Moel Famau is the highest hill of the Clwydian Hills and, standig on the border of Flintshire and Denbighshire, is Flintshire’s county top. At 1,817 feet, it is the lowest of Wales’s mainland county tops, but majestic on the horizon, and distinctive with its huge Victorian monument.
I climbed Moel Famau on my way back from Snowdon. I drove out to Ruthin, and to a lane running out of Llanbedr-Dyffryn-Clwyd, to the car park of the Moel Famau County Park. The car park was buzzing with Liverpudlian voices – this is a place to breath and enjoy the open air.
The Offa’s Dyke Path runs through here – it is a broad, made path, and it leads straight to the hill and its summit. The climb then is simple – follow the big path. It is only a couple of miles.
In this weather, the grass has been frazzled. Either side, the heather grows as vigorously as ever, and below is the green valley. Reaching Moel Famau itself though, the path runs up through browned land.
The summit is crowned with the Jubilee Tower – Victorian, concrete and decayed, but with a view out all around. (The trig point below has been painted ina naïve-art style for some reason.)
Back the way I came, and another county top done, with little drama.
I was told this was a fearsome climb. It was in part a gentle walk, and in parts gritted teeth, four-limb scrambling and prayer – which was answered.
From the car park in Glenridding, I followed the path another walker was going, befor finding there are several routes – you have to stick by the Mires Beck for the first stretch – but I looped over back to the beck, with cheery assistance from local folk who enjoy the views or the bowl of Lanty’s Tarn from the lower slopes. Back on track, I took the long, upward climb, along a path which is in parts steep or shallow – on average easier than those I have met earlier in the week. Past the forbidding crags, I followed up over Birkhouse Moor (the usual walk) from which the path levels out to follow a ridge beside a long, drystone wall. This leads to a prominent style known as Hole-in-the-Wall. Here the challenge begins.
On the walk I fell into brief conversation with a few other walkers – two young lads who powered ahead, occasionally caught up with, and three cheery young ladies who dropped further behind as I pressed on to the climb, and two experiences cragsmen (“Been doing this for 50 years!”) enjoying the familiar, breathtaking view.
At Hole-in-the-Wall, lying below you is a gorgeous tarn, Red Tarn, at the bottom of a huge corrie formed by Helvellyn; the back wall formed by the mountain’s long, cliff-edged summit ridge, fringed with snow; on one side Bleabury Crag and Striding Edge, and opposite the triangular shape of Catstye Cam. Up over rougher climbing (Bleabury Crag), to a jagged eyrie which is the beginning of Striding Edge. This forbidding eyrie is (I learn) called Low Spying How. Low it is not.
There is no path over Low Spying How: I packed my map away and with hands and feet I picked my way over the rocks between seemingly impossible gaps, with vertical drops to the valley awaiting any mistake. Then the Edge itself came into view. It appears like a set of dragon’s teeth, in a long ridge with nowhere for the feet. Had a wind blown up, there would be nowhere to protect you from being ripped from you feet and hurled into the void. It was though dry and largely still. I climbed down to the edge and round some way along it – occasionally stretches of path appear, and in others it has crumbled away and the tops are the only way along. It is thrilling, and deadly. Good boots that allow me to step on points of rock were vital.
I slid undignified on my bottom and reached hand over hand, creeping along in this unfamiliar landscape. Then I spotted the trio of young ladies from earlier – slower on the path, they were bounding along here, with all the confidence and suppleness of youth. And here was I creeping along: what years of responsibility can do to a man. Then halfway along, as I was poised not knowing how to move further, the cragsmen appeared. The guided me and the ladies (who had caught up by now) along the impossible tops and the final climb to the summit. I will be eternally grateful.
The summit is gentle, and in the sun shone as I ate my lunch there, unfurled the county flag (this is Westmorland’s county top) and wondered at the views.
The usual way down is another scramble, down Swirral Edge, to a gentle path. I could see hesitation amongst those going that way, and in any case I was enjoying the hills too much to go straight back.
So I headed north over Glenridding Common (a route with no scrambles and no edges). There is a gentle saddle from Helvellyn down and up to Lower man, and on to White Side, and on to Raise to the north. Over this and the path tracks along the slope of Raise before zigzagging down towards the Glenridding Beck, which I followed down to the village.
Three peaks stand in line above Wasdale, and in the middle stands Scafell Pike – Cumberland’s county top and the highest in the Lake District and in England.
