Autumn Weekend Walk

Last weekends visit to Morestead was a great chance for a city dweller like myself to get a proper dose of Autumn. The weather was dull but kind enough – a brooding, leaden sky showed off the smouldering colours to the full. Apart from the more picturesque aspects of this time of year I was astonished to find a mass hibernation being prepared for on the woodland floor – but if you want to know more about that you’ll have to visit at a later date. For now I’m just serving up a Hampshire autumn day in pictures.

The trees had just started to colour up; the starkness of the bare fields with their fine pelt of new winter crops were a good foil to the glowing colours in the copses.

The colours were delicious – shades of toffee apple, barley sugar, caramel and cinder toffee competing with the brilliant various reds of ripe berries and fruits, under the trees it smelt and looked good enough to eat.

Under a cathedral of Beech, ash, hazel and oak the light streams through an ephemeral, shimmering stained glass of leaves.

The weather was still pretty mild last weekend, unlike the sudden chill we are having right now – snow in London in October! But on this day I certainly felt overdressed as the sun (what we saw of it) was still hot, the angled light giving depth and throwing long shadows whenever it appeared. The vast rolling chalky fields appeared colourless until the light hit them, then the brilliant emerald of new crops flared in the dun earth. Colour flashes and winks, turns on and off, changes it’s hue or gathers in intensity on a whim at this time of year.  A single tree can in an instant be spangled like a mirrorball, it’s shivering leaves spotlit in a beam of light as gaudy as anything humans could manufacture, then be extinguished – poof! as the light moves on.

Once we were home again I couldn’t resist slipping out one last time to drink in this view. I’ve been photographing the above scene for over a year now and in every season, and the colours in the fields have never been more startling. On the way I stopped to admire these cooking apples, so heavy that the tiny tree they grow upon seems incapable of bearing their weight. Windfalls are a bonanza for unidentified wildlife as the gnaw marks on the scattered fallen fruit testify.

Night comes quickly now that the clocks have changed, and dusk came when it was barely 5pm.

I don’t mind the change though; I love the cosiness of autumn and winter.

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Moon, Sun and Mountain

It seems strange that I’m finally getting round to writing about the midsummer sunrise at the Autumn equinox, but life keeps rolling out under my feet like a gorgeous carpet and given the choice between writing and walking… well, how am I supposed to sit still long enough? Since I’ve finally found the required sitzfleish, I’d better get on with the task at hand.

The evening of our hike was clear and beautiful with a vibrant, never-ending sunset. We ate a huge dinner, prepared lavish supplies, and as we called the cab that was to take us to the start of the track a delicious sense of anticipation made my stomach flip.  Snowdon, or Y Wyddfa, is an easy hike especially by the track we were taking, but I’ve never climbed a mountain in the dark before. The cab driver dropped us at the end of a quiet lane right on the start of the track.

As his headlights receded and the darkness enveloped us I was tempted to switch on my head torch, but it didn’t take long for us to get our night vision. The best way to see in the dark is NOT to use a torch – it’s surprising how much light there is in the night sky, especially on midsummer night when the moon is full. In fact the higher we climbed on the shallow trail, the more light there was. Despite being way past midnight the sun was barely below the rim of the horizon, and a strange red gloaming hung in the northern sky. More eerie by far however was the moon, wreathed in high cloud ahead of us, a silver lantern at the summit of Snowdon.

The silence was absolute, and as we strode through the foothills the twinkling lights of Llanberis winked at us miles below.

Then, they winked out. The point at which we had walked so far into the hills that all signs of human life abruptly vanished was one I will never forget. Now it was just us, the moon and the mountain. Or was it? Ahead, a bright light would abruptly appear and jerkily vanish; other walkers ahead of us on the trail and using their torches to see the path. Curious, I tried my torch and the mountains simply vanished, the only things left were stones lit by the narrow beam. I switched it off and revelled again in the dark shapes of the mountains. Walking without light can play tricks on you though. A jumble of pale granite rocks that I was eyeing as a good place to tighten my bootlaces stood up, shook themselves, and bleating indignantly trotted off the trail in search of a quieter place to sleep; a pale shimmering band of river metamorphosed into the shining metal tracks of the mountain railway. All felt mysterious, changed.

The last section of the hike became steeper and the trail a little more challenging, but even so it was clear that we were going to do it in less than three hours. We’d be at the top well before sunrise, and the higher we got the colder it became, the still air enlivened by a freshening breeze. We would have a chilly wait; I thought with relish of the hot drink and flask of good Scotch we’d packed earlier.

