"I think it's time we turned around" spluttered Chris, as a strong gust of wind lashed liquid bullets of rain into his face. Chris's wife Caroline turned to look at us, seemingly nonplussed. With her Scottish heritage, I got the impression she would have been equally happy swanning about in a bikini in this weather.
Chris, Caroline, Kellie and I were about two thirds of the way up Snowdon, the highest peak in Wales, perched on a rocky pathway that was getting increasingly difficult to discern in the mist. Snowdon is certainly no Mount Everest, at a fairly tame 1085m, but this didn't stop Sir Edmund Hillary using it as a training ground for his assault on the Giant of the Himalaya. As we retraced our boggy footsteps back to the car, I consoled myself with the thought that Snowdon must be one tough hombre if it was good enough for Sir Ted. I conveniently overlooked the fact that hundreds of thousands of walkers successfully climb Snowdon every year, and a similar number of people are ferried up by a tourist railway that finishes at a brand new £8.5 million cafe and visitor centre, see video below. Oh, the humiliation!
Kel and I were in Wales for the August bank holiday long weekend, after being invited to go camping at Black Rock Sands beach, Porthmadog, with friends from our touch football team. And yes, I said camping. In Wales. Thankfully our friends were experienced campers and had brought tents large enough to house a 3-Ring Circus - a useful ability given our state after several drinks on Saturday night .
While the weather on the day we tried to climb Snowdon (Sunday) could only be described as grim, we did manage to get out and about the day before (Saturday). On a stretch of sand that looked more like a supermarket carpark than a beach, we had a go flying Rick's kite. With the wind whipping off the Irish Sea, the kite raced across the sky, turning and dipping violently with every tweak of the hand controls. It was great fun that talked directly to your inner child. A dog thought so too, chasing back and forth energetically as I struggled to keep the kite away from its slobbering jaws.
On Saturday we also took a short drive to Portmeirion, described as an "Italianate" resort village. Designed in the 1920s by English architect Sir Bertram Clough Williams-Ellis - no doubt the bane of his roll-call teacher at school - the village consists of a number of brightly painted buildings set in elaborate gardens with fountains, a smattering of impressive statues and the ubiquitous white balustrading. You have to pay for the privelege of wandering Portmeirion's streets and browsing the many naff boutiques (we paid the half price fare of £3.50 for arriving after 3pm). Kel reckoned it was a bit like Hunter Valley Gardens; I thought it more like stepping into Ken Done's Mediterranean fantasy world. Now there's an rather disturbing idea for a theme park...
