Island and Lifelines

MAWDDACH ESTUARY JOURNEY JUNE 2008

First base

I felt guilty about the Mawddach estuary. I had been around and across it, climbed Cadair Idris to the south of it and the Rhinogs to the north; but I had never made time to stay still and absorb its dramatic and mesmerising beauty. So this was a trip to make my peace with the area and pay it due homage.

I set off with the ambition of camping with a view and direct access to the tidal sands. The OS map steered me towards the southern shores and a camping symbol close to the water, just along from Arthog village. This was Graig Wen.

I had, by a combination of luck and judgement found the perfect base for my short venture. Graig Wen has some high quality b and b accommodation, a large cottage to let, two well-equipped yurts, caravan pitches and acres of camping space on three levels. The upper area is flat, as the head of old slate workings usually are, with three or four inches of grassy soil to take tent pegs at an oblique angle. Facilities are simple but very clean and well cared for. It has magnificent views to the estuary and the mountains. The middle camping area can be reached by car down a steep track. There are three meadows, all sloping, with walls and woodland as buffers against those occasional, gentle Welsh winds. Below, accessible only on foot, is another angled field dropping between luxuriant woods to the estuary itself. So the truly extended family group could lodge grandparents in luxury, parents in their motorhome or canvas palace with the children, young lovers in a yurt, and teenage adventurers camping wild by the sea.

I kept it simple. Just myself in the well-tested Wild Country tent on the upper storey with a panoramic view. The weather was kinder than I expected, better than the forecasts, still cool but with lots of sunny spells and just one serious downpour - at night. The only close company (50 metres) was a couple with a baby. Daddy set about constructing a canvas cathedral (for the first time) with a lofty nave and large side chapels. It took him over two hours. The valley echoed long to the sound of hammering as pegs crunched into the unforgiving slate base, but he was admirable patient and tenacious.

The site owners, Sarah and John arrived here only months ago and are very welcoming. They delight in their new environment and the amazing variety of the site and the visions of the estuary. Unlike so many campsite managers they contrive to be accessible but never intrusive. Brilliant. (www.graigwen.co.uk).

First Steps

The Mawddach is a delightful torture for the aspiring photographer. I have never taken so many images in just three days. The changes of the tide, the shifting patterns and clarity of the light, the shapely mountain tops and richly wooded lower slopes, and little events in the realm of wildlife are mesmerising. The panorama is vast but at every level and turn an intimate beauty emerges.

June light and a stirring dawn chorus woke me early each morning. A junior tawny owl had anyway piped through the hours of darkness from its woodland hideout. I relished breakfast in crisp, cold air, perched above the already familiar estuary and set off through the site on to the reclaimed railway track, now a cycle way, that skirts the tide line. One morning I strolled east, the next to the west.

Apart from the occasional cyclist or jogger my only company was the birdlife. The tide was low so the larger numbers were way out on the sandbanks but nearby I became closely acquainted with a pair of sandpiper, several heron in active hunting mode, shelduck and hosts of tits, finches, thrush, wrens and swallows, among others. The eye, and the camera, are drawn to the fabulous railway viaduct across the mouth of the estuary between Fairbourne and Barmouth. A child’s train edges slowly over the line, improbably managing to cling on.

The custodians of this exquisite environment have planted some elegantly simple picnic tables and benches at inviting points along the trail. I began to wonder if I really wanted to explore anywhere else at all. Perhaps Graig Wen and its shoreline would be enough. But my sights were set on some wider exploration, so I meandered back to my little tent and, like Toad, took to the open road.

Beauty and the Beast

For old times’ sake I decided to take the coast road, via Barmouth and Harlech, to Porthmadog. Barmouth perches tightly on the cliffs above the north west limit of the estuary, leaving too little room for conventional traffic. Its sinuous main road was heaving even in June. Coaches were out on trial runs for high season and road repair lorries chugged along in convoy, servicing some major excavations along the coast road. I had time to admire the eccentrically titled ‘Skinny Buddha’ fashion jewellery emporium and to glimpse the ‘Kiss-me-Quick’ attractions of the town.

