16th – 18th September:

It wasn't helped that we set off for the drive north from Bristol to Bawdy Mawr for the Presidents Meet very late in the day. The typically execrable service of GWR from London saw to that. However our determination to avoid the stationary queues on the motorways and drive up through central Wales in the dark much assisted. When we arrived, late and suitably knackered at Croesor (site of a previous Meet) we had not only a sense of déjà vu and a sense we had been here before, but also a sense of panic. We had travelled to the wrong Meet. Scrabbling around to first find and then read the Meet Notice we convinced ourselves we had the wrong date too. Old Men and their short term memories eh. No wonder my son refers to me as an oxygen thief.

T’was about 11 pm we rolled up at the Hut. There we were met by the ruddy faces of The President, Mike J, Martin, Syd, the Peppit Boys, Skelly, Brian, Richard……… I say ruddy because the table was covered in empty bottles. Full ones rapidly appeared and in the best Club traditions, we drank too much on the first night. It may be that ( the booze) was the reason Mike J solemnly announced this would be the last time he would be ascending Snowdon. Toasts followed. 

The day dawned bright and beautiful. The junior Peppits, having been genetically engineered to produce the very finest very “Full English”, came up trumps once again. With Sandwich Syd on full steam the start to the day was the DPC at its best. Another glorious and a-typical Welsh day. High above the Hut, silhouetted on the ridge the Mountain Train steamed and puffed.

Martin, Chris and I set off for a day on Tryfan (home of the late Sir Bedwyr of the Knights of the Round Table) . Quite a haul up from the road near Lyn Ogwen, we were bound, so I was informed, for ‘Heather Terrace’ lying to the north of Tryfan. Both Martin and Chris seemed intimate with this. Needless to say we never found it. The route to the top was however busy with parties of ‘youffs nearly all of whom were clearly from east of the Baltic. The fact they were pleasant and well behaved rather betrayed their origins as non-English. Climbing up was a matter of surmounting enormous blocks of precariously balanced rocks. On the top we lay in the sun watching lads, egged on by girl friends, jumping between Adam and Eve, and looking at the cracking view down the Ogwen Valley. I pondered as to how, given the difficulties in getting up, we were to get get down without the pieces of string and the danglies many of those on Tryfan were sporting….I need have had no concerns...

Our return was by way of a large circle route taking in first, a very fine photogenic Welsh ram and then a delightful chain of lakes/ponds ( Lyn Caseg-fraith as the locals are wont to say) to the south east of Tryfan with wonderful views back in slowly setting sun.

Back at the Hut the President (or I suspect his Consort) had surpassed himself. Enormous quantities of the very finest victuals washed down with inexhaustible supplies of wine. On top of it all Mike J, rather coyly, I thought, withdrew his threat of hanging up his (mountain) boots. May we have many more years of wincing as hapless females innocently appear in Mike’s line of sight !

As ever, I have taken some snaps of our adventure: https://flic.kr/s/aHskE2PQAk