BY SUE BLAND
WE should all be ashamed of ourselves. It’s always the tourists
who are the know-it-alls about Britain. Answer this: how few of
the UK’s iconic tourist destinations have you seen? Have
you climbed the highest mountain or know where the deepest lake
is? Have you traversed from the country’s tip at John O’Groats
to the toe - Land’s End? What about in Wales?
It is tourists who tick all the boxes – they’ve seen
all the natural and man-made wonders, visited all the museums,
the sites of special scientific interest, tramped through the
national parks, eaten all the local specialities and spotted all
the birds. Meanwhile we, the inhabitants of this island are satisfied
with the annual foray to the beach on the hottest day of the year,
and after spending hours stuck in a traffic jam, vow never again,
and spend the rest of the summer indoors watching cricket on TV,
moaning that it always rains.
I am no different. I’ve lived in Cardiff
for six years and have never stepped foot inside the castle, despite
passing it on my way to work, and then again on my way back -
that’s everyday, for years. Nor have I been to the UNESCO
World Heritage site, The Big Pit, or visited Britain’s only
coastal National Park in Pembrokeshire, with its scenic sea view
footpath running along its edge. Bank holiday looming, I was determined
to do something about my shameful cultural laziness, and besides,
if you can’t join the tourists, so you might as well try
and beat them - to the top of Pen y Fan.
The highest peak in South Wales is in the Brecon
Beacons National park. It has protected status, though you’d
swear the Welsh thought that meant that you can’t visit
it except on a bank holiday, or even that it’s kept just
for tourists, for the only languages I heard were Dutch, Spanish,
even, (never!) English accents.
Arriving in the National Park from the South
after a gradual ascent, suddenly unmasked hills are all around
you, without their shroud of clustered terraced housing typical
of the South Wales valleys. Past the first reservoir and it feels
like a place deserving of its capital lettered status. On a bank
holiday or sunny weekend, the road is lined with parked cars,
a firm hint you are close to walker territory. A glance to the
left or right will confirm this – the steadily moving dots
on the landscape, which aren’t white and fluffy, are the
‘serious’ walkers. You will know them by their ski
pole sticks, outsize rucksacks, waterproofed maps laced round
necks and trousers tucked into socks. Close up, they possess a
slightly demonic look of steely determination. Follow the countryside
code – soft city types give way to walkers with ski poles
(they could turn nasty and attack).
Further north, the appropriately named Brecon
Beacons Mountain Centre houses a small mountain of information
and merchandise on its well-stocked shelves with a condensed guide
to everything you ever wanted to know about Wales, from walking,
to cookery and flora and fauna. The staff will diplomatically
hint at the disadvantages of starting an eight-hour trek at three
in the afternoon, and instead offer robust practical advice on
alternative routes.
The centre is a short drive away from the most
popular route, leading straight to the top of Pen Y Fan. At 886m
it is the 18th highest in Wales. In the UK there are over two
hundred higher peaks and in the world, well, let’s move
on. After all, perhaps a country’s mountains reflect the
national character. For most Brits, mountain climbing sounds just
a bit too stressful. We prefer a lounge on the couch to crampons,
and as a nation we collectively threw in the towel after centuries
of pillaging, colonising and empire building. We no longer have
anything to prove so are happy instead to colonise in a meeker
manner – buying studios in the Costas instead. Our mountains
reflect this. They are small and easy to climb. Ben Nevis, tiny
on a world scale, and Snowdonia –the serious mountaineer’s
joke – and we built a train to the top.
To scale Pen y Fan we parked in the main car
park and followed the hordes of bank holiday walkers up the hill.
For some reason walkers only have Labradors or Jack Russell dogs.
There is no flag on the summit, no signpost and no marker noting
height above sea level. Just an amazing panoramic view. Someone
has troubled to arrange a tiny cairn-like peak from stones, so
standing on top of the world (in South Wales) involves a precarious
balancing act.
The next peak, Pen y Fan, is spectacular for
its precipitous sheer drop - over 46m, and a perfect ledge for
daring to peer over. One moment you can be trying to identify
an odd green-tailed bird, the next minute over the edge of the
cliff. There is always one show off. A man pretending to sleep,
hat over face, balanced on a near vertical piece of cliff edge.
A tourist board plant, or a dummy, for no one could sleep so calmly
in an area of outstanding natural danger.
Pen Y Fan is obligingly seated next door to
the other two other tall peaks, Corn Du (873m) and Cribyn (795m)
so you can tick off all three in the same walk. The last of the
three is deceptively distant from its cousin peak, so pace yourself.
Nothing more humiliating than ending up red-faced, dehydrated
and hyperventilating at the top of one of the world’s smallest
mountains. But don’t panic, you don’t need mountain
rescue on speed dial, or to be a trained member of the SAS to
reach Pen y Fan’s summit. It is a casually easy walk on
a well worn path. If well paced, it can still give you the same
pleasing frisson of smugness after all, you’ve just climbed
your local Everest. It’s not your fault Pen y Fan happens
to be so low.
