Snowdonia through the lens

Followers of Livesey on Britain’s mountains may well be wondering where I have been the last few months as these pages have been sorely neglected. It’s not that I’ve been inactive, far from it in fact! It’s just that my focus has changed this year and I’ve been working on my photography.

As much as I love writing about the mountains, it’s very difficult coming up with an original slant, especially if one is a hopeless romantic such as I. It’s possible I’ve run out of ways to describe the joy of walking alone on the ancient bones of the earth, the heady thrill of climbing towering buttresses or the sublime experience of greeting a new born day from above a sea of cloud. There are only so many words in the English language and my pen isn’t powerful enough to achieve my ends, which are and have always been to show anyone willing to look how special the natural heritage of Great Britain is.

Photography’s a different matter. Through my camera I can speak without words, my message is delivered unambiguously and the viewer is left in no doubt as to what these mountains mean to me. My passion is distilled into images of beautiful moments, frozen in time and unencumbered by clichés or fumbled attempts to describe the indescribable.
Many of us take a camera into the hills to record our days out and since I started out ten years ago I have amassed many thousands of snaps which strongly evoke memories of happy days gone by. Among these ‘snaps’ there are small a number of images that transcend the snapshot. All of them were captured by luck, by being in the right place at the right time. Flukes if you like.

These days, I actively hunt down these special images and in turns, it’s hugely rewarding and painfully frustrating but always damn hard work. The capricious nature of our weather conspires against the mountain photographer so I am constantly looking at forecasts and keeping track of where the sun will rise and set on any particular day. In the summer months it’s usual for me to rise at 2am and return to the valley after dark, the whole business can be exhausting.

This summer, though not over yet, has been disappointing and I’m looking forward now to autumn and winter. The thought of lounging in bed until 5am really appeals to me after so many early starts in the last few months!

Wild Wales – The Arans

For the past ten years I’ve been roaming the mountains of northern Snowdonia and during that time I’ve come to think of the area as my spiritual home. Eryri has captured my heart and one day I hope there to live out my days as an old mountain goat with the hills I love peering down on my home.  Those hills have become firm friends and I would need the fingers and toes of many a Wisbechian to count the times I have clambered onto Tryfan’s rocky skull, watched the sun set from Y Glyderau or traversed the lofty ridges which lead inexorably up to Yr Wyddfa, the very roof of Wales.

However, there’s more to Snowdonia than the 3000ft peaks which sit at the north western end of the National Park, much more in fact, and save a couple of forays down south to Cadair Idris there is a wealth of fine mountains which I have yet to feel beneath my boots.

A recent trip to trip to Mid Wales brought this fact home to me and on the return journey I realised that I had been missing out some superb and relatively wild country. Back at home one range in particular called out over the gulf of distance; I decided that an exploration of The Arans needed to happen sooner rather than later so when two weeks later an opportunity arose I grabbed it with both hands and boarded a train to meet my mate Tom, an award winning writer/photographer who needed some routes checking while he recovered from ankle surgery…it would have been rude not to!

So, to get the ball rolling I was dumped on a humid March morning at Dinas Mawddwy with instructions to find a way onto Foel Benddin via its South West Ridge which proved easier said than done. My first attempt was aborted after a ridiculous bout of steep bushwhacking had me turning the air blue and collapsing in a sweaty heap. From my vantage point I spied what looked like a good alternative and reluctantly turned tail, losing all the height I had laboriously gained. My new route which headed off over a delightful grassy track near Dolobran quickly saw me on the ridge and all was well with the world; all that is but a thick haze that made any attempt at photography an exercise in futility, which wouldn’t have been so bad had I not been eager to crack on with my brand new 7D!

Still, it’s not all about photography and getting out alone on quiet hills is always a balm for the soul. That and the wonderful surroundings of smooth hills and placid valleys instilled a spring in my step and I was soon striding up Y Gribin, excellent ridge walking that wouldn’t be out of place in the northern fells of Lakeland. Ahead was Glasgwm, my first real peak of the day and in the blue distance across Cwm Cywarch was Aran Fawddwy, the highest mountain south of Snowdon and one I was eager to bag now my work for Tom was done; it looked a long way away.

