On Friday, I took the day off work. I needed the space; life has, for the past few months, been intense and has stretched my brain tight and thin like the gluten bonds in bread held up to the light. There's been the demands at work, the demands after work, and then - worst of all - the demands I put on myself. All of them were clamouring at the front of my brain, clawing for attention and crowding my thoughts with the little mantras I've become accustomed to hearing: you're not good enough, give up. I felt worn down like sandstone crushed, crumbled and rolled between fingertips.
So, I went to Snowdon for a run.
I always feel a bit uncomfortable saying that I need to go outside to make myself feel better. It feels too cliché, the prerogative of smiling influencers on social media quoting John Muir to advertise the latest £200 coat. But there really is only so much sitting on the sofa trying to 'relax' can do for you, and I think I'd worn my cushions threadbare. I was also conscious that I'd become a little bit insufferable to my partner; realistically, there wasn't much more he could say to lift me out of my funk, and my moping was starting to sour.
So, I left home just after midday, expecting to reach the national park by about two-ish. I'd faffed around all morning, completely unable to scrape my melted mind off the floor and get dressed, drinking too much decaf and watching the rain spatter the windows with dull unfocused eyes. Eventually, I managed to throw a variety of waterproofs, a backpack and some squashed sandwiches into the boot of my car and set off.
It rained for the entire drive, and as I rumbled down tight hairpin lanes towards Betws-y-coed, I started to get uneasy about the route I'd planned the previous night. I always get uneasy about routes - I get uneasy about most things - but the rain and the low-lying mist on the roads into Wales were particularly worrying because I am poor at navigation and didn't want to get lost.
The route I'd planned started from the hostel I was staying at for the weekend - The Rocks at Capel Curig - and wove its way along the Afon Llugwy and then out into the mountains. Most of it seemed to follow a woodland trust trail, so I hoped that it would be straightforward enough to allow me to either retrace my steps or bail back into the valley quickly if I needed to.
I pulled up at the hostel. There was no one around, although I could hear the barks of dogs reverberating off the hills and the occasional shout from the café a few hundred meters down the road. The rain had slowed to an inconsistent spit, and despite the dark blue-black clouds rolling ominously around at the other end of the valley, the sun seemed to be attempting to make an entrance. Moel Siabod's peak, the mountain that dominated this part of Snowdon, was a thin ghostly imprint in the sky above the tree line, but as I wasn't planning on summiting it, that didn't bother me too much. I zipped up my waterproofs and shouldered my backpack, swallowing the little anxiety lump in my throat. What if I break my leg, what if I get lost, what if my phone dies, what if I get too cold, what if... I checked the route again - keep going straight until you hit a bridge, keep going until you hit another bridge and then cross a road. From there, just follow the path. It felt simple enough.
The route began by crossing over the Afon Llugwy and into Coedwig Gwydyr, an ancient forestry park established by a 16th-century baron, full of twisted Douglas fir, larch, beech and ash. I'd read that there had been sightings of pine martens in the area, which kept me peering through trees and along the path, convinced I'd be able to spot one (as notoriously shy little things, my optimism was certainly misplaced). It was a folklorish landscape, the river on the left crashing, white-tipped and frothy over big mossy boulders - almost fairytale-esque if it wasn't for the glimpses of the A6 through the trees. Deep verdant green, emerald and lush, this is the kind of route I love the best - I could feel a lot of the things I'd been worrying about loosen in my mind. The work meetings, the deadlines and to-do lists pressed with far less urgency in my brain now I could see the trees and the bracken.
Following the meander of the river, the gravelled forest track was easy running, and I sailed along the first kilometre feeling my anxiety ebbing slightly. I passed two men in colourful waterproofs posing for a photo in a clearing and waved happily, which wasn't returned. They just watched me go in silence as I jogged on through the forest. I reached a little wooden bridge eventually and stopped for a breather to watch the water cascading into a waterfall beneath. It had started to rain again, but this had now stopped bothering me. My anxiety had loosened completely in my brain, and the run had begun to feel enjoyable - a little bit of rain couldn't stop that. The river was surrounded by the steadily rusting orange of trees and there was a soft gossamer mist rising from the water; the weak sunshine playing with the spray and the raindrops. It was glorious to stand here, taking it all in.
When I decided to get moving, I realised quite quickly that I didn't have a clue how to get back on the path - I went over the bridge and then back again, confusedly watching my little dot on komoot deviating further from the planned line. It took me ages to realise it actually vanished underneath the bridge and along a narrow marshy strip of bank beside the swollen river. The rocks were slippery underfoot, and I slowed to a run- walk to prevent myself from rolling my ankles. My trainers were technically road shoes with minimal grip, which in retrospect had been a poor decision. The path had almost disappeared completely at this point, covered in leaf litter, and I was clambering over boulders, old tumbled-down fragments of dry-stone wall, and the gnarled roots of trees. The bank finally opened into a grassy field framed by the craggy bottoms of the mountains (the tops still shrouded in steely clouds), and in dead centre was a lonely, dilapidated stone farmhouse. I love abandoned farmhouses; this one still had all its walls and even a small yard, fencing itself off from the wide field. The roof had been ripped clean off, and wood was hanging from the windows which now stared out blankly. It stood so silently and calmly beneath the mountains, I wondered about the farmers that had lived and worked here years before I'd reached this spot. I'd love to have researched it, but knowing this region was littered with similar little dwellings, it would be almost impossible to find it again.
