On Top of the World in Wales

The Welsh mountain fog mesmerized me with its surreal beauty, whipping over the craggy peaks and ridgelines, riding the constant winds that sculpt the bleak rock face of the mountains.

But it is more than the constantly shifting fog that shrouds Snowdonia in mystery. Its very name evokes images of the fairy-tale castles and legends that inhabit the lush landscape of northwest Wales, the home of Snowdon, the tallest peak here or in England. The legendary King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table are said to have fought their last battle on the saddle of a ridge of Lliwedd, a peak near Snowdon, and Arthur’s sword Excalibur is supposed to have risen magically from the waters of Glaslyn, a lake at the base of Lliwedd. Legend has it that the knights are buried in a slanting gully on the face of Lliwedd, where they await Arthur’s return.

At 838 square miles, Snowdonia National Park, which draws 6 million visitors a year, is the second-largest national park in England and Wales. Unlike other “wild” national parks elsewhere in the world, this one has residents--about 26,000 of them--surrounded by emerald green peaks, lakes and waterfalls.

It was not an ancient myth or glorious scenery I was seeking when I came in April, but insight into another legend nurtured in these hills. Since the early 19th century, these craggy peaks and rock faces have been a training ground for some of the world’s most renowned mountaineers. I came here to learn more about George Mallory, who may or may not have been the first person to climb Mt. Everest.

Before he made his name as a legendary mountain climber, Mallory was closely associated with the Bloomsbury group, the bohemian intellectuals of London known as much for their artistic and intellectual achievements as for their varied and creative sexual entanglements. He knew many of them from his college days at Cambridge and continued his friendships after graduation. A wistful picture of a shirtless young Mallory, which hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in London, is one of many Mallory portraits painted or photographed by Bloomsbury artist Duncan Grant. He captures on canvas Mallory’s grace and beauty, admired by men and women. “Mon Dieu! George Mallory! the body of an athlete by Praxiteles, and a face--oh incredible--the mystery of Botticelli,” Bloomsbury writer Lytton Strachey proclaimed breathlessly.

I first saw that Mallory picture at the portrait gallery three years ago and became fascinated by this man whose life existed at the juncture of art and adventure.

Despite the stack of books I had read, I was still having difficulty understanding his ultimately fatal attraction to mountains. Nearly every biography mentioned the important role his visits to Snowdonia played, so I decided a visit might give me insight into him. It certainly made more sense than trying to climb Everest.

One need not be a mountain climber to explore parts of Snowdonia. There are several roads that cross the mountains, permitting easy access to trail heads. For the price of a short walk, you can enjoy stunning views of mountain peaks, waterfalls and lakes. In season, you can even take a train to the summit of Snowdon.

I was determined, however, to experience Snowdonia in as Mallory-like a manner as possible, despite a lack of mountain climbing experience. On the Internet I came across High Trek Snowdonia, a mountain-climbers’ bed-and-breakfast at the base of Snowdon. This mid-19th century stone farmhouse is named Tal y Waen, Welsh for “top of the rough pasture.” Husband-and-wife team Mandy and Ian Whitehead live in the cottage next door and lead groups and individuals on organized treks and climbing expeditions.

I made my reservation for one of their “Welsh 3000s” long weekends, during which I was scheduled to climb 14 of the 3,000-footers in three days.

Mandy picked me up at the Bangor train station after my four-hour journey from London. After we exchanged pleasantries, I asked how many others were scheduled for the weekend’s trek. “Well,” Mandy said, “none, actually. We forgot that you were coming, and there weren’t enough others, so we canceled the weekend.”

Nothing makes the heart sink faster than traveling 5,500 miles for a canceled adventure. Mandy, however, had everything in hand and had booked private guides for my first two days; Ian would lead me on the third. My long journey was salvaged.

After Mandy’s hearty home-cooked dinner of Welsh lamb and nut loaf, I retired to one of the three bedrooms on the second floor. It had a double bed and a view of the hills rolling gently green down to the sea. The two other rooms, both empty, were equipped with bunk beds.

“Hearty,” I discovered the next morning, is the theme for all meals at Tal y Waen. After a breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, cereal, fruit, juice, toast and coffee, I felt fueled up enough to conquer all 14 peaks in one day.

Mandy equipped me with an anorak--a big, hooded raincoat--rain pants, a large day pack, compass, hat, plastic-encased map, gloves, water bottle and a packed lunch filled with chocolates, sandwiches and other high-energy foods. I felt outfitted to climb Everest itself and was certain all the gear was overkill. These were, after all, only 3,000-foot peaks. How tough could a few little 3,000-foot peaks be?

Days before I arrived, Snowdon had received a fresh sprinkling of spring snow, living up to its name. High winds and mountain fog were predicted that first day.

Mandy drove Geraldine Westrup, my guide, and me to the trail head at a lake named Llyn Ogwen, at a little less than 1,000 feet. We gathered our gear and began our day on an up note--practically straight up.