Before long Harlech Castle reared up above the road. Even now I find it hard to comprehend that waves once lapped against the outer walls of Harlech, but the evidence is unmistakable. It is sad that the coastal plain hereabouts has been put to such tawdry use. Caravans are the main crop, with associated infrastructure. Cast your eyes to the north however and the magical profiles of Snowdonia and the Lleyn are captivating. Here is a dangerous stretch of road, quite narrow and winding, with distracting mountain scenery across the whole line of vision. Best to be a passenger here. Perhaps those coaches have the advantage on the A496 after all.

My target was the RSPB Osprey venture east from Tremadoc. The viewing site comprises a few portacabins in a field with two hides and some tables all facing north east. The webcam screen was showing a recording from earlier in the day of three lively chicks on the nest being fed endlessly by the female parent – a beautiful image. The problem is that the viewing site is about 2k distant from the nest so that even through the high quality scopes in the hide only the tree tops can be seen, not their famed occupants. However the RSPB has to be congratulated on its successes over several years in protecting the osprey nests. The pattern seems to be that three chicks hatch and, for two or three months, thrive. One then succumbs either to disease, predation or just being unable to compete with its siblings for food. But two out of three is good going.

I was tempted by wonderful views of Cnicht to commit the rest of my day to a mountain walk. But this would have meant abandoning other little projects. So I turned my back for a time on the beauties of the mountains and rare birds for the uncompromising bleakness of Trawsfynydd Nuclear Power Station. It ceased generating electricity a few years ago and is now in the scarily protracted business of decommissioning, which will take until the end of the century. To judge from the traffic in the car park this is big business and still good for local employment. These places seem to cost as much to de-commission as they did to build and operate. The visitor centre has been closed, presumably through lack of demand. The plan is to reduce the height and scale of the buildings by safe stages and to landscape the whole site. With your back turned on the former power station you have a scintillating tableau of islands and headlands across the Lake itself, south towards the Rhinog hills.

Even the most impassioned advocate of nuclear power must surely take pause when they contemplate such places. It is not the cost of building the stations, nor the still imperfect science of operating them, nor their impact on the landscape that is disturbing. Rather it is the processing and storage of the contaminated fuel sources and the initial decommissioning lasting a century. Every station mortgages the future of several generations, just as we are peering into the uncertain abyss of climate change. Will our grandchildren have the disposable resources to manage these decaying sites for ever? Will they feel safer than we do from the threat of terrorism in such places? Will they wonder why the abundant water that flows fast down the nearby mountains was not better harnessed to drive smaller turbines for their communities?

I thought I knew the basics of the nuclear power debate before this visit; but Trawsfynydd chilled me in a way I had not expected. The contrast between this huge concrete installation and its green, peaceful surroundings is stark enough. But I found the sense that this place will be a lurking, menacing presence for at least another three generations, producing nothing, just decaying at geological speed, along with its sister stations elsewhere, newly terrifying.

Dolgellau

The road south to Dolgellau offers necessary therapy, as it sweeps through imposing forests with the craggy Rhinogs benign and inviting to the west.

I spent an hour in the town which services a large hinterland. Apart from Boots the shops are predominantly local and independent. Both the hardware store and the butchers were excellent. I had already twice walked past a large, almost empty shop front which appeared to be an old-style corn merchant-cum-hardware establishment. Only when I paused did I realise it has become a coffee house. Too good a moment to miss. This is a huge hall with lofty ceilings and the merchant’s serving desk and wooden fittings running along most of the right hand side. A stage set for Ronnie Barker? To the left is a run of desks set up with an internet link, chess and backgammon boards, unused just now but imagine a wet day in high season. The service, the coffee and accompaniments, and the ambience put many a flash city chain store to shame. They strike a distinct blow for Welsh hospitality.

Dolgellau is blessed with a complicated, effective, series of outer roads, designed by a mountaineer rope knot expert, I suspect, which carry traffic away from the centre. Unfortunately it all takes some research to grasp, so that even after three days I was still approaching the junctions without confidence or any overall sense of direction.

The Mouth of the Mawddach

The railway halt at Morfa Mawddach on the south side of the mouth of the estuary has a well screened and ample car park which gives easy access to the footpath over the viaduct and to the shore side trail back towards Arthog. The viaduct, which stretches for a kilometre over the estuary, was built in 1867 with a wooden ‘drawbridge’ over the navigable channel, which was replaced in 1899 by the current steel swing bridge. It consists of 113 spans mounted on 500 timber piles. From the outset the viaduct justifiably became a tourist attraction. It has been earmarked for closure on several occasions but has survived the threats of the rail authorities and the humble but voracious teredo worm which laid siege to the timbers in the 1970s. Seeing the viaduct at close quarters was special but the distant views of it from all angles around the estuary are simply magical.

