To be fair, I had known about the rain – they’d mentioned it on Friday night’s weather forecast. And the red sky at 6am should have been warning enough. It started just as we were ready to go. It carried on all the way through Bala and past Llyn Celyn, in fact all the way to a remote barn on the open moor towards Ffestiniog. On closer examination the barn turned out to be quite dry inside, although rather dirty from sheep shearing, and on an interior “balcony” were a table and chairs all laid out for lunch! What more could we have asked for.

On again through the rain and up the hill, until finally we reached the café at the Permacho turnoff. The rain was finally showing signs of stopping, and whilst we enjoyed coffee and toast the sky cleared and the sun shone – a welcome surprise.

The road to Penmachno proved very spectacular, with a long drop down to the village where we met a local resident who knew South Devon very well. We found a basket weaver near the bridge who showed us how to make some of the variety of baskets on display in his shop, and it was then that John Pope’s stomach decided that the hostel packed lunch was definitely NOT what the doctor ordered. Whilst looking around the woollen mill things got even worse for him, and by the time a taxi had arrived to take him to the hostel it was clear that an ambulance would have to be called.

I accompanied him the twenty six miles to Llandudno hospital while the others continued through Betws-y-Coed to Capel Curig youth hostel. The hospital were still confirming that John was suffering from food poisoning when I realised that I wasn’t feeling exactly brilliant either. John was in a poor state but in good hands, so I returned to the hostel and settled down for an uncomfortable night whilst a kindly warden took his car to Penmachno for the two bikes. Thanks everyone for all the help, and I’m sorry I woke some of the lads up that night!

Today's ride included a total climb of 668m.

(Michael Jones)

[3 photos to follow from Kevin Presland]

Next morning, Jason and Stephen were feeling ill and didn’t want breakfast. I seemed to have slept for the latter part of the night without getting up, and was able to eat a little cereal and milk. It was raining again just to add to our misery, and the warden turned us out onto the porch at 10:10 as he had to go out. We huddled together, feeling sorry for ourselves whilst I finished shaving, and finally decided that we could make it to the village – Andrew W knew of a cafe there. Well, there was a grocery shop and a mountaineering shop, but no matter how hard we looked we couldn’t see a café.

It rained harder. When we felt we couldn’t inspect the Gore-Tex rainwear in the shop any more times we set off again towards Snowdon, stopping in a café opposite Pen-y-Pass youth hostel for lunch. Every so often someone would wander up to buy a glass of milk or an ice cream, so we managed to stay there until about 2.00.

As it was still raining I rang our next hostel, Bryn Gwynant, and when they said we could come right away we descended the long hill within about ten minutes flat and settled down in the drying room! The view over the lake was tremendous, and with the mountains towering above, the whole setting was perfect. The superior grading of the hostel was much appreciated, except for the fact that the boys’ dorm was separated from the hostel by a long drive. The warden was a cyclist and turned out to be one of the best we encountered – he didn’t mind at all about the broken pillow case!

Today's ride included a total climb of 228m.

(Michael Jones)

[Photo to follow from Kevin Presland]

Next morning, lo and behold, the sun was shining as we stirred from our beds at 7.00: Justin made sure that his alarm watch didn’t go off early again! Stephen and I were feeling a lot better after a good night’s sleep, and we set off down the road to Beddgelert for coffee in high spirits. The Pass of Aberglaslyn made a beautiful backdrop for our group photographs and provided us with an interesting walk and quiet lunch spot. I must say we did look a great sight all gathered on that bridge!

Porthmaedog was the next stop, this time for provisions as we were self-catering at the next three hostels. When panniers had been topped up with cans and bags we set off again, racing the little steam engine along the Ffestiniog railway before turning southwards across the river Dwyryd. It was definitely the day for a lane route, so we turned off the main Harlech road and immediately found a near vertical hill that reminded us of the land we had left behind in Devon. The scenery was beautiful up there in the hills, but we had to descend to Harlech for bread and milk before the final ascent to the hostel at Gerddi Bluog (pronounced “Gerthi”). There was a crate of fifteen pints left, and whilst we were pondering on how many we needed, a gentleman took one. That did it: I bought the lot, much to the amusement of the locals outside who watched us trying to pack them away. Good here, isn’t it?

That final climb proved tougher than we had thought, but well worth it. The dunes of Harlech lay stretched out behind us as the Rhinog Mountains unfolded ahead – onwards and upwards was the cry from the leaders.

Soon there was no sign of human habitation, save for the rough track we were riding along. A lake appeared in the distance, surrounded by the most beautiful mountain scenery you could imagine, and then we were there in the midst of it. Putting our cycles into the rude shed and dashing inside to explore our new home.