On my way up Glasgwm I stepped into another world, a world with a remote ambience quite at odds with the fertile valley I’d left behind. It felt out on a limb, barren and wonderfully wild. At Llyn y Fign which sits just below the summit I halted a while and sat by the lapping water, now fully tuned into the frequency that affects the thoughts and feelings of the solo hillwalker. I felt like the last man on earth. Between me and Fawddwy lay a tract of desolate Cymric badlands, the crossing of which was made dry shod with thanks to extensive duck boarding, an incongruous intervention but perhaps necessary. Indeed, one can only imagine how difficult this ground would be without them, especially after a spell of wet weather.

As it was I made relatively good progress and as I started my ascent of Fawddwy the light started to change. The haze was still maddeningly present but warm light began to fill the scene and with a quickening pulse and eagerness to reach the summit I dug deep until the trig point came into view. Minutes later I standing beside it and imagining how the view might look on a crisp winter’s eve or at the start of a new born day. I’d spent a fair bit of energy throughout my day so far and spent a while debating whether or not I would make the out and back visit to Aran Benllyn at the other end of the ridge. In the end summit fever won out and I strode out, all the while marvelling at Benllyn’s craggy South East face.

It was on Benllyn when I received a message from Tom; could I be down in Cwm Cywarch for 6.20 as he had a table booked for 8 and we still had a fair drive back. No problem was my reply and with reluctance I gathered myself for a quick descent but first I had to climb over Fawddwy again with the aid of my tried and trusted secret weapon, a bag jelly babies – for emergency use only! I made it with ten minutes to spare and sitting beneath Craig Cywarch vowed to come back to these hills again and wildcamp beside Craiglyn Dyfi.

I’d been impressed by all I saw, the Arans are wonderful mountains and the walk could only have been better had the visibility been a little more kind, however the steak and beer that washed it down more than made up for it!

To steal a mountain

I rose to the sound of wind and rain thrashing the thick walls of our hut, an old quarryman’s cottage in Mynydd Llandegai, a village originally founded in the mid 19th century to house workers from the nearby Penrhyn Quarry. It sits at around 1000ft above sea level on the edge of an austere moorland tract and, in inclement weather it can be a grim place where echoes of the hardships endured by the quarrymen reverberate to this day. The very fabric of the village speaks of their industry; from the fences that enclose the fields and gardens to the huge heaps of spoil it is slate which dominates hereabouts.

Alone and in reflective mood –my friends had ventured out in search of adventure-I communed with ghosts of the past and allowed a creeping melancholy to invade my psyche while pondering on an old quote, the origin of which escapes me; “Steal a sheep from the mountain, and they hang you. Steal a mountain, and they make you a lord”.

I had been biding my time, waiting for a promised break in the weather which would allow me an opportunity to capture the spirit of Y Glyderau’s ravaged northern extremities; when it eventually came I walked out of the village towards the miniature mountains of spoil beyond. The musical tinkling of slate beneath my feet lead me to a vantage point from which I could wallow deeper into my reverie. For the next hour I experienced every kind of light a photographer could wish for. I dodged showers of hail and hid behind boulders as modern day quarrymen passed by in landrovers and huge dumper trucks until hunger and cold overtook me. It had been a very interesting morning and with a good collection of images I made my way back to the hut where I met Peter.

I told him of my plans for the afternoon which centred around a visit to the summit of Elidir Fawr, the most hideously scarred and exploited mountain in all Eryri. There I would stay until the sun sank into the Irish Sea in the hope of a photographic bonanza. Peter is an artist and has recently been working on a series of sunsets so naturally he thought my plan a winner and happily agreed to accompany me.

At 3 O’clock we set off for Marchlyn Mawr reservoir and Elidir’s North Ridge which led us breathlessly onto the rocky summit ridge. If I had been pleased with the light earlier in the day then the time we spent on that marvellous mountain top left us ecstatic as scene after scene of unimaginable beauty unveiled itself in a series of incredible light events.

Our descent over Elidir Fach was a quiet one, words seeming superfluous and somewhat banal. I thought of quarrymen past and present; I thought of the hydro electric power station housed in the bowels of Elidir but most of all I thought of man’s arrogance despite his fragility and transience. Steal a mountain? I don’t think so…

A date with dawn on the Great Ridge

With the country set to descend into chaos within hours a spur of the moment decision was made to pre-empt the madness and head on up to Peakland. Our destination was the Edale YHA and our mission an early morning assault on the great ridge to take in the sunrise.