It is a long haul up, but yesterday was the ideal day for it – dry, clear and still. It was a contrast to the first day I appeared in Wasdale, when I was told bluntly by the National Trust staff not to attempt it – and they were right. Yesterday I passed by the glass-like, beautiful lake beneath the Screes, where canoes were being carried to the water – the previous time (Sunday) a lone paddleboarder was looking uncertain, while wild winds washed Wastwater with white-water waves.
The path from the National Trust car park is a clearly laid track, frequented by many feet, so on a clear day even out of season you will never be alone, and the nervous, inexperienced walkers may appreciate cheery encouragement. It is an unrelenting, steeply climbing path all the way and you can think that the pain and exhaustion will not let you go any further – but it will. Once you achieve the top, all that exhaustion goes away.
I watched a few pairs and couples pausing in panic where you wade through the Gill at one point, but they soon find it is nothing – if you have the right boots or at least the right attitude. And so it climbs, apparently endlessly.
Actually, you cannot see the top until you approach the looming crag – then it is a haul up (hands and knees if you must for that bit, though you should just be able to walk, as if up randomly placed steep stairs.. Then round the crag, the top is in sight.
I did not want to leave. I was bathed in sunshine, and surrounded by good company (I was climbing alone but, as I said, you are never alone) and the views were awe-inspiring. From there the mountains of the massif and others of the Lake District rise in an endless parade. Below is Wastwater, glimmering. Further off the Duddon Estuary appears.
I showed the Cumberland flag – this is the county top, after all – then descended, far faster than the climb, and meeting many groups then coming up, giving encouragement and occasionally showing then were they were on the map.
Bright sunshine, clear sky and barely a breath of wind – yesterday. Today the storm broke over the fells. Scafell was out of the question (and I did drop in at Wasdale – the National Trust staff were insistent). So could a gentler peak be found? Gentler….? Not really.
I headed for Coniston, in the heart of the Furness Fells – where Lancashire takes its part of the Lake District. The village is small, close to the beautiful ribbon of Coniston Water, and climbing the slope behind.
The fell itself, the Old Man of Coniston, is the highest of the Furness Fells, and Lancashire’s county top. I set off with a Lancashire flag in my backpack to place at the summit (briefly, before packing it away – no littering from me).
A road climbs from the village, leading it its top to a clear path; as long as you do not turn off in the wrong place. I did, and I wandered over the slopes of The Bell, a prodigious knoll above the village, before climbing to a well-used track (which I should have been on all along) heading up the hill. Here I met three young friends heading uphill, led by a local man who knew the way up. I tagged along, and they did not mind, which was very good of them.
The path winds around the slope of the fell, until it comes to abandoned slate workings: this is an extensive, unexpected industrial landscape merging back into the landscape – just take care to step over or duck the broad pipes and massive cables, and what the man-wrought leats carrying water off the mountain.
The views down to Coniston Water are glorious – in the sunshine – and forbidding without it.
After the long climb, you come to Low Water (an odd name for one as high as it lies), a large tarn reminiscent of the secret places the children discover in the Swallows and Amazons books which the lake and the landscape inspired. Burn cascade down high cliffs to the water – cliffs whose high are yet to be climbed.
At Low Water, the path disappears; or seems to. it turns and blends into the hillside, and climbs hard. The path zigzags higher, up rocks and steps, steeper as it goes – until suddenly. the top appears, where a massive cairn-monument stands (and a trig point to one side rather overshadowed).
The wind was scouring the top; I ducked for relief behind the cairn. I did not feel sheltered enough to open my pack lunch. Neither did any of my sudden jolly companions.
The views from the top must be spectacular. As we descended, it opened up, with the lake ahead.
The geology is fascinating up here. The slate at the top, and lower the rocks change colour, with blue copper-bearing stones appearing in places – lower down are copper mines – also the inspiration for an episode in Pigeon Post, one of the S&A books. There’s quartz in some. That is the extent of my geological knowledge.
Back to the village, I said farewell to my erstwhile companions, and reflected on a county top bagged well despite the weather.
Slieve Donard, the county top of County Down, Prince of the Mourne Mountains, stands looming above Newcastle; the silly seaside boutiques and rides, gaudy ice-cream stalls and beachwear shops looking tiny beneath its silent, majestic presence.
