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| Reviews & Photos | North Wales - New Year 2003/04 | |||||
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Saturday 27th December 2003. In the car up from Hampshire: myself, Andy and Duncan (a friend of Andy's; six-foot-something and with violently ginger hair that put Lee's to shame). Having struggled with traffic nearly the whole way, when the opportunity of a short cut arose between Betws-y-Coed & Ffestiniog we leaped at it. Fools, fools. For anyone who wants to put themselves in our place, check a map & look at the B4407- doesn't it look tempting? It lured us as the sirens lured Odysseus, promising to cut several miles off the main A-road journey. Needless to say, that's not how it turned out. As we drove, I phoned Lee to check we were going the right way. His horrified warning was lost in static for, as you head into the Welsh badlands, telephone reception is the first thing to go. As we drove higher and the rain turned into snow, it was like going back in time; the glaciers still dominated and woolly rhinos could be glimpsed in the fringes of our headlight beams. After slithering around in the ice and snow for a fraught twenty minutes or so, we descended back toward civilisation. Well, towards Ffestiniog. Having learned this lesson for another year, it was A-roads all the remaining way to Porthmadog. Lee & Simon had already arrived & made themselves at home: Lee's DVD player already set up, great piles of DVDs & even a framed photo on top of the TV! Sunday 28th December 2003. Stop me if you've heard this one? carloads of eager paddlers drive miles to the farthest-flung corner of the land; to a part of the country that is a byword for wet, wet weather. And what do they find there? Dry ditches, as far as the eye can see. Veterans at this game, we drove back towards Betws-y-Coed for a more reliable prospect: the Conwy. From the usefully placed lay-by, the access to the river is through a barbed-wire fence & down a steep, sheep-infested field. What the cool kids do is line up their boat at the top and, with a gentle shove, allow it to slide to the water's edge. It's very impressive if you can manage it. The effect is spoiled if, like Lee, you push too hard & slide your boat past the bank and into midstream, where it becomes entangled in the drooping branches of a tree. As it was far too cold to stop & play on any waves (the wave) we finished in record time. This meant it was still early though, so (feeling that we ought to) we proceeded to the unpronounceable Llugwy. This was as empty and rocky as I remember it (very empty and very rocky) so we passed the time placing bets on whether Lee would fall out of his massive green Canadian canoe. Sadly not, even when standing up in the monster and using a pole; as though it was a punt. At least, I think that's what Simon said. That evening in the pub, sitting as far away as we could from the large woman singing on stage, Lee foolishly caught the eye of some more large Welsh women; they took this as an invitation to come & sit with us. "Cor, you're gorgeous!" exclaimed one to a speechless Andy! Monday 29th December 2003. Today we tackled the infamous "Alligator River" (to the locals, the Afon Alligator). The get-on was at the bottom of a wide and freezing valley, all in shadow as the sun was hidden behind the ridge of hills. There was also a mass of trees where the river ought to be. We had plenty of time to contemplate this, shivering in our lay-by, because Lee and Andy got lost while running the ferry. While we waited, buses came and went; so did the police and bemused locals. In fact we became something of a tourist attraction. "Come see the cold English idiots! Point & laugh at the cold English idiots!" The river begins, bizarrely, in a drowned forest. We dragged ourselves through these improbable trees, but the reward for our efforts was only another obstacle: a large bed of reeds reaching far above head height. Trying to get a glimpse of the sun to gauge our bearings, we battled onwards. When at length we emerged, now decked out attractively like snipers in a coating of grass and twigs, we were greeted by bright sunshine and an expanse of flat river reaching into the distance. The stretch of slow, calm water lasted several kilometres. This was frankly a tedious slog but Lee selflessly provided entertainment with his endlessly doomed attempts to plug his leaking boat. In fact this was to be a theme which lasted the week and included some major surgery on the Topo, with spanners and screwdrivers; glue guns and reams of gaffer tape. There really are some rapids on this river. Honestly. We reached them eventually. They were almost as exciting as the concrete-box tunnel under a