Snowdonia

We stood looking over the breadth of Caernarfon Castle from the top of the Eagle Tower. With its tall walls and lofty turrets perched on the edge of the briny straight facing the Isle of Anglesey, this is the formidable king of the Welsh castles.

Built by the English from the thirteenth century onward Caernarfon and its sister castles encircle Wales, created to repress the freshly conquered Welsh. This particular castle was done on such a scale that rebellion would be discouraged by sheer intimidation.

The design, from the giant octagonal towers to the subtly striped walls and the stone eagles set atop the tower in which we stand, was intended to invoke the image of a grand Roman castle. England's Edward I was trying to create a clear parallel between his own forces and the only previous conquerors, the Romans, for whom the Welsh had a lingering admiration.

Tragically for Edward's intention, to this day the six hundred castles in the ring are looked upon as a symbol of a conquered people, and although they are stunning to see, they inspire admiration in tourists more than in the Welsh people. This is one of the most nationalistic parts of Wales: even the teenagers speak Welsh.

We climbed through the thick walls and up the towers for a few hours, checked out the exhibits and watched a cheesy film narrated by a Welsh ghost.

After leaving the castle, we walked for a good while past the shallow, muddy bay and up the coast, enjoying the sun and the breeze coming off the water.

The next day, we got to Llanberis, a town at the heart of the park, fairly early in the day. We were getting settled in the hostel, above the bright yellow and blue and red Pete's Eats café, and Dan started talking with one of the staff.

Dan told him we planned to climb Snowdon the next day. He mulled this over and then told us that he avoids Snowdon. It's crawling with tourists. If you want a bit of quiet and to see the area properly, that isn't what you want. Try something else as well.

He gave Dan a moderately incomprehensible set of directions in a thick Welsh accent. To paraphrase: "Go down the road here, turn at the outdoors store (the second one, not the first) and then left and right where the hill starts and right. There will be a path to either side, take the correct one or you'll miss the trail entirely. Up the hill, through a green gate, turn left and take the path leading by the derelict church."

It reminded me of getting directions from my uncles in New Brunswick: "go left at that big tree." "No, no that was cut down. Go left where Aunt Margaret's cousin lived, and then down towards the river where the truck fell in that once."

To which you blink a few times, nod slowly and hope for the best.

So we promptly forgot most of the directions, but after some misguided turns, a ramble through a chicken yard and passing at least three green gates and multiple derelict buildings, we miraculously found the correct combination leading up the very ridge we'd hoped to climb.

It looked much steeper than we'd thought.

Too late. Panting all the way, we hauled ourselves up the smooth, steep slope, judged  at every step by molting sheep. I don't really understand why, but there are fences all along these ridges, and then down the sheer cliff sides  Sure, they might keep an especially dumb animal from plummeting down the ridge, but all of the fences have holes where the wire is pushed up and covered with wool from the backs of escapees. Tragically the great escape is always ruined when the sheep gets to the other side and forgets entirely why she's there and how... better eat some grass.

Anyway, we made it to the summit of our little mountain and continued on the ridge, admiring the views across the bogs and forests to the other grassy ridges with stony peaks. On one side we could see Snowdon, the tallest of the bunch, summit in a cloud, the steam train to the top chugging away in a haze of smoke.

We had great cell reception on the ridge, so I had a sit and called my Mom.

Our ridge had a gradual slope on one side, but on the other cut away in a dramatic drop-off, curving around to shelter a calm blue lake.

We climbed a second peak, but on the third decided to follow a sheep path around the side rather than the main path upwards, for novelty as well as to save our legs. We ended up tromping through a huge patch of wild blueberries, which despite Dan's initial hesitation, I devoured. Although I tried to pick the ones off the path, that the sheep hadn't rubbed against as much.

Eventually we descended, hopped through a bog and found the road back to Llanberis.

The next morning, we decided to brave the crowds and climb Snowdon. After a bit of reading about the many paths to the summit, we chose the Pyg track up and the Llanberis track down.

Our guidebook describes the Pyg track as the most rugged and difficult ascent, so we chose it as a challenge. Although it begins at a higher altitude than the others, it climbs swiftly over rocky terrain. We were also hoping that with such a description, it would be a quieter choice.

Not so. The beginning of the path at the Pen-y-Pas car park was chaotic, and the trail was full of people.

We saw a lot of people pulling themselves up the big, rock stairs in jeans and sandals and similar things with no water... I know it isn't an overly difficult climb. You don't need a compass, you probably don't need emergency equipment. You do need proper clothing and water and to take the mountain seriously. Although it is hard to get lost on an ant trail such as this, it happens, and inclement weather is normal. Rescues shouldn't be as common here as they are.

Rant over.

Despite the crowds crawling up the mountain, we were able to enjoy the scenery. This is a popular climb for a reason. The thin, jagged ridge curls into a crescent, the peak of Snowdon itself obscured by that seemingly ever-present cloud. The sheer cliffs tumbled down to cup a small glacial lake on a flat plateau. Our hike led us eventually along the inside of the crescent, upwards until the path began zig-zagging in a steep ascent and we passed into the mist.

I'd love to tell you that the view from the top of Snowdon, the highest UK mountain outside of Scotland, is fabulous and worth the three hour ascent.

If you were to climb on a very clear day, it just might be. But Wales isn't as such known for its sunshine, so I think that is a tricky thing to ensure. And all we saw from inside the mist was tourists. We couldn't even get into the supposedly crap café at the summit because it was entirely jammed with people.

It was a great hike up to the cloud line - the jagged ridge is very beautiful, the lake is picturesque. The climb was challenging but not (we thought, anyway) overly hard.

For our descent we had planned to take the Llanberis track, because it's a gentle (albeit boring) slope down the arm of the ridge that stretches right into Llanberis town. Dan's knee had been bothering him since the rough descent the week before in Glen Coe, so this would be ideal.

You know how I said you don't need a compass? Bring a map at least. We missed the fork for the Llanberis track and ended up coming down an entirely different arm, the Snowdon Ranger's track. It was steeper than we wanted, so Dan suffered a bit. It was, however, less busy than either the Pyg or Llanberis tracks. It came down the rocky backside of Snowdon, through sheep fields and down to the roadway where we were able to grab a bus back to town, complete with a full tour of Snowdonia because we'd ended up on the wrong side of the mountain.

S.