst, not much wetness.

Ping!

Was that a hailstone that just bounced off my mirror? Ping! Another one hitched a ride on the lid of my bag until it melted.

We waved at a stream of cyclists passing in the opposite direction, members and supporters of the Gwernyfed rugby football club, on a two-day fundraising ride from the most northerly club in Wales to the most southerly.

There was talk of a steam train, and whether our timing would align to see it. I caught a glimpse through the trees. Evidently it's coal-powered—and a very sulfurous coal, at that. One of the Welsh Highland Railway's trains, I believe.

We stopped for our morning break at a pub in Beddgelert, which was fortuitous for me as the menu offered a ginger beer that helped settle my system. Shortly after we stepped inside, the rain came pouring down. It stopped by the time we were ready to roll out, and I was the only one who suited up in my rain gear. [Which meant, of course, that we would see no more rain.]

Regrettably, we didn't pay a visit to the local bike shop, but were surprised to find a wicker bicycle mounted above the stairs inside the pub.

We continued on our way through Snowdonia National Park, heading for the coast.

Looking at the map, and the roads not taken ... I just might have to come back here.

We had a schedule to keep today, as we would be crossing the Irish Sea (by ferry) to Dublin. We made good time, affording a chance to admire the nature reserve at Foryd Bay.

Our riding ended at Caernarfon, where we enjoyed lunch and a stroll around the town square near the Castle. Despite the weak start to my day, I felt pretty good at the end: 33 miles, 1,830 feet of climbing.

A local cyclist struck up a conversation, wanting to learn about our trip. “You weren't cycling on Monday?!” she exclaimed.

The scavenging gulls were a menace! You had to keep close watch on your food, and they'd dive at a table as soon as the diners departed, knocking plates and cups to shatter on the stone plaza. Before the trip, while I was languishing sick at home, I had binged on Hitchcock movies. Fittingly, the last one had been “The Birds.” Here, we laughed at a little boy chasing them down—he couldn't have been more than four years old. “Shoo, you bloody bird!” he cried, flailing his arms at one. [He hasn't seen the movie.]

To free us from the time pressure of biking across the Isle of Anglesey to reach the ferry at Holyhead, the group would get a tour up the Menai Strait on a speedy boat (45 knots, at one point).

We cruised under the Menai Suspension Bridge, regarded as the first modern suspension bridge (completed in 1826).

From St. George's Pier, the van carried us onto the ferry and the next phase of our adventure: Ireland, the third country of our Five Countries Tour.