main road, dark and made more interesting by the helpful provision of more man-made obstacles: shopping trolleys and sunken cars loomed out of the gloaming. Tuesday 30th December 2003. Our plan for the morning (a plan made in the safety of the pub, the night before) was to paddle a short but intense section we'd often looked at but never attempted: the Glaslyn Gorge. It's on the road out of Porthmadog & as such we'd driven past many times, trying to ignore its almost audible taunts "on your way to paddle a river? A really hard one I bet! Not!" Lee suggested the best plan would be to get on, cross the river & take a proper look from the other side, where there was a path at river level. Easier, certainly, than trying to plan a route from the road, a hundred feet higher. Lee later revealed his ulterior motive had been to get everyone changed (and committed) without faffing about in our normal way. Lee, you're so cunning you should have been a Klingon. As it's a short section of only a few hundred metres, we'd run one at a time with the rest standing by with lines at the ready. This was all just fine & dandy until at length it was my turn. Twenty minutes standing on a freezing river bank does wonders for one's confidence, don't you find? Makes it vanish like fairy gold, in my case. Pulling on pogies at the top, I could see Andy's cheerful "go" signal (all right is it? No worries then, I thought for a moment there was a scary rapid coming up or something?) and then of course as the ride started, the fickle demon Confidence returned with a bang; when I reached the bottom I wanted to go round again. This time without the brief detour with the fishes?! Galling as it is to admit, mine was the only capsize, though cheers to Duncan, whose "interesting" line through the approach to the last waterfall distracted attention from it. Damn we're good! We were thus buoyed by our success, and it was barely lunchtime. We headed in the direction of Bangor to take a look at the Ogwen. (Via, at Simon's request, the pie shop for his daily fix of steak-and-kidney) It was not an auspicious start. The "Gun Barrel" was scarcely recognisable from my last visit; the water level was so low that it would almost have been easier to walk. From the bridge further down, however, things looked more promising. Of course by this time we had been off the water for nearly an hour & enthusiasm was ebbing away. We put the matter to a vote. The 'aye's to the right, one. The 'no's to the left, zero. Four abstentions. Even after a recount, that meant we had to get on. That's democracy in action. Power to the people, right on. Lee waited till we were at the water's edge before asking me if I wanted to lead *gulp* OK...! Once we'd fished Duncan out (an unlikely swim after thirty metres!) the river turned out to be much better than the doubters had feared, and was a continuous procession of drops from get-on to get-off. Lee declares this to be his favourite river in Britain and even in this low water I'm not about to disagree. The Great Subterfuge began that evening, when our first carload of guests arrived. Lindsay, Jurg (I've probably mangled your name; sorry) and Kath would stay with us for the next couple of nights. This brought our numbers to eight, in a house booked for four people. From the guy who lived next door! A mini pub-crawl followed, reconnoitring for New Year's. We tried the pub on the street behind ours (dead), the hotel on the main street (dead, till we got there) & the whole far end of town (dead, dead, dead). The Australia seemed the best, the only problem was that to get in or out meant running a gauntlet of mouthy kids on BMXs! Wednesday 31st December 2003. The day started with a long, circuitous drive round north Wales, looking at ditches. Eventually we found one, at the bottom of a wide & windy valley, that contained a trickle of water. I forget its name, but it was fun, though it was full of trees! Myself, Simon, Kath, Andy, and Lee in his fifteen-foot Canadian dodged? most of these on our way down. (Oh yeah & I split the neck seal of my dry-cag. Arse biscuits.) In the evening, three more guests: Matt, Lizzie & Lizzie's brother arrived for New Year, bringing the total in our house to eleven- in a three-bedroom terraced house remember. We ate in, pressing into use every piece of crockery in the kitchen: the lucky few dined from plates, latecomers from soup-bowls. It had, finally, begun to rain, & with a vengeance. The five-minute walk to the first pub on our list was more than enough & as we sloshed into the Australia, the pub-crawl idea was abandoned. To make amends Lee insisted we institute every drinking game in the book, all at once. For the next couple of hours we eyed one another like card-sharps, alert