HOW THE SPEDDING FAMILY UNINTENTIONALLY CLIMBED MT SNOWDON From the late 1920s my grandparents used to take a family holiday on a farm at Rhewl on the River Dee near Llangollen, North Wales, and my parents kept up that tradition for several years both before and after WW2. We lived in the north of Liverpool, so North Wales was easy to reach. In the 1970s, we had moved to the outskirts of Bristol, and I had my own young family, who always wanted to hear stories about my early days. My somewhat exaggerated tales of swimming exploits in the crystal-clear waters of the Dee, and ‘helping’ staff at the nearby Glyndyfrdwy station on the gated single-track Dee valley railway were received in rapt silence. I must have over-egged these stories just a little, because the choice of destination for our next holiday was a foregone conclusion, as far as the young people were concerned. We were off to Llangollen. I telephoned the exchange there, and asked the operator (remember those days?) for the number of the farm where we used to stay, and everything was fixed up in a matter of minutes. Needless to say, when we got there, the stones in the river were no longer clean, the water did not sparkle any more due to slurry run-off from fields, and I did not feel like scooping-up its water in order to make tea. However, everything else was as expected, and we were made welcome at the farm by the grand-daughter of our original hostess, and after dinner we settled down to make plans for the next day’s trip. My suggestion of a picnic on the Llanberis Pass, followed by adventures at Caernarfon castle was approved, and we looked forward to a ‘grand day out.’ Perhaps it is appropriate now to mention that our son, Robert, who then was six years old, had always, even before he could walk, climbed stone walls and furniture, with pianos, and Welsh dressers a specialty. And so it was that next day, after a short drive, we arrived near the top of the Llanberis pass, parked the car adjacent to the ‘miners’ path’ and laid out our picnic overlooking Lake Glaslyn, which was bathed in bright sunshine. There is little louder than the cry of a mother who discovers that Number One Son has gone AWOL. ‘Quick! Quick!’ she called, ‘Alan, take your clothes off and rescue Rob, he must have fallen in the lake.’ However, the surface of the lake lay smooth and mirror-like. With trepidation we raised our eyes unto the hills, and behold! a smallish, orange-cagoule-clad figure could be seen, already half-way up the steep, narrow, and treacherous pathway through the slate scree. ‘It’s Robert!’ we all cried, stating the obvious. Then, ‘don’t distract him, he might fall down from that height’. Patch, our Border Collie dog, idly fossicking about, heard the cries, and obviously decided that following his young pal up the vertiginous path was a potential adventure likely to be more interesting than going ordinary boring walkies. His sheepdog inheritance engaged in first gear, and he dashed off up the path, seemingly with little effort. Of course, Catherine, who was a year older than Robert, was not going to allow her brother and the dog to enjoy an adventure without her supervision, and she was on her way before we could exert a restraining influence. Meanwhile, wife Susan had collected up the picnic, thrown it into the car, and then followed me up the path as I bravely set off at speed to rescue our little lad. I should have said ‘bravely’ in respect of Susan, because, not only has she a fear of heights, but Robert had climbed quite a distance. No jokes about ‘vertigo,’ please. Naturally, the realisation that he was being 60
grouse-2021_text_a4_05_dec-21.indd 60
17/12/2021 16:19
