Prelude to Snowdonia

Here’s the first part of the report of last weekend’s trip to Snowdonia:

I woke up, the rain pattering against the window panes, like the finger tips of spindly hands eager to insinuate themselves; the winds whistled in the tree-tops. I half imagined the four horsemen of the apocalypse, sallying forth into the shires of England, dragging me from my bed and throwing me off the dark, desolate cliffs of North Wales.

Hyperbole, I know, but I started to wonder what exactly we would meet in Snowdonia that weekend. Where do you draw the line between valour and folly? Where does an adventurous spirit turn to become sheer stupidity?

Later, I read Sectionhiker’s post, ‘The Summit is Optional,’ weighing it against the bleak mountain area forecasts and synoptic charts that were virtually groaning beneath the weight of the deep depressions buffeting the British Isles.

We needed to be safe, but we also needed tactics. Nothing ventured, nothing gained…


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