All was going well until we arrived in Edale and realised that getting the car up to the youth hostel would be impossible without snow chains. Not a problem though; we are a hardy pair and happily carried our bits and bobs up and checked in before heading off to the pub for some much needed nosebag. With a couple of pints of Old Rosie, good grub and the snow piling up on the windowsills it was quite simply a wonderful way to spend a cold winter evening.

There were others too enjoying their stay in Peakland and we got talking to a couple of them on the walk back. Our conversation with Jason and Izabela continued in the YHA bar and later in the communal kitchen where we sang and played guitars while drinking wine, beer and vodka late into the night. Splendid stuff indeed.

It’ll come as no surprise that when my alarm went off at 6am my spirits had dipped somewhat and with a sore head and arid gob I staggered downstairs to meet the bouncing Czech who was also feeling fragile as a result of her nocturnal libations! Still, if there is a better cure for a hangover than winter peaks I have yet to hear about it.

So out into the cold morning went we and soon the white hills started to glow in the pre dawn. If we were to make it up there for sunrise we would have to be quick. The plan had been to traverse the high ridge that separates Edale and the Hope Valley in its entirety but that would mean we would almost certainly miss sun up. I took the executive decision to alter our route and we set about a direct course up to the col betwixt Back Tor and Hollins Cross. In our delicate state breaking trail through the fresh snow was sheer purgatory but as a pink glow filled the sky I upped the pace until at last we hit the ridge with but seconds to spare.

There we stood, gasping for breath as the sun rose in a spectacular show of golden light. The snow on the ridge was virgin, the valley silent below, a stunning scene of pristine beauty and we shared it with no one but each other.

Such moments are bitter sweet for they are so fleeting, not unlike life for those that love the hills; so many places to go, so little time. Today though, time was something that we had in abundance and rejoicing in every step we slowly made our way over the ups and downs of the ridge before finally coming to rest on Mam Tor, the shivering mountain.

We peered down the gully that splits its precipitous face. Stone fall raked the gully which showed signs of a recent ascent, no doubt a pre dawn climb while the icy cold of night bonded together the crumbling bastion above.

Before long a chill wind was upon us followed by a curtain of low cloud, blinding us to all but the ground beneath our feet. The show was over, it was time to go and we retraced our steps, smug in the knowledge that while those in valleys slept we had witnessed the miracle birth of a new born day, a gift that so many take for granted.

Attention – New photography blog

Greetings folks, a shameless plug I’m afraid!

As I have become more serious about my photography in the last 12 months I have started a new blog to showcase some of my images and share the odd musing on the very same. I’d be really pleased if any of my followers could have a look and maybe follow the new Nick Livesey Mountain Images Blog too.

The appearance of the NLMI blog doesn’t mean that I will be neglecting ‘Livesey on Britain’s Mountains’ though. I’ll still be sharing tales of my adventures (and misadventures) on the UK hills here so you’ll have to put up with it for the foreseeable future!
Many thanks,
Nick

On the Carneddau with a grumbling appendage

It’s funny how things go sometimes. Of all the occasions I’ve been up Pen yr Ole Wen I’ve always gone up the East Ridge. Of course I have. Why wouldn’t I? The direct ascent from Ogwen is too steep to be a comfortable walk, not steep enough to be a real scramble and everyone I know who’s been foolish enough to do it has come back to me spouting unutterable oaths so naturally I vowed never to tread its evil side. Strange then that in the space of a month I’ve done it twice!

In December I dragged myself up there in the name of adventure and completion. The rocks were covered in verglas and the snow cover was unconsolidated making for an exciting and insecure venture made all the more invigorating by a gale force arctic blast once on the summit. Never again I said!

A couple of weeks later on a perfect blue sky day I decided that Lucie should experience its dubious pleasures too and surprisingly she was in agreement. Unfortunately in the name of honest reportage I am duty bound to divulge that within an hour there were tears and recriminations. Ok, it was hard work but I saw no reason for such a melodramatic exhibition. The air was still and very cold, the mountain deserted and ten feet below us a big ginger fox had arrived on the scene, eyeing us with suspicion before darting headlong down the mountain. How could anyone not be enjoying themselves?

Things improved when onto the summit we crawled; the hard work was over, for a while at least. Onwards to Carnedd Dafydd then where the boss would decide whether or not she wanted to continue on over to Llewelyn which as it happens she did.

