Dolgellau, grey of buildings, grey as town
with quaintness in its narrow streets,
St. Mary’s Church, tower standing over all,
stone ancient guard for shops and square,
including leafy covered inn, the “Royal Ship”,
hotel whose better days have slipped
away, and cries for some refurbishment,
but still can comfort give to those who stay,
like us, hill climbing aims in mind.
With skies a piebald cloud-and-blue,
along and up a lane we went,
by spirit of desire that grew
for climbing Cader Idris sent:
towards Llyn Gwernan trudging drew,
ignored its hotels’ hoppy ales
since car park lay ahead we knew
where the ascending stone track hails
to welcome climbers’ ready tread,
then beckoned upward, steeply led:
so there we came
beneath dark Cader’s heavy wrath
that we must tame
now we’d embarked on well-worn path
beside a farm,
below the sun-glanced leaves of trees
by dancing balm
of stream that carved the sloping leas:
on first ascent,
in gentleness before the graft,
we quickly went
as Cader’s cliff face mocking laughed
in disbelief
that we possessed the vital strength,
so come to grief
before we reach his summit’s length:
but undeterred
onward we pressed,
each pebbly cairn
was swift addressed,
by stony track,
by blackened bogs,
our robust feet
and muscle cogs
advanced us irrepressibly towards
the boulder crop,
until we came to Cader Idris height
and proudest top,
the world of hill and lake below our feet
to distant sea,
a place where mount to walkers’ strong resolve
must bow the knee,
until, once done our moment’s reign,
returned we down the path again
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