Geraldine motioned to the scrapes carved into the rock on the scramble up Pen yr Ole Wen, our first peak of the day. “That may be one of his crampon marks,” she said.

She was teasing, knowing I was curious about Mallory, though he could very well have made the marks.

George Leigh Mallory was born in 1886 in Cheshire, England, to a local parson. He studied history at Magdalene College in Cambridge, where he was introduced to the Bloomsbury crowd. He became a teacher at Charterhouse School in 1910, married Ruth Turner in 1914 and served as a gunner in World War I.

Asked why he wanted to climb Everest, Mallory is said to have replied, “Because it is there.” He participated in expeditions to Mt. Everest in 1921 and ‘22, both unsuccessful. He made his third attempt in 1924, probably his last chance to claim the summit before time and age caught up with him. On June 8, just 10 days shy of his 38th birthday, Mallory and his climbing companion, 23-year-old Andrew “Sandy” Irvine, disappeared into the mists of Everest.

Mallory’s body lay undisturbed until 1999, when a team found him at the bottom of a long slope on the flank of Everest, 800 feet from the summit. Irvine’s body has never been found. Theirs is one of the greatest mysteries of modern adventure. No one knows, even after all this time, whether they reached the summit. If they did, they were the first, not Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay, who are credited with the feat in 1953.

And now I was following Mallory’s footsteps.

Geraldine and I reached the top of Pen yr Ole Wen, at 3,208 feet the first of my Welsh 3,000-foot peaks. Our ascent was steep, gaining more than 2,200 feet in a little more than a mile.

We took a brief break for tea and then headed about a half-mile along the ridgeline to Carnedd Dafydd, at 3,425 feet the next of the six peaks we were to conquer this day.

Geraldine pointed into the thick fog toward our third peak. I had to take her word that it was there. She claimed that on a clear day the views are spectacular, which I also had to take on faith. We broke for lunch on the leeward side of Yr Elen, a 3,156-foot peak off the main ridgeline. Though slightly protected by the mountain, Geraldine and I chased plastic sandwich wrap as the wind tore it from our hands.

We scrambled back across the side of Yr Elen to the main ridgeline and stamped our boots on the three remaining peaks for that day. By the time we reached Foel-Fras (3,090 feet), our last peak, we were ready for one more tea and chocolate break before beginning our descent.

“I can get nearly anyone up these mountains,” Mandy had told me. “It’s coming back down that is the problem.”

She was, unfortunately, more prescient than I could have imagined.

A small stone and log shelter provided us a resting spot out of the fog and wind. The low carved stones arranged inside the shelter forced our knees to our chins as we nibbled the few remaining snacks in our sacks. After the break, my knees--one of them temperamental and the other just sympathetic--had stiffened. As we started down a slight incline, a sharp pain stopped me in my tracks.

“Are you OK?” Geraldine asked. “Fine, just a little stiff, I think,” I said, determined to walk it off.

Despite my manly resolve, my knee protested vigorously as we descended. I was diverted momentarily by a small herd of wild Welsh ponies, looking magnificent in their winter coats, but by the time we reached the bottom, the last eight Welsh 3,000s looked like a remote--very remote--possibility.

I spent the next day curled up in front of a glowing coal fire, resting my knee and indulging myself with books containing references to Mallory that Ian found for me in the Tal y Waen library.

My knee was feeling better by Day 3, so Ian and I geared up for our ascent of Snowdon, a lofty 3,560 feet. We parked the van near the Pen y Pass hotel, a regular haunt of Mallory’s that is now a youth hostel.

We climbed up the PYG Track, which derives its name from the Pen y Gwryd (or PYG) hotel, where I would be staying that night. Mallory had stayed there in 1914 with his new bride, Ruth.

There was still snow on the ground at Snowdon’s summit. We made our way around the back of a still-closed restaurant to the “sun” deck, where, in a wind tunnel of swirling mist and rain, we huddled over our lunch.

On the hike down we passed Glaslyn, the lake where Excalibur is said to have appeared, now a deep green from decades of runoff from the closed copper mines on its banks. Lliwedd rises above the lake, though any hints of Arthur and his knights were shrouded in the fog.

A tall, lean man caught up with us, and we struck up a conversation. He was Geoffrey Pocock, an avid walker and author, who was also spending that night at the Pen y Gwryd hotel.

“Ah, I hope you are ready for a very eccentric stay,” he said.

The Pen y Gwryd, a trove of British mountaineering lore and of old-time British hotel keeping, gives a guest the feeling of staying with a slightly eccentric, set-in-her-ways aunt. Built in the mid-19th century to provide accommodations for the growing number of Victorian tourists coming to explore the mountains of Snowdonia, the Pen y Gwryd has hosted numerous mountaineering greats, including Hillary and Norgay. The practice run that led to their successful assault on Everest was staged from this hotel.

