About Nothing In Particular

By C. E. Benson.

At the last General Meeting our honoured and Honorary Editor, commenting on the reluctance of members to supply him with accounts of their holiday doings, suggested that they should remedy this deficiency, if not by writing up their own experiences, by stimulating others to send in theirs.  I propose to endeavour to respond in both ways.  The general excuse is, I understand, that this or that member has nothing in particular to write about.  That is no excuse.  If you have nothing in particular to write about, why not write about nothing in particular? We cannot all carve out colossal routes on the Courmayeur face of Mont Blanc or make history on the crags of Scawfell or Pillar, but we can enjoy ourselves and perhaps pass on some of our enjoyment to others.

I always take my holiday at Ogwen Cottage, pull down the blinds, bid dull care begone, and lead the simple life.  These conditions are greatly helped by the facts that the Cottage is five miles from the nearest Post Office or Pothouse, that the news is restricted to a two-days old DailyWail—when you get it,—that the air is like Thor’s Hammer and the water of a quality you would pay three pence a glass for in Leeds or London.  I always go to Ogwen for my holiday.  I pay my doctor’s bill there.  I take a rest cure. Ogwen is the place for a rest cure, and I needed one last year.

You know the poetic remedy: —

“If thou art worn and hard beset . . . . .
Go to the woods and hills. No tears
Dim the sweet look that nature wears.”

That last sentence is poetic licence.  Early June dimmed the sweet look so effectually that it drove away two delightful anglers.  It was bitterly cold and one of the anglers was from the central Soudan.  I was not surprised then at his producing a whisky bottle.  I was surprised at his doing so openly.  I had reason.

One day a Fellow Rambler incautiously asked me, and in the porch, if I had any whisky in the house.  Instead of replying that I had lost the best part of my luggage on my journey,

I replied incautiously, “ Yes.” It was the reply of an idiot.  On one side of the porch was a lean parson, equipped with rod and waders, on the other a somewhat rickety old craft.  No sooner was the magic word uttered than the padre set out with resolute brow and determined stride for the far side of the lake.  Fool that I was, I wished him a tight line.  I did not know at the time that he had been cautioned against wading there, as he was likely to slip in.

Quick and unswerving as he was, that old wreck went one better.  Without hoisting Blue Ribbon—I mean Blue Peter, he bore up for the boat-stage, pretended to look about, and contrived to fall waist deep into a foot and a half of water.  He was retrieved, taken to the Cottage, coddled what time his garments were getting dried, protesting the while that he would surely catch his death of cold, unless he had some whisky—my whisky, of course, and two wine glasses at least.

Troubles never come singly.  The padre “ fast on his dripping traces came and all but won that desperate game.” He had, or said he had, fallen into the lake on the other side and was also in danger of death by cold.  Anyhow he wanted whisky–mine, and he got it.  Never again.

The weather was not all bad.  There were fair intervals and in these we climbed some of the Standard Courses.  What a blessed word is “ Standard.” It is not half as long as Mesopotamia but it is more than twice as comfortable.  It comprises everything needful, from the Nor’ Nor’ Gully to the Grooved Arête, the Bristly Ridge to the Oblique Buttress, the Idwal Staircase to the Holly Tree Wall.  A blessed word is “ Standard.” We did some “ Standard ” climbs.

My holiday was over. The blinds were pulled up to admit the gloomy twilight of business.  I have one advantage.  I can work where I like.  I am my own Director, Manager, Clerk, and Office Boy, a kind of Pooh Bah on the ramble. Still, even when the holiday time is over, I do take an occasional day off, snatch one in fact.  Even so the total does not amount to one week.  I went to Beddgelert.

Beddgelert is a beautiful spot.  Its chief attractions for the motor-tourist are four hotels (two with Yorkshire proprietors), a gross of pictures illustrating Llewellyn clad in an up-to-date ladies’ skirt (about half-way down to the knees), about to slay a heraldic dog, and Gelert’s Grave, to which they ” longen to go on pilgrimage.” If you quote Zangwill’s lines:

“Stay, sympathetic traveller.   Dry your eyes!
Here not a wolf hound but a landlord—lies”

and mention that the real Simon Pure was one Gelart, an Irish Saint, they get quite cross.

