Yesterday it seemed as if the walking season had really began. It was a wonderful day to be on the hills.

Everywhere there was an abundance: the lower hills were covered in flowering daffodils; young lambs sprang and ran in lush, green fields; all around the birdsong was almost deafening; there were ramblers everywhere; and the Duke of Edinburgh Award parties were huffing and puffing – and lugging their habitual heavy loads – up the hills. And the day, the light and sun, definitely had a feel of longevity about it.

Down in the village I hit my first group of ramblers as soon as I left the train station. There must have been twelve or so, dressed for any arctic eventuality and, strangely, they were walking away from the hills. Fifty yards further one I met another party of twenty, or more. I jumped into the café to buy my sandwiches to find that the two combined groups had evidently turned up at the same time, all wanting their sandwiches freshly made! They’d certainly made an impression on the staff,

I soon left my rambling colleagues. I took a long, quieter way up the hill. The sun flickered through the clouds and around occasional bends a cold wind surprised me. but snug with the protection of a simple windshirt this was almost ideal walking weather. As I strolled along I looked out for good bivy sights (maybe for next weekend) and found several. The best even had wood piled-up, the un-used fuel for some long extinguished fire. The streams were well supplied with water and as they babbled they seemed to sing a song of welcome. I met one solitary walker on his way down the hill. We stopped and shared feelings of total superiority; where was everyone? Why weren’t many more walkers out enjoying the first day of the season.

Well, they were of course. Climbing to the top of the ridge I saw another twenty or so ramblers, steaming towards me. They’re a frightful sight. They may look as if they’re not moving fast but they build up real momentum. Hang around too long and you can imagine being trampled underfoot, stabbed everywhere by walking poles. A frightening way to go! So, I zipped off ahead.

The Advance Guard!

As I sat at the summit, leaning against the trig point, the heard of ramblers caught up. I never cease to be amazed by the weight that these folks carry just for a day walk. Heavy, forty-litre packs, full protection Paramo gear – and the forecast was dry all day! Gaiters were worn in profusion. I feared I might have to eat my sandwiches amongst the biggest crowd I’d ever seen up here. There was an animated conference going on around the trig point. Of course, there was the GPS route to be considered and waymarks to be identified!

The heard headed off along the ridge and so I dropped down the other side and at the bottom simply climbed up again by a further route. By the time I regain the ridge I was all along. When you know a hill really well it’s comparatively easy to loose the hoards and I chose a long, quite, moorland walk which skips from minor summit to minor summit before dropping down, again to civilisation. My only company was a sheep farmer who whizzed past on a dune buggy thing carry a dead sheep that seemed to have been killed, it’s stomach and intestines ripped open and eaten? What could do that? A fox?

When I hit the quiet, country lanes, the sun had begun to shine with a strength that saw me search in my sack for my Tilly Hat – it’s first outing of the year.

I felt I hadn’t quite had my fill of the heights and decided to climb high again and follow the ridge of Ragleth Hill back to the station. This hill always comes as something of a shock. Though not that high the climb up to it is rather like many of these Snowdonia climbs that seem to just climb vertically, right from the off.

At the top of the hill I met a couple of groups of young women doing on Duke of Edinburgh weekends. The first group were quite sweet. They’d stopped to throw off their gigantic packs and were dancing around in the rarified air. I gave them some clues about the best descent and we talked about pack weight. Their loads hadn’t put them off and they were to be back on the hills later in the season. They could see what I was on about; a couple of them reckoned they should be leaving half of their load back at home next time; looking at their packs they were probably right.

Further on a second groups asked me to take photographs of them, high on the hill, looking out over the small town and villages below. Again, this was solely a group of young women and this seems to be the norm these days. I can remember meeting one mixed group last year, but all of the others were women only. What’s happened to the lads?

The Hazy Heights

A sharp descent saw me back at the train station with a train suddenly appearing a little down the track. I had time simply to stow my walking poles before jumping on board. Perfect timing. And a perfect day.