© the artist. Photo credit: Llyfrgell Genedlaethol Cymru / The National Library of Wales
So, from time to time, I could escape from the war to
the hills, and early in the winter of 1943 there were a few glorious days spent
at Ty Gwyn farm in the Nant Ffrancon Valley with Charles Marriott and other
friends. This valley has the reputation of being the coldest in North Wales. As
we sallied forth from the shelter of the farm house an icy blast, such as I
have seldom encountered in the Alps, buffeted and tore at us. But it was fine,
fine as I have rarely seen it in Wales. The hills looked treble their normal
size with the detail of the lower slopes still indistinct in the early morning
light, while the summits gleamed, snow-capped, far above. The sky was a uniform
pale steely blue, the ground hard as iron, so that we walked dry-shod where
normally one would sink into marsh.
I was now to learn something quite new. We found ourselves on frozen turf at a
steep angle on which the axe made not the slightest impression. Only an
automatic drill might have been effective. We left that rib just as quickly as
we knew how and dropped back into the gully with a sigh of relief. Progress
here was slow for quite a lot of step-cutting was required, and when the slope
curled up steeply into a small cornice I could almost imagine myself back in
the Alps.
Chris Bonington's nephew Liam climbing Nea Morin's eponymous route on Clogwyn y Grochan.Photo:Berghaus
Another glorious and this time absolutely cloudless
day, saw us clambering up the yellow bone-dry grass slopes of Mynydd Perfedd.
Sheltered from the cutting wind, we were soon perspiring in shirt-sleeves; but
for the frosty nip in the air it might have been a summer's day. From the
summit plateau we looked up and across to Foel Goch and Y Garn and thought the
gentle slopes on this side would make admirable practice ground for skiing.
Snowdon was unaccountably missing from the landscape, and recollecting loud
rumblings in the night we wondered if the Germans had dropped a bomb on it. But
the summit peak was only playing hide and seekbehind Carnedd Ugain and its sharp point soon peeped
out reassuringly as we made towards Y Garn.
We glissaded down the snow and
peered over into the Devil's Kitchen. Normally there is a sizable waterfall
here, but this was now frozen solid and a more awesome, gloomy place one could
scarcely imagine. Somewhere I had read that "Several attempts to scale the
Devil's Kitchen had ended in disaster" and I could well believe it. Still,
what was visible of the finishing traverse at the top seemed fairly clear of
ice and we decided to go round and have a look at it from below. The cliffs
were festooned with enormous icicles, and with a queer formation that I don't
remember ever having seen before; it looked as though water had frozen solid in
the act of shooting out fanwise over the edge, forming something like half an
open umbrella with extra long spikes and deep-cut bays.
The Devil's Kitchen was blue ice from top to bottom, and we had to cut steps right from the start. Oddly enough it seemed less cold inside the cleft, but how nightmarish it would be to be transfixed by one of the gigantic icicles hanging over our heads. The large jammed boulder gave us some trouble —it was just a huge lump of ice, and in the end we had to use combined tactics. Below the steep crack beside what is normally the waterfall, we paused. At the best of times this is an impressive spot — the guidebook says of the climb: "Severe, owing to its character." On this occasion, though a magnificent sight, it was frightening enough to conjure up the mythical afanc (abominable Welshman?) from the cavernous depths of the frozen waterfall.
The Devil's Kitchen was blue ice from top to bottom, and we had to cut steps right from the start. Oddly enough it seemed less cold inside the cleft, but how nightmarish it would be to be transfixed by one of the gigantic icicles hanging over our heads. The large jammed boulder gave us some trouble —it was just a huge lump of ice, and in the end we had to use combined tactics. Below the steep crack beside what is normally the waterfall, we paused. At the best of times this is an impressive spot — the guidebook says of the climb: "Severe, owing to its character." On this occasion, though a magnificent sight, it was frightening enough to conjure up the mythical afanc (abominable Welshman?) from the cavernous depths of the frozen waterfall.
I had
climbed it before and knew that the pitches were not really difficult, but
nasty little thrills of apprehension kept running up and down my spine. I moved
slowly over the ice-covered rocks towards the foot of the crack, and the nearer
I got the steeper grew the walls. How cold it all was! Would there be much ice
up there? Once I had started, I shinned up as though the Devil had indeed come
out of his Kitchen and was at my heels. For some unknown reason I felt impelled
to go all out and style went by the board, as my shins and knees showed later.
Perched up on the first stance I looked straight down between my legs into the
dark cleft below. Charles, who had watched my frenzied antics with some
amazement, now came up slowly and deliberately in perfect style despite his
rucksack and two ice-axes. I felt I was being silently though nonetheless
effectively, reproved, and since some explanation seemed called for, I
remarked that had been afraid of my fingers getting numb.
This announcement met
with polite, but quite obvious incredulity, and the reply that his fingers were
beautifully warm, in fact he was altogether too hot. I was now thoroughly
warmed up and feeling capable of tackling anything, but there was no need for
any heroics; curiously enough the actual pitches were almost free of ice and,
barring the cold were scarcely more difficult than under normal conditions.
When we reached the top the sun had gone. Once again we made our way down the
now rather worn steps, which we had cut two days before.
The shadows were already deepening as we ran down to
Llyn Idwal and Ogwen. On the road to Ty Gwyn I paused time and again to look
back at the delicate crests of Tryfan and the Glyders and to the black mass of
Y Garn and Foel Goch outlined against the pale, starry sky. Peace reigned over
all and some of that peace we took away with us.
Nea Morin: First Published in her autobiography 'A Woman's Reach' 1968