By GILES MILTON

King of the mountains: Giles and his daughters Heliose, Madeleine and Aurelia, look down on the Welsh landscape from the top of Snowdon


We’d been under way for five minutes when there was a cry of ‘Are we nearly there?’ from our youngest daughter, Aur elia. I could not bring her much reassurance. We were not nearly there.

In fact, we were precisely five long miles from the peak of Mount Snowdon and still had to scrabble up 3,200ft of stone-strewn path.

‘It’s still a little way,’ I said as I gave her a little push from behind. ‘But we’ll get there eventually.’

‘Yer, like next month,’ was the help ful comment from 14-year-old Madeleine, Aurelia’s older sister.

Snowdon is not Mount Everest. It’s less than an eighth of the height of most Himalayan peaks and laughably small even in comparison to the Alps. But it is the highest mountain in England and Wales and presents plenty of challenges to young children.

‘I’m not going any further,’ said 12-year-old Heloise, our second daughter. She did keep going but it took a chocolate bar and numerous other sweets to keep on track.

We’d come to Snowdonia to get away from it all, so we rented one of the National Trust’s remotest cottages, a former farmhouse called Gwernouau. It lay at the end of a rough stone track that passed through fields, streams and many gates. There were no other houses in sight – just fields, moorland and billions of sheep.

The nearest town was Betws-y-Coed – an idyllic little place. Almost everyone here was a hiker: this is the heart of walking country.

I’d last been in Snowdonia when I was eight – the same age as Aurelia. I still have vivid memories of my own parents gently coercing me up Snowdon (I didn’t make the top). It rained every day when I was here as a child. Now, it seems, North Wales is as hot as the Sahara. We had days of blazing heat and returned to London crimson with sunburn. Nobody believed where we’d been.

On our first day, we tackled Moel Siaboal, a gigantic grassy hill. We’d been given a map and were told that the path would be easy to follow. It was not.

We got hopelessly lost and bumped into three other groups also trying to locate the purported trail (none of us found it). But the hike honed our muscles for the big one.

First, there were a few excursions. One was to Penrhyn Castle – a baronial country house built in the 1830s in the style of a medieval fortress.


The dramatic Welsh hills have inspired generations of poets and painters, including Turner


It’s brash, vulgar and absurdly huge. Everything is on a grand scale. Even the oak doors are 3ft thick, while the slate bed made for Queen Victoria’s visit weighs more than an articulated lorry.

Then on to Anglesey – the wonky-shaped island linked to North Wales mainland by a couple of bridges. Our guidebook made it sound remark ably dreary. But we made an amazing find. Red Wharf Bay was a vast sweep of golden sand with not a soul in sight. We claimed it for ourselves, hunting razor clams and crabs.

Anglesey gets fewer visitors than elsewhere in Wales and those who come head to Holyhead (for the Irish ferry) or Llanfairpwllgwyngll gogerychwyrndrobwlllantysilio gogogoch – the village with the longest name in Britain. The name was invented in the 1880s by a tailor to draw tourists.

The Victorians came in large numbers to take snapshots – and also visited Mount Snowdon. But its craggy slopes proved too much of a challenge for women in whalebone corsets and full-length skirts. In 1896, a steam railway was constructed to the summit.

‘Can’t we go by train?’ asked our girls as we passed the toy-town station. We shook our heads. Not only did the return trip cost £25 per adult (£18 per child), but I had something to prove. Left, right. Left, right. I was determined to get to the top, even if I had to carry Aurelia.

The beauty of climbing Snowdon is the ever-widening panorama. First, you see only the nearby slopes. Then, the adjoining hills. And finally, as you break above 3,000ft, an enormous undulating landscape. We could even glimpse Ireland.

‘That’s it,’ said the girls as we neared the summit. ‘No further!’ I pleaded, cajoled and handed out yet more sweets. ‘It’s only a few hundred feet further.’ They picked themselves up with loud groans and continued their slow plod upwards. And then, suddenly, we were there. We’d done it.

‘Lunch,’ said the three girls in unison, displaying remarkably little enthusiasm for their achievement. ‘We’re starving.’

They wolfed down their sandwiches before reluctantly clambering up the little stone cairn at the top.

‘I’m never climbing a mountain again,’ said Aurelia. ‘Never.’
Funnily enough, it’s exactly what I said when I was her age

Travel facts:

National Trust Holiday Cottages (www.national trustcottages.co.uk) has more than 370 properties for rent in England, Wales and Northern Ireland. Gwernouau costs from £398 per week for 2011.

Many Wales cottages are discounted by 20 per cent until the end of November.
A three-night short break costs from £158.40.


source: dailymail