The track became tame, paved with carefully hewn stone slabs. We topped the wide ridge leading to the summit and a bracing gust of wind pummelled us awake. The horizon glimmered red, the herald of a new day. Ahead of us on one side of the Snowdon horseshoe the knife edge ridge of Crib y Ddysgl glowed dully.

To our right rose the summit of Snowdon, and after drinking in the view of the mountains and hills of Snowdonia receding into the haze we climbed the final few metres.

Others had got there before us; some had camped within view of the summit and were beginning to stir – making tea, brushing teeth. We almost walked into some men who were huddled at the base of the triangulation point on the summit itself until one grinned and spoke and I saw his teeth gleam in the pre dawn light. The summit itself is not a particularly wild place – the accessible climb ensures a steady stream of walkers and the Snowdon mountain railway carries hundreds more visitors to the top. It can be as busy as Piccadilly Circus up there, but on this early morning there was still plenty of room to find a quiet place. The colour in the sky intensified, spread; then miraculously about twenty minutes before it was due, the sun appeared – and quite high in the sky!

We were seeing a mirage – an upside down reflection of the sun projected onto the clouds from below the horizon line, a sneak peep at the beauty that was to come.

The colour strengthened, intensified, the mirage dissolved. We clambered to the top of the triangulation point just in time to see the sun hit the horizon and the bowl of the Snowdon Horseshoe catch fire.

Crib Goch flared in the burgeoning ruby light like a blade in a forge. Lakes and mountains marched out toward the horizon, a tapestry of indigo, crimson and gold. We were cold, we were tired, but neither of us noticed.

We had climbed the easy route but Snowdon is deceptive; from the peak of the mountain there is a dizzyingly sheer overhanging drop, and peering over it makes you feel as though you are flying. As if to add to this illusion a single herring gull joined us, hanging perfectly still in the jaws of a shrieking wind, lit underneath by a delicate rose light.

The brilliant flush of sunrise subsided quickly into a pale and watery dawn, and we noticed with consternation that clouds were gathering swiftly at our backs. No time for dallying, we needed to get down from the mountain as fast as we could, and chose the Miners track which is steeper but faster.

We paused briefly to look back at Snowdon’s immense shoulder. Just then, whirling grey cloud boiled over the ridge and obliterated the summit, leaving the dawn hikers above us with zero visibility.

We continued our descent as fast as our tired legs would allow us. We kept just ahead of the cloud, which billowed and swirled and poured into the passes above us like a pursuing demon.

The fine drenching rain became a stinging torrential downpour, and the steep track of jagged rock became a shallow rushing stream. Our way afforded no shelter for miles, and we ate breakfast sat in the open, overlooking a storm whipped lake Glaslyn and watched closely by a herring gull. No longer the transcendent flyer of the summit sunrise, its savage yellow eye regarded us balefully as it tried to find the courage to steal our sodden celebratory chocolate cake. I cursed at it cheerfully and waved my fist, and it backed away, hunching its shoulders. Normally I will leave a little something for the wild inhabitants to enjoy but R and I were ravenous as dogs so by the time we set off again there wasn’t a single crumb left.

We tottered the remaining few miles like exhausted drunks, with magnificent views all around obscured by cloud and lashing rain. Every so often a party of Three Peaks Challenge walkers would loom through the fug, but I have to say I did not envy them their drenching, viewless climb.

By the time we reached Pen-y-pass and the safety of the youth hostel bus shelter it felt as if we were being water cannoned from above; the rain was making the gravel dance as if shot and the din it made on the wooden roof of the shelter was astonishing. A hapless Three Peaker, arms windmilling furiously, chased his waterproof trousers as they flew across the car park, whipped out of his hands by the wind as he’d tried to don them; then the bus appeared and we scrambled still dripping to our seats. Midsummer day was about as filthy as can be, but I wouldn’t have missed welcoming it in for anything in the world.

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Fine Welsh Swine

While walking in the woods of Padarn Country Park, we came across a free range sow with her piglets. C trained to be a vet, and being confident with animals soon made their acquaintance. Clever and funny and skittish as puppies, I can’t bear to imagine these creatures existing on a battery farm.