Previously I described the initial climb from the beach, though the woods by the Glen River up to the Ice House. It is here, having emerged from the woods, that the walk opens up, and the way to the top of the mountain appears.
Slieve Donard, the county top of County Down, Prince of the Mourne Mountains, stands looming above Newcastle; the silly seaside boutiques and rides, gaudy ice-cream stalls and beachwear shops looking tiny beneath its silent, majestic presence.
Previously I described the initial climb from the beach, though the woods by the Glen River up to the Ice House. It is here, having emerged from the woods, that the walk opens up, and the way to the top of the mountain appears.
The ice house is at the side of a deep, broad, steep valley climbing the mountainside. It begins to divide the two neighbouring mountains, Slieve Donard to the south-east (on the left as you climb) from Slieve Commedagh to the north-west (right). The route upwards is initially beside the wood, on a well-worn path, with the river, now a narrow stream threading between rocks, below to the left.
After the wood is left behind, the valley opens more and looking back there is a fine view down to the sea and the far Lecale peninsula, flat and fertile missy in the heat-haze. The path is paved in parts from the rocks from beside it, and the river, now a bare mountain burn, is crossed again just on the stones within its course, and all in the great U of the valley which even over aeons this tiny water could not have carved.
The Glen Valley
The top of the path stops at a wall. It climbs to the crest of the saddle between Slieve Donard and Slieve Commedaghhalfway between the two summits and far below them both, and stops. Here is the Mourne Wall. The wall stands neck-high, between 1904 and 1922 by the Belfast Water Commissioners in order to enclose the water catchment in the Mournes, and to keep sheep out of it apparently. It is a most remarkable construction, stretching for summit to summit miles across the mountains; Ulster’s version of the Great Wall of China. It also shows the way to the summit (although the fact that the ground goes up in one direction is generally enough of a clue).
The saddle (I keep wanting to call it a ‘bealach’) is a high ridge between the two mountains, and beyond it the Mournes stretch away inland, gorgeous to behold, and the wall looping over the tops to the horizon. While I stood contemplating the scene a new group of walkers appeared over the lip, who had climbed the mountain from Bloody Bridge – a spot where the cliffs come down to the sea south of Newcastle with barely room for the road to squeeze by though there is a spot here to pull boots on and go. The must be a more rugged path – and a goal for next time I come this way.
There are many routes up and around Slieve Donard: I have listed some of the books below. There is so much to explore in the Mourne Mountains, even just in this little corner of it, that one path, and the popular one at that, barely does it justice. There is here at least a glimpse over those wilder slopes stretching of beyond.
I turned east. It is a steeper, rockier climb beside the wall to the Slieve Donard summit. You cannot stop as it is too tempting not to start again, and up, and further up it goes.
The summit levels, and here is the biggest cairn I have ever seen. I clambered to the top of course. There: County Down duly topped. From the summit the view looks out over the sea and shore, to Newcastle, Lecale and the Ards peninsula beyond, into the Irish Sea, with the Isle of man appearing in the haze. It is said that Snowdon is visible on a good day, but I could not see it, and the weather was descending.
Crowds on Slieve Commedagh
Back down to the Saddle, and I noticed that while there were many people up on Slieve Donard, no one was on its neighbour, Slieve Commedagh, so up I went. It is an easier climb than the big one, and its summit cairn a far more modest affair. Its resident inhabitants were better climbers than I – its sheep, and no more.
I looked across at Slieve Donard. Its summit was now within a cloud. It was time to descend.
Back down to the broad valley, and the vista once more opened up before me, back to the wee mountain burn hiding itself among the rocks and which grew as I followed it down, back to the ice house, which I took time to explore this time.
Then into the woods, the river a real river by now, with pools and cascades, and down, back to the car park and the sleepy seaside town.
Next time there are wilder routes. My eyes at that point though were t a mountain further west, but that is for another time.
Slieve Donard, the highest mountain of the gorgeous Mourne Mountains, and the highest point of County Down and of all Ulster, was a challenge not to be missed, and gave me another county top to tick off the list.
The distinctive shape of this mountain, its bulk and whale-like profile, was visible from many of the places we visited around the edge of the Mournes, and called out to be trodden. It is not without neighbours equally haunting in their shape and immensity, but Slieve Donard is the greatest of them. For those who have not been among the Mourne Mountains, they create in a relatively small compass in the southernmost of one county a sudden landscape of rare intensity.
