A Tale of Two Peaks

We caught an early flight to Geneva last Saturday, which meant getting a taxi to the airport at four thirty in the morning. We booked in advance so as to ensure a few hours anxiety-free sleep, though we need not have bothered, since the streets around us were thronged with young revellers making their way home and hundreds of taxis cruising for fares: nor had I slept well.

We were visiting friends who had moved there from London – we hadn’t seen them since their leaving party a year ago but it looks as if they have settled well into a city that has first-class civic amenities, good schools for their kids and is a perfect location for outdoor activities. They welcomed us warmly and, since we were first-timers, introduced us to the delights of the Saturday market in Carouge, a degustation at a delightfully quaint winery just out of town and a picnic on a hillside with a view of the Alps jutting into a clear blue sky – (except for Mont Blanc, the top of which was obscured by a cloud that resembled Trump’s coiffure). The picnic was actually in France, the border of which closely surrounds the city in a way that could feel threatening if international relations were to turn ugly. That seems unlikely, however, given that everyone we encountered spoke French and that the Swiss legendarily maintain a high degree of military preparedness. (Our friends’ house – along with others of the period – incorporates a mandatory nuclear-bomb-proof bunker in the basement.)

The day after our return, I threw my hiking boots into the campervan and drove to Snowdonia for a rendezvous with a couple of very old but distant friends. We had arranged to ascend Snowdon – so long as the weather permitted – and the forecast was excellent. All the way there, the sun shone: on the suburbs of Manchester; on the motorway to North Wales; on the lush, rolling countryside; and on the mountains themselves, as they loomed enticingly into view. Snowdon stood proud, without a crown of cloud. At the campsite, my friends erected their tent and we went off to the pub for some supper, having decided our route for the next day.

The night, however, grew wet and windy and, when we met at breakfast, my friends were bleary from lack of sleep. All around us a thick mist swirled and the wind drove gusts of rain into the sodden grass. Somewhat disappointed, we discussed the situation and decided that an alternative, low-level walk might be best – though it took some time to convince ourselves that we were not wimps but sensible, experienced hikers who knew when to back off. What would be the point of scrambling up 1,000 metres of slippery slate when there would be no view from the top? Our dilemma thus resolved, we celebrated with coffee at the Caffi Colwyn in Beddgelert, our starting point.

The change of plan actually brought with it a certain benefit: the broad tracks through woods, hills and valleys are more conducive to conversation than the narrow, steep, mountain paths that oblige single file and permit only breathless exchanges. We had, therefore, plenty of opportunities to reminisce, exchange news, debate obscure points of interest and exchange gentle, humorous banter – a mellow progress through a dank but beautiful landscape.

After tea and scones back at Caffi Colwyn, we said goodbye, with a promise to meet again in Spring. I stayed that night at the campsite so as to explore the area next day. I slept well and awoke to find the mist had cleared and the sky was blue. Snowdon, with a fluffy white quiff on top, reminded me of Mont Blanc. People around me were putting on their boots, eagerly. I almost did likewise but felt it would have been disloyal to my mates to summit without them. Besides, where’s the fun in solitary hiking?

Llyn Gwynant campsite on a fine day.