Son of Sisyphus

On the road to Llamberis, gateway to the geological splendour of Snowdonia, Goran – friend, travel companion and sworn enemy of the Highway Code, ventriloquizes me. “I can’t see a damn thing, I hope we make it.” His novel approach to the Welsh mist, a miasma so thick you could pull a piece off and chew it, is to trundle through at 70mph. By the time we get to Y Gwynedd, the bed and breakfast at the foot of the mountain, my body has a false memory of making the ascent. The head’s light, the legs are full of slag. This is heritage Wales. The weak needn’t apply.

Before the foreboding walk to the quaint mountain railway station, with its vintage ticket office and signage, before the bone rattler to Clogwyn, there’s the little matter of rest for the weary traveller. The B&B’s charming; pine furniture, small white teacups with matching saucers, and a well-thumbed copy of Patrick Stewart’s unauthorised biography. Weight left behind. At first light you get a hearty breakfast which not for nothing looks like a last meal. The owner’s know they may never see you again.

As the Victorian train creeps up the incline, beset on all sides by weathered rock and grass, Goran points to the hungry sheep and the dilapidated stone cottage we’ll use to hide from them. The weather’s bad, damp, so the train terminates short of the summit. We’re on our own for the last quarter, alone with God’s eye and kids who’ve brought unicycles for a circus sanctioned descent.

Glaciation’s forged the valleys and lakes, the peak panorama. We take our time admiring this Bible killer, a testament to Earth’s dotage, then begin the long walk down with the would-be shepherds and walking fanatics. They bound ahead like toddlers on tartrazine.

“Incredible, wasn’t it?” says Goran. “I want to walk up next time.” I say I’ll be with him, observing from my doubleseat in the train carriage. My knees crack with gratitude.