My love of mountain climbing began not in the Alps but in Wales. It was there also, in Snowdonia National Park, that the spark of photography struck. For the first time I was no longer taking holiday snaps but making travel reportage, story and all. Now, reading it again, I believe my friends didn’t get much joy from listening to it during my slideshow. Too longwinded and too enthusiastic, but what do you expect: I was seventeen and had just discovered two things that were going to change my life.

We arrived in Wales on bicycle, Emile and I. But once we started mountaineering, our bicycles never left the shed. Emile also became a photographer later in life and for him it began on Glyder Fâch as well.

First, though, we climbed the Tryfan. Sheer conceit, as the Tryfan is the only mountain in Snowdonia that you cannot climb without hands and feet. But we were hooked and there was no way back. >>> <<< Then it happened. Clouds gathered, we were engulfed by fog and our trail over the crest from the Glyder Fawr to the Glyder Fâch was separated from the rest of the world. Suddenly out of the fog they loomed up, the razor-sharp stone plates and the stone columns, like thousands of knives shooting up from the earth’s crust, of Castell y Gwynt. A castle, as indeed you could call it, and what a castle. Contemplating who could have built it helps you understand why Wales has such a wealth of mysterious stories and legends. We took our cameras and said goodbye once and for all to making mere holiday snaps. >>>

Pleasantly mad

<<< The edge of the mountain ridge was so sharp that we could imagine only a tightrope walker with an umbrella actually walking on it. So we went under it, our hands sliding over the crest, our feet seeking purchase underneath. That too is mountain hiking, we discovered: caution, knowledge of self, of how far to go. We were passed by a girl, a year younger than us, dancing over the edge in sneakers and without an umbrella, as if it was a sidewalk curb. Mad or amazing? Pleasantly mad, we decided, and spent the rest of our holiday with her.

Now, many years later, I am once again trekking through the Welsh landscape with a young lady: my daughter Olga. There is one big difference: mountain hiking is not her hobby. She appreciates the mountains from a distance, but has reservations about getting all worked up and sweaty climbing them. This trip has slightly educational ambitions.

<<< The weather is so ideal that the beaches are irresistible to Olga the next morning. Plagued by the knowledge that the essence of Snowdonia lies in the mountains, I wrestle with feelings of guilt. I cannot acquiesce to lying lazily on the beach, far from my subject – the park. But when I unfold the map I see that the entire coastal line from Tywyn via Barmouth to past Harlech falls within my working area and Olga gets her way. The mountains can wait another day.

Close to nature

To the west of Coed-Ystumgwern the coast is most natural. Walking there takes us through an overgrown little polder to a broad strip of windblown dunes, full of flowers and tantalising smells. At the end the beach lies before us, wide and scantily populated by even more scantily clad people; it’s a nude beach! Olga looks at me sternly, as if I did this on purpose. Plump women and skinny men lie side by side, as white as only the English can be. As close to nature as it is, I can’t say I find it appetising. So I concentrate on my Snowdonia reading material. Olga squeezes her eyes shut and surrenders to her sun worship. >>>

<<< We climb over gates, wander through gardens. Finally, on the terrace of a gorgeously situated building, I find the perfect view. While I am shooting my pictures, I feel slightly embarrassed, especially when in the corner of my eye I see the owner of the place come out. As a trespasser, I expect to be reprimanded. But I had discounted the British mentality: “That’s what I thought too: I have the best view around Harlech. Come on in. Fancy a cup of tea?”

 

The next day is it: we are going into the mountains. The peak of Cader Idris is the goal, the mountain that fires the imagination most in the south of Snowdonia. Thankful for her day at the beach yesterday, Olga does not utter any protest. >>> <<< Not much later it is our turn to pass them, clearly getting ready for a break of their own. “Gentlemen, only just out of the forest and resting already?” The oldest, with the unmistakable appearance of a lord, points at his watch and corrects me: “Tea break.” He takes a flowery porcelain teacup from his bag, followed by the saucer and a thermos. In response to our surprised looks, he says: “Don’t think we are fatigued. We are just upholding our culture. The empire may have fallen, but we still stick to our tea.”

Sir Edmund Hillary

I want to show Olga the Glyder Fâch, where my fascination with photography began. But when we get there it is raining cats and dogs. So we seek shelter in the Pen-y-Gwryd hotel, the most famous mountaineers hotel in Wales, lying at the foot of the Glyders. It served as the training base for Sir Edmund Hillary’s Everest team, the first to reach the roof of the world in 1953. The interior consists of alcoves, finished in wood. The weathered climbing shoes of famous mountaineers hang on the ceiling.

As the rain won’t let up, we are the ones to leave. In England it is best to be prepared to sit by the open fire all day on days like this. Wales is more deserving of optimism. The mountains tickle the rain out of the clouds, as they arrive on the west wind over the Irish Sea. But before the clouds empty themselves, they pass the coast. So on to the sea!

Portmeiron lies where the Vale of Ffestiniog meets the sea, in a wide tidal estuary again. Seen from across the water it looks like a normal village, albeit in an unusually picturesque location. Not until you’re walking around in it can you believe that this is the folly of an eccentric: the English industrial Sir Clough Williams-Ellis. More than anything, the little town exudes an Italian atmosphere with its Mediterranean pastel-coloured facades, its columns, baroque balustrades and campanile. The surrounding park, which has subtropical plants thanks to the warm Gulf Stream, adds to the illusion. Even the sun comes out to help.

Bathing resort Llandudno

My favourite bathing resort is Llandudno. The hotels, unspoilt examples of Victorian architecture, look like they are lining a boulevard in Nice. Here too the pier stretches into the sea, but is furnished with plenty of English amusement. Seagulls skilfully fish out the remains of fish and chips, the sound of the video arcades mingles with the breaking waves. Without undermining the air of stately elegance, it adds a cheerful note. Llandudno is flanked by Great Ormes Head. Ormes is Welsh for dragon and indeed it looks like the back of an enormous sea monster is rising out of the water. >>>

<<< From there we see what I have been anticipating for days. The grey soup above the peaks opens up. We rush inland. It is too late in the day for Glyder Fâch, but not for a walk around the two lakes of Llyndau Mymbyr at Capel Curig, which reflect the Snowdon horseshoe. The views on the way there are amongst the most beautiful of Wales. Especially as the sun slowly sinks behind the horseshoe. Don’t horseshoes bring good luck? A little sunshine maybe? Let’s hope so, because tomorrow is our last day. And the Glyder Fâch is waiting.

At six thirty I open the curtains. Fog is creeping over the flowerbeds of our guesthouse, rain is drizzling down the windows. Not a mountain in sight. “It’s wet” I sigh. Olga, still in bed, mumbles, “Shame.” Does that sound the tiniest bit insincere? “When the Glyder Fâch changed my life it was also covered in mist!” “Hmm, mm,” I hear, while she turns over under her warm featherbed. “You must see Castell y Gwynt before leaving Wales!” I try to get her out from under her duvet. “You’ve already seen the mountain,” she says cleverly, “And it can’t be more beautiful than it was the first time anyway.”

 

Translated from the Dutch by Elise Reynolds

 

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This feature has been published in REIZEN MAGAZINE, the leading Dutch travel journal, and in the WEEKEND edition from Belgian weekly KNACK.

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