It was fantastic – like a palace. Soon the kitchen was full of the smell of wonderful foods, cooked by Torbay’s own selection of gourmets. Later that evening some went for a walk through that strange world, others played games indoors. Finally we all gathered in the boys’ dorm to watch John Stuart lie on his top bunk bed and fall through to the bottom bunk – Andrew Winstanley’s idea of course!

And meanwhile what about John Pope? We had been ringing the hospital every night, and tonight we were told, much to our surprise, that he had been taken home by his parents, now much better. Good news to round off a marvellous day.

Today's ride included a total climb of 629m.

(Michael Jones)

[Photo to follow from Kevin Presland]

The Cyclists’ Guide to North Wales is a useful little publication which describes, as its title might suggest, some of the more interesting cycle routes through the National Park. The author happens to be the warden of Bala hostel, a connection which at the time of planning the tour had added extra weight to the information given within its pages. Now, it invoked quite a different reaction.

On the subject of getting from the Harlech side of the Rhinog mountains to the Dolgellau side, The Book has the following advice to give: “For the more adventurous cyclist, who does not mind carrying or pushing his bike at times, there is a track through the wild Rhinog mountains called the Bwlch Drws Ardudwy, or the Pass of the Gateway into Ardudwy .. “. The path we actually took, the Bwlch Tyddiad path across the Roman Steps, looked very similar on the map, crossing a mile or so to the north but meeting up with the other path on the far side: it did climb 80m higher but it had the advantage of starting from near the hostel and thereby avoided a detour to reach it. Taking this path, however, was a mistake that none of us are likely to forget!

The weather had deteriorated overnight to a thick mist with intermittent drizzle, and the views of the previous evening were no more. The warden felt that whilst the Roman Steps may be hard for the young ones, they would not be dangerous, and anyway, the weather was soon going to clear up. So after a short discussion we decided to continue as planned, and set off into the mist towards Lake Cwm Bychan.

Things went very well at first, with the rain showing signs of stopping and the fog clearing. Then we got to the end of the road and started to follow the footpath that was to lead us across the Rhinogs. It looked a bit rough at this point as it wound its way up through the woods, but I was sure that things would soon improve.

Emerging from the woods we were faced with a bleak view that resembled my idea of the Alps! The going was steep and rough, and it didn’t take long for the wiser ones to hit on the idea of removing panniers and carrying them separately. The leading eight decided this was unnecessary and they pressed on ahead with the aim of getting across as quickly as possible.

On we went, higher and higher into the mountains, through bogs and streams, across boulders and up sections of the stone steps themselves. The two Andrews and I finally reached the top at around 3pm – an hour later than the others, who were by now cold and miserable. There was thick fog all around, and the scene was like something out of Agatha Christie. For them, the whole affair had gone beyond a joke, and they decided to carry on alone while we went back to help Glenn, Justin and Jason with their bikes. Amazingly they had managed to get their luggage to the top and their bikes about two thirds of the way up, all on their own! Well done lads!

The view from the saddle was dramatic now that the fog had lifted, but we only had a short time to admire it while we ate our “lunch”, which consisted of anything we could find in our saddlebags. There were several walkers there too, who had passed us on the way up with looks of amazement on their faces. Maybe we should apply to the Guinness Book of Records?

We could see Coed-y-Brenin forest, but getting down to it involved further rocks, bogs and streams, with the added irritant of flies – swarms of the things that almost drove you mad as you stumbled down the slopes with your hands full. Andrew and I went back twice more, once for our panniers and once to help the youngsters.

The last lap was the path through the forest to the service road. It had been raining quite a lot over the past week, and the forest floor was inches deep in boggy peat for the entire half-mile walk. We finally emerged, exhausted, boys and machines alike dripping with mud.

It was twenty miles to the next hostel, but the first ten to Dollgellau were downhill – which was just as well, as we had to get food there before 5.30. But sadly, this was the moment that Justin’s pannier decided to engage with his wheel. As if we didn’t have enough problems! Justin was fortunate enough to get away with a few scratches, but after nearly an hour of work on his wheel I decided that I could do no more for it. We continued to the town at a slow speed, arriving at 7pm just as the others were about to leave. They showed us where to get food and then set off for the hostel.

It must have been about 9.30 when we finally arrived at Dinas Mawddwy. I still don’t know how we ever got there that night, but those lads must have had a lot of stamina. We sat by the fire, discussing the mad day we had all had and still not really believing we’d done it. A few telephone calls were made, briefly bridging the gap to a land far away, but soon everyone was settling down for the best night’s sleep they had had for ages.

(Michael Jones)

[Photo to follow from Kevin Presland]

Next morning was sunny and bright. We took life easy for once and didn’t leave until midday, with a long hill to climb back to Dollgellau for lunch. The local bakeries and cafes served us well, and then we browsed around the information centre looking at the model of Cader Idris, our destination for the day. Having decided which of the mountain passes to climb we circled around to the other side and parked our bikes at Minffordd, near Lake Tal-y-llyn. The time was nearly 5pm and we had been advised to allow at least three hours for the walk. Still, Corris hostel was only three miles away, so we weren’t too worried.

