The last time I walked here was October 2015. It was a celebratory moment, back in British hills after Corsica. Gentle hills with a light rucksack, sea views and mellow conditions.
Moelfre is a favourite. Not because it’s dramatic, because it isn’t, but because of the situation and the peace. On this occasion I did meet one person, a woman out for a run who lives in nearby Harlech. She was shocked to see me, she said, because she usually sees no one. Snow, rain, ice, sun, she comes here to run.
I’d do the same if I lived in Harlech. Anywhere I could drive to the hills in perhaps thirty minutes, I’d be there. The relationship would change, the excitement would be different, no longer the slight exoticism but a domestic pleasure like visiting the park. A superb park but not where, for example, I’d find wild camping a great attraction.
A Welsh farmer told me he hadn’t laid down the spring fertiliser. It’s not warming up, he said. Nothing will grow. I said we’ve had bad weather since last November. November the fifth, he said, which sounds about right.
This superb day followed previous days of arctic chill. One, in particular, as icy as winter. As I drove to Snowdonia I saw the Carneddau summits were covered in snow. There’s more chill coming with possible snow in the south.
Rhinogs From Moelfre
Friday April 22, 2016