for the least twitch of thumb-to-table or finger-to-nose. Gradually the evening descended into an anarchy of countless drinks, friendly locals & auld lang syne. It even stopped raining long enough for a brief foray to a late bar in the Porthmadog train station building- which seems odd now I come to write it, but made perfect sense at the time. Thursday 1st January 2004. Leaving Simon to enjoy his hangover in his own time, we remaining four returned to one of the empty riverbeds checked out on previous days- or at least, it was in the same place. This muddy river was unrecognisable from the stony ditch it had been earlier in the week. It was flowing fast: lots of water, not so many break-outs. Andy & Duncan were really suffering by now. Last night's over-indulgence had caught up & when Lee suggested we paddle another river they started looking pretty green! Lee & I were OK though (still drunk no doubt) & so while Duncan & Andy sat in the car we paddled a few k's of the Eden. This turned out to be over-optimistic. Despite the monsoon conditions of the previous night, the river began as crappy rock-dodge- with rock-scrape and rock-pin thrown in. Fortunately this was followed by a gorge section, which made up for it- some excellent pool-drop action. Again, lots of trees, but the water was so low we could paddle under some of them without needing to duck! In high levels, bring a waterproof chainsaw. Friday 2nd January 2004. For our last day in Wales, we returned to the Conwy. This time though, we planned to run the lower section as well and so some reconnaissance was needed. The lower Conwy section finishes immediately above the grade V "Falls of Certain Death", so mark ye well the last break-out! The section itself seemed similar to the middle section above, though here with the added spice of having to look out for two hefty rapids (for which read: portages). It was also higher than before, in fact I think the highest I've ever seen it; i.e. the water reached the bottom of the gauge. On reaching the second of these, we found that the portage was nearly as bad as the drop itself and involved a climb up the mud and rocks of the bank, then down a slippery, flimsy-looking ladder. This last could only be negotiated by lowering the boats down on ropes. Lee cannily avoided this dangerous business by running the drop. After watching him get "vertical" in his Topo, I have to say I think I made the right decision here. The complicated portage took a long time; by the time we were ready Lee had almost finished emptying his boat out (for the nth time!). The fun wasn't over yet, though. The water below the drop was calm, but the rocks on which we stood were some four metres above it. It was a seal launch with plenty of "air time", certainly enough to ask oneself whether the water was really deep enough for such a stunt? (Some of you may have seen us since then, walking without the aid of crutches; but for the rest of you I should just say the water proved to be as deep as it was cold. Very, very, very.) Once the ice-cream-head effect had passed we were all set for the next rapid! Here the river splits in two around a large rock in mid-course, and from our modest vantage point the best line was not at all obvious. Happily, Duncan had made the trek up the bank with a throw-line and, during all the foregoing, had had ample time to inspect the drop from all angles. Keen to be off without getting out of our boats again, this was good news. Go right, he confidently instructed us; go right. First Lee, then Andy did so and both connected heavily with a hefty rock, lurking in a small waterfall, invisible from upstream and precisely on the line as pointed out to us moments before. Andy's anguished cry of "ginger FREAK!!" echoed around the hills and startled flocks of birds to flight from the treetops. Resolving to ignore advice from landlubbers in future, we managed the short distance remaining without trouble. Due to all the plastic bags and rope hanging from the trees to mark the approach to the get-out (and warn of impending doom otherwise) the last stretch of the section looks rather more like the Manchester Ship Canal on carnival day than a remote river in rural north Wales. It's not pretty, but I had a look at the rocks below the bridge and they looked even uglier so, eco-warrior, there they stay. The owners of the pub-restaurant just up the road from the bridge allow paddlers to park in their car-park, asking only that we buy something in there afterwards. A plan with no drawbacks! While I struggled out of Lee's extremely tight-fitting spare dry-cag, Simon merely stepped out of his dry-suit like James Bond, hair immaculate, and sauntered in to order lasagne and chips, six times. By Gareth Lee |