As a rambling centre Beddgelert is delightful.  For climbing—there are many preferable.  Craig Cwm Silin may be all right if you have a car.  If not, I have my own opinion; but for the ridge walk from Y Garn to Craig Cwm Silin or Y Garnedd Goch, or vice versa, it is worth a car every time.  One is recommended, and with justice, to take the walk from Nantlle to Rhyd-ddu, as thus you have the best of the scenery in front of you, and on no account to omit to visit the Llyniau at the foot of the Crags.  Nevertheless, if it is a hot day, by the time you have reached the summit ridge up that easy, stodgy slope with its ever receding skyline, you will have cursed and cursed the man who gave that advice.

Taken the other way one must be careful if the weather is at all thick.  The fantastic crags which crown Mynnydd Drws y Coed literally overhang the precipice all along the line.  Near the commencement of the ridge there was a place where you had either to swing round a boulder by stepping over nothing at all, dragging your waistcoat part with you, or shamefully tack to port to dodge the obstacle, I never quite liked this place. On an ordinary walk it seemed an impertinence.  On a climb I might not have quite liked it either, as I might have felt a bit nervous as to the stability of the boulder.  The last time I was there, my companion hunted about in vain for this obstacle and was much disappointed in not finding it.  I was not.  It seems that nervousness as to its stability would not have been unwarranted.

That is not all.  At the end of the ridge you come to a grass slope and right in front of you Trum y Ddysgl looms invitingly.  The inclination to put on the pace is natural but unadvisable.  The ridge here swings abruptly off almost at right angles and as a consequence the head of the cwm to the right cuts right in across the apparent track.  Going at speed, one might have great difficulty in pulling up before stepping down a great deal further than is healthy.

Clogwyn du’r Arddul is quite reasonably accessible if you take the ’bus to Snowdon Ranger.  It may be noted that now access from Cwm Brwynog is barred by one of those horrid wire fences, cut in squares, which you can neither climb over nor wriggle through.  There is a place where you can wriggle under but it is an exasperating process, and on a wet day would be beastly to boot.  Now, if you observe the outline of the Clogwyn as you walk up, you will note a place where it flattens a bit, not very far above Bwlch Cwm Brwynog.  Take the tourist path as far as this, turn over to the left and you will find a track which leads you easily down across the rough slope to the base of the Far West Buttress.  We planted a cairn or two for guidance and information.  I chanced to see a party on that appalling West Buttress Climb.  It was not pleasant watching.  The climbers looked as if they were strung out along the sloping edge of nothing, and I could not banish the idea that that relentless slanting groove might at any moment spill the whole lot out.  Ghastly! I suppose it was not so bad as it looked, but I felt fear in the pit of my stomach.  Now had I been fit and skilful enough to be on the climb I should probably have been enjoying myself to the utmost—which is insane.

Another grand walk is from Nant Mor over Cnicht and Moel Meirch.  It is a bit sloppy in parts, but any such inconvenience is more than compensated by the superb views of Snowdon.  The numerous little lakes, too, are a delight to the eye.  We were further exhilarated by making a discovery, or at least noting an unrecorded feature.  Hitherto we had believed that there were only three “ true peaks” in Wales, the Little Glyder, Crib Goch and Y Tryfan.  We found that Moel Meirch was a fourth, and what is more the peakiest of the lot.  Also it is unique, I fancy, amongst home summits.  No living man, except a tight-rope dancer, could stand on its tip.

The ground between this ridge and the main road is much more broken up than appears from above or below, and intricate withal, the more so owing to the existence of a lot of stubbed up gateways.  One of these was on a “ right of way,” but obviously intended to scare away all passengers.  It bristled with briar and wire and the walls on either side were high and forbidding.  The solution was simple—back up till above the entanglement, traverse six inches to the right, descend in like manner.  Applied Mountaineering.

The discovery, however, was at Capel Curig.  It was a well scratched antique, truly, but it was new to us.  The weather behaved badly to us at Capel Curig and played us one singularly scurvy trick.  A friend from abroad had motored over to climb with us and arrived in torrents of rain.  Should we motor to Ogwen on the chance ? The vote was against it, as the rocks would in any case be in a ghastly state.  So we sat tight and jawed and enjoyed ourselves immensely in the circumstances till next morning.  Then we heard that the rain had stopped at the watershed and that all the day Y Tryfan and the Glyders had been bathed in sunshine.

