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Day 20
I made a late start hoping that the rain would stop but eventually had to set out fully waterproofed. I ignored the possibility of using footpaths and made my way on a maze of minor roads. What seemed an unavoidable half mile on the main road produced an unexpected bonus. A busy little cafe at Glan-yr-afon was offering all day breakfast, an opportunity not to be passed by. Despite the fact that it was acting mainly as a transport cafe everybody seemed to be speaking Welsh until a group of English motorcyclists came in. There seems to be a lot more Welsh spoken now than when we first started visiting Wales. The hostel warden told me that her daughters have a choice of secondary school, Bala where the teaching is in Welsh or Llangollen where it is in English.
There was no obvious route onto Foel Goch which is an isolated hill whose lower slopes are entirely agricultural. I trespassed quietly through the mist, zigzagging around to find the gates which would lead me onto the open fell above. Only the sheep saw me, the lambs as always rushing to mother for a rough and reassuring suckle at the frightening sight of this strange apparition coming up their hill. All this activity and bleating made me realise how devoid of life the Berwyns had been. Only the occasional grouse there startled me as I frightened it out of the heather.
The route off westwards was quite straightforward but I still went wrong. Failing to consult the map in the rain I missed a right fork and went half a mile too far south. This was hardly a catastrophic error but it resulted in an unpleasant and hazardous ten minutes on a busy, twisting and vergeless main road. I felt rather depressed and reluctant to climb back up into the mist to camp. Had there been anywhere offering B&B on this short road section I would have gone in and begged a bed.
My humour was not improved by the fact that the right of way which I now tried to follow did not exist. I climbed two barbed wire fences and then found myself in trackless knee deep heather. I thought 'not more of this wretched stuff'. I knew that I was on the correct line because there was a stream to follow. On the west side of the col a clear track appeared. I had in mind to camp at Llyn Hesgyn which was the spot which I had written onto my schedule. I could just see the water below through the mist but was not inclined to leave the now excellent track to go down to it through the heather.
Eventually, as the track swung back eastwards I had to leave it on the vaguest of paths marked by a small cairn. This led to a river confluence where I found a patch of grass just big enough for the tent. Once pitched on this rather splendid tent-sized oasis in the heather my spirits rose considerably and were further lifted by tuning in to Radio 3 and finding myself listening to Die Schöne Müllerin. I lay by my own little brook which gave me a special rapport with Schubert's unhappy hero as he invoked the brook to sing on beside his last resting place.
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