It’s a lovely walk along the rim of Cwm Llafar and Lucie seemed to be enjoying it too. Happy days indeed and I would have been jumping for joy were it not for the clear blue sky. It’s not good for photography you see. Worse still, our original plan had been to traverse the Snowdon Horseshoe which come the morning we decided against. Guess what? Over on the Snowdon Massif great dramas were being played out as swirling clouds came hither and thither before being torn to shreds by the sharp peak of Yr Wyddfa; oh how I wished I was there but of course I wasn’t.

Anyhow, I decided that it wasn’t all about photographs and resolved to forget about Snowdon and enjoy the beautiful weather, the like of which I haven’t seen for months in these parts. This enjoyment came easy until the final slog up onto Llewelyn’s balding pate where the recriminations resumed in earnest, “You and your shitty mountains, I’m sick of you” being one of the milder offerings!

As my beloved disappeared into the blue distance I realised that you can’t please everyone all the time and so decided to please myself for the time being and go on a charm offensive later. However, once down in Cwm Ffynnon something happened that made an exercise in damage limitation the last thing on my mind. Oh yes, from the south the clouds did roll in and what wonderful light was it that filled the hoary cwm?

In paroxysms I flew across the bog almost walking on water as I went searching for the perfect composition, quite oblivious to anything or anyone before returning to Lucie who had been waiting patiently on a large boulder. I was a very happy man and Lucie had cheered up a bit too, that is until she discovered that there was two and a half miles of tarmac bashing between us and the car, a mistake I promised both Lucie and myself I wouldn’t make again.

Who was it that said promises are made to be broken? The very next day we went for a great walk up the Rhyd Ddu and down the Snowdon Ranger and guess how that day ended; a tale for another time maybe!

The Fairfield Horseshoe

The Fairfield Horseshoe

Another day with the doctor

When the call comes from Dr Robert Pontefract, one instinctively knows that an unusual outing is on the cards. Be it spending a night out on Tower Ridge or Great Gully on Craig yr Ysfa or even just dragging a rope and rack around the Yorkshire three peaks to climb a very green ‘Red pencil direct’ you can be sure that returning before nightfall won’t be part of the plan. That is if there is a plan at all!

It went a bit like this…”The weather looks better in the west so we’ll head over towards the Roaches. Bring walking gear too. I’ll pick you up at 8am”. Well, it was 9 before I finally clapped eyes on that bean pole lunatic and west we went…then north a bit until at 1pm we found ourselves in Ambleside where coincidentally were bumped into Peter ‘The Machine’ Machin. It’s a small world.

I wanted a hill, just one and that hill was Pike O’Blisco. Sadly the Langdale fells were smothered in cloud and one hill was never going to satisfy Dr Bob so it was decided that the Fairfield Horseshoe looked like a good bet. Having never done it before I would have been chomping at the bit were it not for one small detail, I had forgotten to bring my head torch. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll  just get a move on” offered the epicure of epics, seemingly oblivious to the fact that we had around 4 hours of daylight to play with and the Fairfield Horseshoe is about 11 miles long! Oh well, what did I expect?

We parked up beside Rydal Hall and trudged up Nab Scar, weary and stiff after four hours sat in the car. In the west the view was obliterated by a stubborn cloud cap but everywhere north and east was bathed in golden light which was only going to get better. This realisation blew away any feelings of fatigue and instilled in us an excitement difficult to contain; for us two photographers that kind of light is an instant cure all so we blasted off over Heron Pike and Great Rigg past bemused looking walkers, reaching Fairfield’s stony dome two hours after leaving Rydal. There we remained for an hour, aware that precious time was being lost but unable to tear ourselves away and milking the golden hour for all its worth.

As the sun disappeared behind the cloud bank we scooted off over Hart Crag, slipping as we went on greasy boulders. On Dove crag we picked up the wall that becomes your companion on the southern arm of the horseshoe and serves as a useful guide in mist, or, as it happens, failing light!

The darkness has slowed us down on our descent but we figured that for two slightly unfit blokes five and a half hours up and down was pretty good going. What a day it had been, but it wasn’t quite over. Of course not, a four hour drive awaited us though not before a fish supper from the Old Smithy. All in all, quite mild for a day with the Dr.