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Day 19
Next morning I awoke to thick mist with the lake completely calm. I felt that it was the sort of morning when it would clear quite soon or I might even climb above it but when, after a short climb, I reached the top of Moel Sych, the best viewpoint in Wales according to the book, I could see only a few yards. The mist persisted while I visited the new top and the trig point on Cadair Berwyn. I paid particular attention to the new top because on my last visit it did not exist as a listed top. The story goes that it was 'discovered' by some rambling club and it is now acknowledged to be a full three metres higher than Cadair Berwyn and Moel Sych which previously tied for first place. It was suggested that it be given the name Creag Uchaf, 'highest rocks' but the book calls it simply 'Cadair Berwyn New Top'. Surely if it is really the true summit of the Berwyns it deserves the more distinguished title, Berwyn Uchaf, 'highest Berwyn'? In the mist I could not make a judgment on its superiority but I photographed the highest rocks and rubbed my hand ceremoniously across them enjoying the roughness of the rock against my skin. So far on this walk there had been little opportunity to enjoy the sensual pleasure of rock on the mountains.
I wanted to dump the rucksack for the long diversion over Tomle and the two tops of Foel Wen to Mynydd Tarw but I carried it as far as the first kink in the fence thinking that it would then only be seen by people walking this ridge. I would meet such people and be able to mention the rucksack. The only group I met were almost at the far end of the ridge but it transpired that they were not climbing the Berwyns, they were looking for the site of an air crash. They showed me a map with crosses marking the sites of several crashes. I thought 'everyone to his own lunacy'. No doubt if they had known what I was doing they would have thought me even madder than I thought them. A diversion of this sort which just consisted of walking out and back along the fence in thick mist did have an aura of madness about it. Yet any other way of incorporating these four summits into the walk would have involved a great deal more effort. In fact it was quite enjoyable to walk without the heavy pack over terrain which was mostly grassy instead of the rough heather which I had been enduring for so long. I had again predicted two hours for this diversion and this time my prediction was spot on.
After retrieving the rucksack I joined the ancient trackway, Ffordd Gani Elin, for a short distance as it ran high above an east facing cwm. Here I found a splendidly sheltered brew up spot with a trickle of water. It would have made a lovely campsite too. The mist was dispersing at last and I could see various groups of walkers on the hills.
The next summit was Cadair Bronwen followed by its north-east top, just a bump on the ridge which would hardly be noticed by walkers heading for the higher tops, but a hill of exceptional significance for me, the middle one of the trip. This was the point where I could look back at the 90 tops behind me and forward to the 90 still to do. I decided to try the self-timing mechanism on the camera and photograph myself somewhere near this ill- defined summit. Then I proceeded to the memorial plaque to 'a Wayfarer', a member of the Rough Stuff Fellowship, which has been erected where an important through track, much used by cyclists, crosses the ridge. A log-book is kept in the cairn here and I decided that a short entry was justified. 'Walking the Welsh two-thousanders - 91 done 90 to go'.
It was a short climb from here to the undistinguished Pen Bwlch Llandrillo Top followed by a long trek along the fence to the very last outlier of the Berwyns, Moel Fferna. After the all too short relief of good firm going along the highest part of the Berwyn ridge it was back to thick heather at this northern end. However a track of sorts had developed along the fence which, although boggy in places, was easier going than untrampled heather. Moreover it was now a clear sunny day. Instead of proceeding over a seemingly endless succession of identical clumps of heather I could let my eye and my mind range across distant vistas. The Berwyns had given me a pretty tough crossing but now at the last minute they were seducing me with a forgotten beauty. I had coined in my mind the sardonic phrase 'Berwyn bashing' to sum up my feelings after the struggles I had endured since Bwlch y Groes. Now that I had survived I could look back at the wildness and wet, the mist and even the heather with a perverted affection. I could say with no touch of irony that I am glad that these hills are as they are and that I would do battle to see them preserved in that way. They had hurt me and pushed me close to the limits of my endurance. But I had wanted to be pushed. It would be quite dishonest to pretend that I had enjoyed Foel Cwm Sian Llwyd for example. I had been exhausted and almost unable to struggle through the deep heather. Now I could look back on that day, especially, with a lot more satisfaction than if it had been a gentle stroll on a good path in the sunshine.
Moel Fferna lies rather isolated from the rest of the Berwyns, the very last two- thousander at the north-eastern end of the long twisted ridge which I had followed from Cadair Idris. It does not really have the atmosphere of the end of the world however. There is no steep northern escarpment. Rolling, heathery hills stretch away in every direction and the lower summits north of Llangollen look scarcely less impressive than the now distant high tops of the Berwyns.
I sat down at the summit cairn for a celebratory snack while considering whether to attempt a trackless traverse to Corwen, where I was almost certain to find accommodation, or to take the good forest road down to Cynwyd. The latter seemed preferable in every way. Cynwyd was on the route to the next mountain. The youth hostel at this time of year was open only to pre-booked groups but, being a Saturday, there might well be one there, and so it transpired. I was lucky because five cyclists, who had crossed the Wayfarer's pass that afternoon, were in the hostel and I had the ladies dormitory to myself. We all had pub grub at the Blue Lion, where I could probably have obtained a room had the hostel been closed, and I found them interesting to talk to since they had cycled over many of the Scottish passes which I knew as a walker.
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