A photographers wet dream

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After our rather outrageous achievement the day before, we felt we had earned a good lay in. We didn’t stir until around 9, the rest of the campsite was already busy with campers packing up and washing as we tip toe’d from hedge to hedge and hobbled over to the showers like a couple of Scrooges who had lost their piss pots and appropriate century.

Luckily nobody mentioned our little rum party for two on the river front at about 11 the night before so we must have been quieter than we thought. However I don’t think we made loads of friends on this particular campsite. As you might expect of two men (two manly men) travelling for days on end together our conversation and control of bodily gases had been lost completely. So upon arrival, to rejoice in our successful day we let off a small chorus of parps and burps whilst setting up the tent. One of Paul’s mighty roars was unfortunately timed as it interrupted a couple of women singing happy birthday to their friend a little way off. We turned around to find the ladies frozen, cake in hand, staring in disbelief at the noise which interrupted their celebrations. But Paul shouted ‘PARDON ME’ in an aggressive tone and we’re pretty sure that resolved any lingering grievances.

One of the campsite staff had been raving about his warm baguettes so we got a couple warmed up for us, lathered a lot of pâté on and sat around thinking about walking up Snowdon. Baguette man was extremely happy that we’d gone for his delicacy, either, we surmised because he was so happy to have two absolute walking legends eating his food or because not many people order them. You decide.

Once we started walking through the valley along lakes and forests it became clear this was going to be another beautiful trek. We actually only had 6 miles to achieve that day so we could take our time although 1 daunting mile at least would be up a very steep incline to Pen-Y-Pass. Along the way we soaked up the amazing scenery. The RAF appeared to be practicing helicopter mountain landings on the mountain above which looked pretty damn scary. Over one of the lakes we sat and had a rest, Paul threw himself onto a ledge and as I went to take a photo said “I’m basically a photographers wet dream aren’t I!?”

We climbed up through more bloody bogs, Paul’s feet went under a number of times but after a steep climb with our STUPID rucksacks we made it to Pen-Y-Pass hostel. Pen-Y-Pass is the perfect place to start an ascent up Snowdon which is what we planned to do tomorrow with Heather, Paul’s girlfriend and her friend Sarah who were to arrive that evening.

We sat and watched people come down off the mountain. For the first time we had time to wash our clothes, which stank. Like really stank. Put it this way, the staff almost barfed over the till as we traipsed mud up to the hostel reception.

The great thing about Snowdonia is that most people you come into contact with love walking and reel off mountain names like they’re as famous as monopoly board streets. We got many bits of advice from the hostel staff.

Later than expected Heather and Sarah arrived. Paul and I had been sat on the edge of the car park trying to guess which sheep would get run over first and how likely cars coming up the road were to be Heathers. Unlikely it appeared.

Paul and Heather have a special relationship. It’s the kind of explosive love that seems to only find expression by wrestling each other to the ground in a wet starlit car park at 11pm half way up snowdon shouting things like “it’s like you don’t even know me at all!!!” and “stop it!!” In between the slurp and rustle of beard on flesh kissing. Sufficed to say Paul was elated to have her back.

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