They could smell that we had apples, chocolate and trail mix in our rucksacks, and this alone made them keen to get to know us better. We didn’t share though – it’s a bad idea to get farm animals used to begging for tidbits. I was once pushed almost clear off the edge of Kinder Scout by a spoiled and enraged sheep who wanted my apple, but that’s another story.

The sow was a good tempered animal who kept an eye on the rowdy proceedings with an air of cheerful dignity. One small grunt from her was enough to send her offspring squealing back under the fence and tumbling across her immense flank in search of a feed, and she huffed contentedly as they settled.

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Llanberis, Snowdon and the fairy rings

At midsummer we paid a visit to our friend C who is currently training to be a climbing instructor in Snowdonia. On midsummer eve we went for a gentle stroll around Llanberis, a climbing village of some fame and colourful home of equally famous Pete’s Eats, a climbers café renowned for the fact that after you’ve climbed your fill in the landscape outside, you’ve yet to conquer the gigantic servings that emerge from their busy kitchens.

The day was hot and vivid, and as we planned to make a night climb of Snowdon in not so many hours we limited ourselves to a slow meander around Llyn Padarn towards the slate museum and up into the woods beyond it. At the foot of Elidir Fawr, the horribly ruined mountain from which the slate was torn, we found a beautiful and secluded spot where a quarry pit overgrown on all sides by tall shady trees was filled with the most beautiful clear water, coloured vividly by the raw blue green stone that made its sides. The scarred flanks of the mountain reared up all around us raw naked and exposed, and inexplicably, a small rusty freight truck that must have been used to transport the quarried stone hung midair on rust reddened cables. The still majesty of the spot was sublime, but we were not alone, nor was it completely silent. Deep below us in the turquoise waters, members of the local sub-aqua club were exploring, and fairy rings of bubbles danced in the water as the divers shoaled below. After our quiet appreciation of the cool air and gorgeous water we left Vivian pool to explore the path up into the woods of Padarn country park, skirting the lower flanks of the mountain to eventually rejoin the lake and make a return to Llanberis. This view of the Snowdon massif was worth the walk, and reminded us of our aim to hike to the summit for sunrise.Llyn Padarn was glassy calm, and gave us another fabulous view.But would the weather hold up well enough for us to see the sun rise?

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Herbivores 2, Omnivores nil.

I turned back soon after I had seen the fox. I was bursting to tell someone about it, and as the wind was no longer in my favour and I wasn’t taking any care over how quietly I walked, I was not expecting to see my inquisitive friend from earlier grazing about fifty yards up the trail. It was a roe deer, and when I photographed it, it was alternately eating wild flowers from the hedgerow and scuffing up the ground to find something good to eat – I don’t know what, although I have read that deer sometimes eat the tubers of Lords and Ladies plants. Unsure of how close I could get, I crept along, hiding behind the dense foliage of the overhanging trees until I was close enough to get a few pictures. I was becoming proud of my amateur stalking technique until it became apparent that once again the deer was well aware of my presence and always had been.

I had the distinct impression that it felt far more in control of the situation than I could ever be, so I gave up my pretence of stalking and just began to follow it in the open, and the deer adjusted the distance between us as it saw fit. It seemed to have a comfort zone of about twenty yards, and until I got a terrible urge for a cup of tea and began to move more purposefully it lingered serenely in the tunnel of trees.

After lunch I went back out, determined to prove myself able to move unnoticed through the fields and hedgerows. If the fox had utterly failed to see me when I was right under his nose I felt sure I could work the same magic again, and deliberately this time.

Creeping along the trail for a third time, I was rewarded by the delightful sight of three baby rabbits grazing and gambolling in the grass close to where I’d seen the fox. I can’t begin to tell you how painstakingly I worked my way towards them; how I winced when I trod “SCRUNCH!” on an unfortunate snail and three sets of long, hairy ears swivelled suspiciously in my direction, nor how excruciatingly careful I was to remain invisible. I felt I had truly earned my right to watch when I got to within about five metres and they were still cavorting giddily; then I trod heavily on a twig…and…and… nothing happened! Slightly deflated I stepped out in plain view, and sure enough the rabbits continued to graze unconcernedly, while keeping an insultingly casual eye on me. They were not scared or even particularly curious, and I wondered if they would have been this nonchalant about the fox I had seen stalking them earlier. It’s true that young rabbits are notorious for their insolence but again I felt out of my depth; the rabbits were certainly taking a risk, yet I felt that in attempting to creep up on them I was the foolish one. They had sized me up and seen no threat, and luckily for them, they had been right.

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