I carried on towards a stile on the opposite of the field, scattering some sheep, and up over to another bridge, - this time a larger stone one - and crossed the road. The route now moved through a kissing gate, and up a steep hill with a small channel of freezing water winding its way down the middle. I'd slowed to a walk, unable to keep the pace I had before at such an incline and took deep steadying breaths. Sometimes I find that if I run too quickly, or if my breathing becomes erratic, I feel like I am spiralling into a panic attack. I didn't want that to happen here on a hill in Wales. So, I focused on other things: the sensation of my feet in my trainers, the straps of my backpack on my shoulder, the wind playing on the sweat across my nose, and the brambles knotting the hedgerows to my right. As I climbed further, I found a huddle of sheep lying across the path, nervously eyeing me as I approached, though appearing disinclined to move. We watched each other cautiously and resisted the urge to stretch out my fingers and stroke them. They held their ground though and kept their forelegs curled beneath their fluffy bodies. My anxiety, as I moved past them, seemed to lift again.
The path kept going up, up, up, and my calves began to scream as my ankles were turned at almost 45 degrees. I stopped halfway up the hill trying to catch my breath and turned to look behind me and see how far I'd come. The view was incredible - the sun had finally broken through the veil of clouds and had burned off the mist - here was Moel Siabod sketched against the sky, glowing softly, and backlit by the autumnal light. It took my breath away.
But I needed to keep moving as I found I cooled down too quickly and could feel the cold getting through my damp waterproofs. The hill continued upwards - which seemed at this point endless - past some stone cottages piled high with colourful welly boots and up into woodlands. As the terrain finally evened out and my calves eased, I was able to start running again and followed a moss-covered dry-stone wall up into a clearing. The trees thinned, and I clambered over the wall and found myself right on top of the hill, once again face to face with Moel Siabod. It was windier up here - the breeze felt good on my sweaty face. The evening light cast giant shadows across the clearing, magnifying the size of the rocks and trees into long, thin fingertips. Sheep scattered across the field, and I could hear the dogs I'd heard barking earlier again, their echoes bouncing and distorting across the mountains. I followed the track as it wound its way around the clearing, over another stile and into a gutter of a path, filled with broken rock and farm rubble. I was keeping a slow but steady pace and felt happy that my shins were behaving - after so much climbing, I was concerned that they'd be at bursting point. I've always suffered with delicate glass-like shins, and variable terrain can often exacerbate their fragility, tightness seeming to squeeze my shin bones until they disintegrated. Often, after longer runs, I'd end up with visible bruises along my legs which would take weeks to heal. I tapped my shin close to my ankle - there wasn't any pain - and so I carried on running.
At the top of a little hill, the path finally broke into one of the most spectacular views I'd seen all day. I'd ended up in the foothills of a huge mountain range, with great craggy walls towering high above on all sides. The rocks were various shades of grey, black, blue and patched with green and gold of grasses and bracken. I felt as if I could have been on another planet, or in a world millions of years ago or millions of years in the future, in a huge cathedral of rock. I stopped here to take photos and just sit still for a bit. It was so silent up here. No birds or sheep, no one around to disturb the peace - just the sound of wind as it whipped through the undergrowth and whistled across the rock. Every so often I thought I could hear a wind chime, the melodic tinkling seeming to be just above the wind just out of earshot. I strained to listen to it, but I couldn't hear it properly, it was a funny trick of my mind.
I sat for some time, watching as a small knot of sheep tumbled over hillocks towards me and a little dun-coloured bird flitted between the stones and the moss. I felt very small and fragile against these mammoth rocks - everything was so much bigger, harder and more permeant than me here. I was sitting in a landscape that had been carved from water and ice before even the thought of humanity had existed. These old, bearded mountains had blinked in the time my ancestors had developed muscles to hold them upright, found fire, developed language, razed woodland to the ground, fought wars and threw up cities to worship in. My flimsy coat stretched tight over my soft fleshy body could be crumbled to dust in seconds - the mountains wouldn't notice; the landscape would barely acknowledge the nutrients my body would bleed as I decayed into the soils beneath my feet. I felt dizzy and sick at the thought. The anxiety rose again in my chest, a bubble expanding around my heart. I knew I had to keep moving or it'd overwhelm me.
A stream had widened into a brook, and I followed it along a honey-coloured path. I was heading to Crimpeau now, and the route started to descend into the valley floor which meant lots of downhill running. I'm not great at downhills; my hips often feel lined by sandpaper, and I am unsteady and cautious in my strides, but it felt good on my calves to be able to run freely without struggling up a hill. The rain began to pour again, and the valley became overgrown with a lush carpet of bracken, mosses and trees bursting from all sides. In the distance, I could see Crimpeau, a small, pointed slab of a mountain. It looked like a steep ascent to the top.
The track narrowed and become muddy as I once again used my thighs to force myself up to the top. Footsteps before me had cut stair-like ledges into the incline which helped in heaving my body up. At some points I began to crawl, more for the fun of it than out of real necessity, but it did stop the wind which had picked up substantially from clawing at my face. When I finally reached the top, I was transported, once again, to another world. Snowdon, huge and dominating loomed over the valley. The sunlight caught the columns of rain I could see rolling in and glinted across the many rivulets and tributaries draining into a great lake in the centre. I could see farmhouses and small ribbons of road snaking their way across the landscape, the patchwork of green, gold and purple broken by the grey black of the tarmac. I sat up here until it got too cold and began to rain and slid to the bottom on my bum. I ran back to the hostel over fields and roads, took a shower and curled up on a window seat, watching the walkers return from their hikes.