Suffering on Snowdon

We looked up in search of the Summit amongst the clouds. I confess, I took the elevator to the second floor at Primark because I was too lazy to take the stairs. Yet somehow I was about to take the most treacherous route to the top of Mount Snowdon. It wasn’t enough that my best friend’s family wanted me to walk to the top; they wanted me to walk Crib Gogh- a route where people have genuinely lost their lives.

Yet the first thing I remember was thinking I should have dressed more appropriately.

The Welsh weather clung to my denim shorts turning them from a pale blue to an ominous navy. They felt like drying cement around my legs. I should have bought my own waterproof jacket with an extra zip to block out the wind. Instead my Mum’s hand-me-down anorak didn’t protect me from the bitter wind blowing through to my bones.

My knees quickly lost stability. Each ligament burned with exhaustion. We were only twenty minutes in. As we got higher the steps got further apart and more uneven. I grew more terrified of breaking my ankle and I imagined the embarrassment of her dad calling mountain rescue for me when I couldn’t get down.

I longed for the unbearable Spanish heat I was accustomed to on what I would call a vacation. This was the second holiday I had been on with my best friend. The first was an Alicante apartment where her tan transformed her into a native in three weeks; whereas my own skin simply burnt like I’d been chucked in the microwave. Yet neither one of us were going to get sun kissed on Snowdon.

Being faced with the almighty Crib Goch, I was forced to confront it with both anxiety and determination. I swallowed back the tears like someone had spiked my soother with a razor blade. I couldn’t bear the thought of crying in front of older brother. Ironically, I wasn’t aware of the mascara puddles running down the creases around my mouth- courtesy of the constant damp air.

We walked along the thin peak known as Crib Goch- a tightrope crafted with unreliable rock. We were told by her dad to walk along the left side. That way we would be sheltered from the wind and were less likely to lose our balance. The fog masked the ground, and I thought about the people staring up at us just like I was three hours ago. Not that they could see us, the screen of fog was too opaque.

As the summit came into view, I could feel the tips of my fingers again and the muscles in my face allowed me to smile at passersby. At the top there was a cafe too expensive to eat in and vending machines selling bananas and coke cans for the price of my parent’s mortgage.

When we finally reached the summit we took the mandatory photo. And although our smiles weren’t authentic, the feeling of accomplishment and relief were completely genuine. We walked down the mountain victorious. Although, I admit I didn’t feel relaxed until both of my feet were on the ground and I was back in her mum’s ford galaxy drinking hot minestrone soup from a flask.