First of all the Minffordd path winds its way up through some steep, wooded slopes, emerging at a gateway in a stone wall. Next it curves around towards the west, ever climbing, with massive mountain slopes on the right. Eventually it reaches the glaciated lake Cau itself, surrounded by the ridge of Craig Cau like the sides of a basin. From here it climbs onto the ridge at its lowest point and follows it right around to the summit.

Once we had scrambled up the side we could see for miles around – range after range of mountains, with the scree slopes of Craig Goch in the foreground. Far below us we could see the road we had ridden along that afternoon, running down the Fawnog Valley, and as we watched a jet flew right up between its steep sides. I think that’s the first time any of us had looked down on a jet in full flight.

We didn’t go right to the top for fear of descending in darkness, but the view of Lyn Cau from such a height had made the whole journey worthwhile. We were soon back with the bikes again, ready for the short ride to Corris hostel.

It was a cold night and we were glad to arrive, even though the hostel was Simple grade. As chance would have it, a chap we had met at Dinas youth hostel was now at Corris, and his greeting comment was “Do you specialise in late arrivals?” I’m sure the other hostellers must have thought a hurricane had descended on their kitchen/common room as we set about cooking our meals!

(Michael Jones)

Friday morning saw Andrew B, Kevin and Mark set off in the early morning mist to ride to the last hostel, Bridges. The rest of us intended to look around the Alternative Energy Centre at Machynlleth and then take the train, as Bridges youth hostel was quite a distance away. In fact we hadn’t planned to go there at all, originally; the hostel had to be added when British Rail decided they couldn’t take us back on Friday afternoon. Still, we were going to make the best of our extra day.

The Centre was certainly worth the visit. It is really a self-sufficient community of the future, complete with a wide selection of windmills, waterwheels and the like. They demonstrated that good, healthy food can be grown without resort to pesticides and artificial fertilisers, and we all verified the good taste in the restaurant later that morning. Looking around the displays we saw the Dartington Model Village in all its glory – I’d missed seeing it back home.

Before we left, some of our number contributed some liquid fertiliser as a measure of their appreciation, in the special receptacles provided, and Andrew W rode a child’s tricycle around. There’s not much we don’t do for a laugh!

There were a few more laughs ahead of us yet, but the moment had come that we had all been trying to forget about – we were about to leave Snowdonia on our complex route home. “Cycle bravely, my children, as the bird of time flies swiftly to its lair, for these moments are the treasure of your future, and they will soon be gone.”

Arriving at Machynlleth station with about twenty minutes to spare didn’t sound too bad, so Jackie and Justin sped down into the village to try to find a bike shop selling wheels whilst I began negotiations with the ticket collector. You see, our party rate tickets didn’t cover this connecting journey to Newtown and I had to convince the gentleman that we should be given special rates – quite a lengthy process!

Inevitably our train was to arrive on the other side of the line, so over the footbridge we went as fast as we could. The train was in sight as Jackie and Justin returned, clutching a shining new wheel. In a flurry of confusion we actually got all the bikes, luggage and owners on the train before it left, although it still amazes me that we didn’t leave anything behind.

The journey to Newtown was about an hour, so Justin set about replacing his buckled wheel with the new alloy one – a little more expensive than he would have liked, but very nice all the same. That done, he and some of the others began removing spokes from the old wheel so that he could take the hub home. The task was completed on Newtown platform where the friendly stationmaster joked with us for quite a time – his station had apparently been voted best kept-station in the area.

When Stephen had repaired his puncture, the wheel had been completely dismantled and Richard’s wound had been bandaged, we set off down the road to locate a café. After a pleasant stop we wound our way out of the town, bumping into three cyclists on the way who turned out to be vaguely familiar! We seemed to take ages getting out of the place, partly because we had to tighten Frances’ cones and partly because of the one-way system.

The sun was shining once again, and we enjoyed our ride to Bridges hostel. The country villages were very pretty, but the most notable observation was the number of times we crossed the England/Wales border. It was easy to tell when we had, because the beautifully tarmacked Welsh road would suddenly turn into a neglected country track!

At the hostel we found a Mercian tandem in the bike shed and a family of goats on the lawn. The owner of the tandem assumed we were all from the Derby area when he saw the high proportion of Mercians amongst our bunch.

The evening was spent together, discussing the tour and making plans for next year. The truth about Andrew Billington finally emerged when he was found reading a “Woman’s Own” magazine, apparently taken from his pannier. Still, we all promised we wouldn’t tell anyone!

(Michael Jones)