Slieve Donard, the highest mountain of the gorgeous Mourne Mountains, and the highest point of County Down and of all Ulster, was a challenge not to be missed, and gave me another county top to tick off the list.
The distinctive shape of this mountain, its bulk and whale-like profile, was visible from many of the places we visited around the edge of the Mournes, and called out to be trodden. It is not without neighbours equally haunting in their shape and immensity, but Slieve Donard is the greatest of them. For those who have not been among the Mourne Mountains, they create in a relatively small compass in the southernmost of one county a sudden landscape of rare intensity.
The mountain has the wee seaside resort of Newcastle at its foot, and here we started. At one point on the promenade is a piece of modern art in the form of a cone with slot cut through it, arranged so that a look through the slot is of the summit of Slieve Donard: an interesting conceit, or a tribute to the mountain’s dominating presence.
We went down onto the beach and I trod with the sea washing on my walking boots, so that way there was no cheating and I could say I was climbing from sea level. My family then went off to explore the Tollymore Forest Park on the north side of the Mournes, which, they told me when they returned, was lovely – maybe next time then. Today though I headed inland.
The Glen River
From the beach through the car park and out almost at once into a wood. The route I was taking was up the tautologously named Glen Valley; the valley of the Glen River, and a lovely stream it is, tumbling over rocks worn smooth by its waters – in places not so much a river as a mile-long shallow waterfall, and with plenty of genuine cascades.
The path follows the river, on one side then the other, up though the woods it waters, at first a gentle climb.
It is a popular climb too – my hopes of boasting of achieving a rare feat were disappointed, except that I at least had walked from sea level not from the coach drop-off a little uphill, for all the difference it makes (and as it happens I coincided with a charity walk). One thing I will say for the walkers of Ulster – they know to wear proper boots: I have seen people trying to clamber lake District fells in plimsoles and flip-flops and wondered what planet they were on, but here in the Mourne Mountains there were stout boots on show.
The valley and the ice house
Eventually the tree cover thins and the path emerges, but I was not out of the woods yet (except literally). There on the other side of the stream stands a large, domed ice house. It looks in form like a giant igloo, except that an igloo is made of snow and an ice-house contains ice, or did in its heyday. The ice-house was built for the estate, and I could imagine weary servants tramping up the much as I had to this far ice-house to collect ice and trudge back with barrows on an inadequate path, muttering curses under their breath, heavy-laden to the great house, wherever that is. In a valley shaped by nature, the building stands out, but is a charm in its own way.
On then upwards. From here the valley is open and you can see how wide is this slice through the hill. In fact it is separating two mountains; Slieve Donard to the south-east and Slieve Commedagh to the north-west. There stands the challenge, which I will finish next time.
The Watkin Path is the toughest of the standard routes up Snowdon. There may be other routes known to climbers considered more challenging, such as the haul up Crib Goch, but of those normal routes straight to the top, the Watkin is the one. It also has the greatest ascent from start to finish: 3,330 feet.
The walk start at the ‘back of the mountain’ on the south side in the valley of the Nant Gwynant, at Bethania, between the two long lakes of the valley. A short walk in leads first through lovely woodland, then it begins to mean business as you walk up a dry valley carved into the mountainside, where Snowdon was heavily quarried for slate.
The Watkin Path is the toughest of the standard routes up Snowdon. There may be other routes known to climbers considered more challenging, such as the haul up Crib Goch, but of those normal routes straight to the top, the Watkin is the one. It also has the greatest ascent from start to finish: 3,330 feet, or 1,015 m in French.
It has been several years since I climbed the Watkin, so I have no photographs of my own for this own. I had it easy: my wife climbed with me in spite of a bout of flu, but we wanted to climb it before moving on and so we did.
The walk start at the ‘back of the mountain’ on the south side in the valley of the Nant Gwynant, at Bethania, between the two long lakes of the valley. There is a convenient car park (with few cars when we were there, but if it were full I cannot think where else you might stop). A short walk in leads first through lovely woodland, then it begins to mean business as you walk up a dry valley carved into the mountainside; here a theme of the walk appears as this is a side of Snowdon heavily quarried for slate. There is a large monument here marking a speech by Gladstone: what days they were when people would travel to a remote valley to hear a political speech, unless he just spoke to quarrymen off their shift.