The ceiling of the public bar boasts a collection of signatures of mountaineers who have stayed at the Pen y Gwryd--Hillary, Norgay and Noel Odell, a member of Mallory’s 1924 expedition to Everest. Odell caught a glimpse of Mallory and Irvine through a momentary clearing in the clouds sometime just after noon on the day they disappeared and was the last person to see them alive. (The tradition of signing the ceiling was only begun in the mid-20th century, so Mallory’s signature is absent.) Non-climbers have signed too, notably actor Anthony Hopkins and Bloomsbury member Bertrand Russell.

The rooms are comfortable and clean, if a little worn, and are named after nearby peaks. Mine was Yr Elen. It had a sink and mirror but no shower or bathtub. The toilet, I discovered after much searching, was hidden in a small closet at the end of a dark hallway.

Tucked away behind the reception desk/bar is the “resident’s bar,” a dark, wood-paneled room open only to hotel guests. On one wall is a locked and alarmed display cabinet with memorabilia from the Hillary and Norgay ascent of Everest: a shank of rope that tied the two together at the top, plus various oxygen canisters, crampons, other climbing paraphernalia from the expedition and, inexplicably, a shrunken head from Peru.

Eccentric indeed.

Five of us were staying at the hotel that night. Dinner was announced by the ringing of a large brass gong. I was about to suggest to Pocock that we sit together in the large, nearly empty dining room when he was shuffled to his table at one end of the room and I was led to mine, near a window on the other side of the room. Not wishing to upset tradition, I sat quietly alone at my table, as did the other guests.

The five-course meal, served on PYG (Pen y Gwryd) china and antique silver, began with asparagus wrapped in ham and continued with a delicious lentil soup. I chose the lamb chops for my main course; they were exquisite. They were served with new potatoes, zucchini, carrots and cabbage. For dessert I had homemade rhubarb pie and custard. When the cheese cart was brought around, I couldn’t resist a small glass of port and some of the local cheeses.

I then sat at my table not knowing whether I needed to await the gong to be dismissed. Geoffrey was the first to rise, providing me my cue to do the same. “I told you it was eccentric,” he whispered.

The next morning a cab arrived at the Pen y Gwryd to take me to the Bangor train station for my return to London. We drove down through the mountains and toward the sea, past ancient castles and open slate mines. The fog lifted and the sun began to shine.

“Is this the summit, crowning the day?” Mallory wrote. “How cool and quiet! We’re not exultant, but delighted, joyful; soberly astonished. Have we vanquished an enemy? None but ourselves.”

The buttresses and domes that inspired Mallory rose above the sheep-dotted green pastures, as timeless as legend and as beautiful as any painting. I had walked in Mallory’s steps and touched that beauty, though the key to the mystery of his life may be forever hidden deep within the mountains.

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Guidebook: Weathering Wales

Getting there: From LAX, nonstop service to London’s Heathrow is available on British, Virgin Atlantic, American, United and Air New Zealand. Direct service is offered to Gatwick on American and Continental. Restricted round-trip fares begin at $984.

You can also fly into Birmingham, England, from LAX. Direct service is offered on Continental, and connecting service (change of planes) is available on Aer Lingus, American, Continental, Lufthansa and Swiss. Restricted round-trip fares begin at $1,042.

From London to Bangor, Wales: Trains leave hourly from London’s Euston Station. Fares are about $90 round trip for standard-class saver ticket; travel time is about four hours.

From Birmingham to Bangor: Hourly departures, travel time about 2 1/2 hours, fare about $42. National Rail: 011-44-8457-484- 950, www.nationalrail.co.uk.

Telephones: To call the numbers below from the U.S., dial 011 (the international dialing code), 44 (country code for Britain) and the local number.

Where to stay: There are many options for accommodations in Snowdonia, including bed-and-

breakfasts, farmhouse stays and hotels. Visit the Wales Tourist Board Web site, www.openspace.visitwales.com, for other listings.

High Trek Snowdonia, Tal y Waen, Deiniolen, Gwynedd, Wales LL55 3NA; 1286-871-232, www.hightrek.co.uk. Welsh 3,000s weekend about $385, including three nights’ accommodation, all meals, wine with dinner, equipment and guides. Other programs include mountain walking, navigation, scrambling and climbing.

Pen y Gwryd Hotel, Nant Gwynant, Gwynedd, Wales LL55 4NT; 1286-870-368, www.pyg.co.uk. Bed and breakfast about $40, dinner about $30. Be sure to reserve for dinner each night; there are few other choices. The meal is superb and an excellent value. Packed lunches can also be arranged. Closed November and December; open weekends only January and February.

For more information: The Snowdonia National Park Authority, National Park Office, Penrhyndeudraeth, Gwynedd, Wales LL48 6LF; 1766-770-274, fax 1766-771-211, www.eryri-npa.gov.uk.

Wales Tourist Board, Brunel House, 2 Fitzalan Road, Cardiff, Wales CF24 0UY; 2920-499-909, fax 2920-485-031, www.openspace.visitwales.com.

British Tourist Authority, 551 Fifth Ave., Suite 701, New York, NY 10176; (800) GO-2-BRITAIN (462- 2748), www.travelbritain.org.

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James Gilden is a Los Angeles-based writer.