Still we had to keep fit as we might.  I suppose most of us know that singular cluster of spiky crags just behind Capel Curig Church.  It is called the Pinkin. We had often looked at the Pinkin.  We had sometimes wondered whether there were any scrambling there.  If so, no matter! was it not visible, conspicuously visible from the road? So is the Milestone truly, but people take some detecting thereon—none whatever on parts of the Pinkin.  One day we greatly dared—and found scratches and problems abounding, mostly out of ken.  The Bryn Twrch Arête however is plain for all men to see, but what matter ? It is quite stiff to get on to and once on the crest you feel, as Mr. Hughes ol the Guest House truly says, hundreds of feet up in the air.  It has two faults : (1) it is much too short; (2) when wet, its surface gets covered with a kind of greasy coating, something like the soap you find in a railway carriage lavatory, and quite as dirty withal.

From Wales we migrated to the Lakes, as usual, and managed to put in a few more standard climbs.  Weather very evil.  One day going up to Doe Crags, it was stuffy as the bottom of a stewpan.  I am dead certain we were both listening for the faint rumble of thunder to give an excuse for retreat, but thunder it would not and we had to go and do another ” Standard.”

Towards the end a young friend, whom we had taken for a first climb the previous year, turned up with another friend who had never been on a fell before, let alone on a climb.

However, a-climbing he must go! After much debate internal we decided on the Little Gully on Pavey Ark.  Ideal—enclosed walls to ensure confidence and short pitches.  If they were stiff, that would not harm our recruit—six feet odd, about eleven-seven, lish as a cat.  We took the ‘bus to Skelwith and thence return tickets to Dungeon Ghyll.  Naturally we had rather more rope with us than we could comfortably stow away in our waistcoat pockets and this attracted notice.  Presently an elderly passenger addressed Madame thus :–

“ Are you going up there? ” “ Yes.”
“ Are you going rock-climbing ? ” “ Yes.”
“ You seem very cheerful? ” “ Of course.”
“ And,” in the voice of a Sexton, “you’ve got Return Tickets.”

Just as she was recovering, the passengers son caught sight of me and said, in an awed whisper, “ Look, father, there’s another of them.”

That settled it.  I thought my good lady would absolutely go to pieces.  We came back by the same ’bus, even more cheerful.  As for the passenger, he suggested the Beaver in The Hunting of the Snark and “ looked unaccountably shy.”

As for the Langdale Meet, is it not, or will it not be written in the Chronicles of the Club ? Suffice it to say that it started raining as we got into the ’bus at Coniston on Thursday—we wanted an extra day so as to get into top-hole form—and left off as we tucked ourselves away in the President’s motor on Monday morning.  That was a morning to make a Boy Scout, keen on kind acts, green with envy.  We had got our traps together and were waiting for the ’bus when Miss Dawson apprised us that the last Dungeon Ghyll ’bus had gone on Saturday and that there was no public conveyance nearer than Chapel Stile.  That is where the President came in.  He was taking along Slingsby to drop him at Ambleside or somewhere, and then proceeding home.  On the way to Ambleside he must pass Skelwith Bridge where we could pick up a ’bus.  Therefore we were to tuck ourselves away in his car as far as Skelwith Bridge.  Of course we could not think of such a thing (with our subconscious minds probably thinking hard t’other way about).  At any rate our resistance was overcome, and we were duly packed away.  Kind Act I.

Kind Act II.  As we reached Skelwith Bridge and were preparing to untuck ourselves, the Coniston to Arnbleside ‘bus hove in sight.  “ That’ll suit me just as well ! ” exclaimed Slingsby.  We started to expostulate but—

“All the chivalrous blood of long generations of Slingsbys
Throbbed in their scion’s veins.  With a bound he leaped from the motor,
Rushed at the oncoming ‘bus with a shout that arrested its progress —
No road-agents’s revolver could ever have been more effective.
Baggage was quickly transferred: the whole thing was done in at jiffy.
Off with a hoot we sped o’er the bridge in the President’s motor,
Waving hands of adieu to the ‘bus and the chivalrous Slingsby.”