The incline of a slate tramway crosses the path, while the path itself winds first beside the Cwm Llan river, then splits from a path across the flank of the mountain (which goes to Rhyd Ddu as it happens), crosses the stream and begins to climb in earnest, and when the path begins to climb, it does not stop.
The path has a haul up to the craggy ridge of Y Lliwedd (though not to its summit) before following the ridge north-west directly toward Snowdon’s summit.
One high section of this climb I distinctly; remember clambering with my hands and finding the foothold for us both on a narrow, very steep section, with the slate breaking away as we trod on it or held. The weather was closing in too at that point. Somehow in spite of weather and influenza we reached the ridge and the climb was still not over as we worked our way up to the summit.
I am told that this upper section has since had work done to it to make it less of s death-trap.
It was late in the season and late in the day for a climb and for once, I think the only time, the summit was empty.
Waterfall on the Cwm Llan River
We were unable to go back the same way after that break-away section and my wife’s state of health but we found instead an easier downward route, along Bwlch Main – a ridge on the other side of the quarried valley, down to the flank track from Rhyd Ddu, whence back to the Cwm Llan, and a feeling of a job well done.
I may have to revisit, this time with a camera, to see what has been done to the route. It was fascinating as a side of the mountain not so frequently seen, and to encounter just one other walker, and that on the Bwlch Main path, is unique in my experience of Snowdon.
Maps
The best maps for Snowdon are of course the Ordnance Survey maps; the ‘Explorer’ at 1:25 000 and the ‘Landranger’ at 1:50 000:
It was many years ago. I was tired and still soaking wet from the best storm that Antrim could render. I sat on a hillside and admitted to my walking companion that this was a tough walk largely because I had glossed over inconvenient bits in the planning. Still, I can look back at days of 12 hours’ or 13 hours’ walking a day in the hills as an achievement. What I did not notice is that the hill in question was Trostan, the highest hill in County Antrim, and passing over its shoulder I missed by a hundred yards or so the opportunity to top it.
The walk had began being dropped off at the spectacle that is the Sallagh Braes, then over the thistle-clad hill tops northward, ultimately to reach the Giant's Causeway four days later.
It was raining in Carnlough and dull – though I have since been there in glorious sunshine and realise what I missed. Maybe Carnlough and the walk over the top to Glenariff are for another post. The next morning from the top of that wonderful glen we followed up a track on the Moyle Way, high above the glen, by this time soaked to the skin and begging internally for a better day than the last. There was a hill, a fine hill, a hill that seemed to know its place in the landscape – Trostan. The path led up and over the shoulder of the hill, close to the summit but not to it. By this time, realising my timings were completely out, it was just a question of putting one foot in front of another and bashing through the day, with no thought to exploration or taking pictures or tapping the top of a trig pillar, and so we went on.
It was later when compiling a list of county tops, I realised that Trostan is the highest hill of the Antrim Hills and the county top of County Antrim – and I had missed it. In my defence, I was not at that time interested in county tops, and had no thought to dashing round topping as many as possible as I have done since, but it itches at the back of my head that I missed a county top I could have bagged, had I but known.
When I was back in Antrim a few years ago we drove along the coast road and as we came near, my eyes involuntarily started plotting routes, but we had a B&B booked and the walking boots were deep in the packing, and it passed us by. I only did two county tops that holiday (Down and Armagh). I can at least note Trostan as “nearly done”, and look for an opportunity when next passing to hare up to the summit and bash that trig point.
Devon is a place I could wander forever. The vast extent of the high moorland of Dartmoor is both beautiful and fearsome, inviting and forbidding: when the sun is out, there is little better than the freedom to wander at will on what looks like an unbounded landscape; but when the icy wind cuts to the bone or the cloud descends on the hill, there is no shelter.
It was a few years ago that I climbed the highest hills on the moor, Yes Tor and High Willhays, two neighbouring peaks, the latter being also Devon’s county top.
It is a modest walk – just 7 miles – mainly involving climbing (even the precipitous descent seemed to be climbing) but well worth it for the views, the location, and for bagging another county top. It did not finish where I started, and would not change the distance much to do so.
The walk is within the army’s Dartmoor live firing ranges, so you will need to check the range timetable before setting out: there is a link below.
The Meldon Reservoir
The walk
I started at the Meldon Reservoir – a beautifully calming stretch of water, and while as a reservoir it may be manmade, it lies in a natural valley, and the water falls from the heavens as to any normal lake, so it can count as one, apart from the dam, which is the first and almost last artificial thing to cross.
A path leads up from the dam, winding up the slope of Yes Tor. The hill rising above looks forbidding, but on a sunny day (I was blessed with a sunny day) it is an invitation.
An inhabitant of Dartmoor
In the days before exact, scientific surveys, Yes Tor was believed to be the highest point on the moor, and in the county. It is certainly the more prominent one to the eye from the nearest villages. (There has been this confusion on Dartmoor, perhaps understandably for want of anywhere to stand to measure the hills other than by the impression of the eyes: until the early nineteenth century Cosdon Hill (1,804 feet) was thought to be the highest on Dartmoor, because it looks prominent from a reachable village; then the crown moved to Yes Tor, until someone thought to count the hill hidden behind it; High Willhays.)
It is a straight haul up Yes Tor to its rocky outcrop. The views from here are broad in all directions. It looks to the north beyond the bounds of Dartmoor to the rolling hills in the middle of Devon, and westwards to Cornwall across the Tamar Valley. Closer to, to the north-west, is the reservoir and to the north of it a peculiar viaduct apparently to nowhere. The map shows it to carry the old line of the Dartmoor Railway over the West Okement River but no further. (It now serves a quarry, but apparently the line does not cross the viaduct these days.)
The top of Yes Tor is at 2,029 feet above sea level. From here I turned south, down the little saddle separating Yes Tor from its neighbour, High Willhays, which is just ten feet higher. On the saddle my sense of remoteness was knocked a bit by seeing a track running up to the saddle from the east, and a Land Rover parked a little way down it: this place though is within the army’s firing range and access has been driven to it.
The summit of High Willhays stands at 2,039 feet above sea level. It is marked with several rocky outcrops, and it is hard to see by eye which is the highest, so I clambered up each of the tallest. I was not alone; one chap had hauled not only himself but also a ham radio set and a small dog up to the summit (to make a broadcast, he explained, from the top of each ‘Marilyn’ hill).
From here, the views to the south and east broaden across the sweep of Dartmoor, to Great Kneeset prominent at the centre of the moor, and many more around. Below the hill westwards is the deep valley of the West Okement, into which I had to descend later, with stands of woodland amid the bare moorland. To the south is top after top of the peculiar hills of the moor.
The descent from High Willhays looks simple on an Ordnance Survey map (as below). In practice, the valley of the Brim Brook does its best to imitate the West Okement, and the West Okement itself extends with few distinguishing points and is misleading. It takes careful compass work not to end up walking miles in the wrong direction (which did happen to a friend of mine who did the same walk a few months after me but without the aid of a compass).
It is steep and trackless off the tor, plunging down over broken ground into the valley. Sturdy boots are needed or a twisted ankle is promised. Eventually in the bottom of the valley I could track northwards to a little below the head of the reservoir, where there is a ford and a track to the west up and over the shoulder of the Sourton Tors (though I took a lower path, a little less direct).
The Two Castles Trail and the West Devon Way share a route along the lower hills here, though I went to the track of the old Dartmoor railway, which has been converted into a footpath and a trail known as the Granite Way. A little way down here, and I came to my finishing point at Sourton (home to Devon’s weirdest pub, incidentally).
One more county top done, and it was all good warming up for the next challenge….
The British Antarctic Survey has just announced today that they have remeasured the mountains of Palmer Land and they are higher than we thought. More than that: the highest mountain in the British Antarctic Territory is actually Mount Hope, not Mount Jackson as we always thought.
We have been getting it wrong all this time the about the territory top. I feel sorry for the BAT team who reached the summit on 23 November 1964, thinking they had reached the highest point in the British domains. Will their children now be kitting up to scale the new top?
I know this is a bit further than most mountain walkers will go, but it is a British mountain, an impressive part of the Further Wild. Mount Hope rises to 10,626 feet, two and a half times the height of Ben Nevis, wind-scoured and ice-bound: beyond the reach of the everyday hiker. Still, as Sir Ranulph said, there is no bad weather, just inappropriate clothing.
I have listed the county tops of the United Kingdom, but what of the territory tops? It may have to be the next endeavour to wander the heights East Caicos and Cayman Brac, but the BAT? Not this year.