I wandered across the bridge and then clambered down onto the rocky ridge that defines the southern edge of the estuary for the moderate tides. The rocks belonged to a pair of ringed plover who skipped to and fro keeping a close eye on their giant intruder sitting bemused by their antics. The rocks lead to a low outcrop clothed in grass and trees. I joined a path that curled around the headland and revealed a terrace of houses transposed surely from some city suburb. This visual shock drove me to study the map again. The terrace is known as the Mawddach Crescent (though I detected only the slightest curve) and was built just after 1900 as the first (and happily the last) step towards creating a new Llandudno. The location, on a ledge part way across the estuary, is improbable and did indeed prove too waterlogged for expansion. The visionary was a self-made businessman, Solomon Andrews.

I retreated on a track along the edge of the salt marsh, occupied by some forlorn, listless sheep. The shrubs and trees on the landward side resonated with competitive birdsong. My progress back to Morfa Mawddach was negligible. There were so many places to halt, listen and search the scene through 360 degrees. The viaduct, the incoming tide and the ever changing light east along the estuary each commanded attention.

Llynnau Cregennan

To the south of the estuary the land rises steeply and in great disorder towards the towering cliffs of Cadair Idris. It is magnificent, rugged country full of surprises. I chose to take the narrow, twisting, gated road up (and up) to the twin lakes at Cregenau. The car park here is extensive. How traffic is managed on that tiny road on a bank holiday I hope never to find out. The area is owned by the National Trust and the lakes form part of the water supply for the region. The lofty plateau which holds the two lakes was an area of extensive Neolithic settlement.

The NT information board pointed out a view point beside the lake. It took me a few moments to orientate myself but the only, and very obvious, vantage point was a sharply pointed outcrop about 120 metres above the water. The route was more challenging than most NT tourist footpaths; a choice of two steep gullies, (only about 8 metres high), presented itself below the top of this little crag. The views from there were extraordinary, almost as if airborne. The tiny viaduct stretched across the child’s model of the great estuary, with the Fairborne and Barmouth toytowns at either edge. This eagle’s view of the estuary sands, the tiny settlements along the north shore and the mountains beyond was almost as compelling. When bored of these two, look south towards the imposing broken face of Cadair Idris, its skyline ridge stretching forever. The dark, near-circular lakes themselves provide a tranquil contrast to all this grand drama. It is a sublime perch, especially alone in late afternoon sunshine.

Graig Wen background

The story of the John and Sarah’ arrival at Graig Wen seems worth recounting especially as a caution and inspiration for any brave souls who are contemplating the acquisition of a campsite. It took huge determination and patience to achieve their dream. Late in 2006 they sold their property in Brighton and left their jobs to set off for life in a motorhome searching the whole of GB for the right site to buy. They knew already that campsites tend to be sold without advertisement and quickly because the number of serious potential buyers greatly outstrips supply. They were employed to run sites in various places from Cornwall to Scotland.

In light of the difficulty of discovering in time when sites were going to be for sale they started contacting campsite proprietors presenting themselves as ready buyers. So a phone call from Graig Wen reached them when they were running a site in the Lake District. The gist of it was that they needed to agree the purchase at once if they were seriously interested. So they left at 3am next morning, reached GW around 9am, fell in love with the place at first sight and set a seal on the purchase that day.

The place is still a massive challenge not just to maintain but to develop to its full potential; but there is something of the fairy tale to all this. There cannot be a better location anywhere in North Wales (or almost anywhere). May they live happily ever after.

Rain and sun

I found it difficult to retreat to my tent in the evenings because I was mesmerised by the views and the changing sights and sounds. However on this second night one of those rare bouts of heavy Welsh rain arrived at about 10pm signalling the end of play for the day. It may not be to everyone’s taste but for me falling asleep reading in a dry tent resonating to the patter of rain is a special delight. Even more so when the next day dawns bright and dry. Do John and Sarah have the weather under control as part of the purchase arrangement?

So for me it was another early morning meander along the estuary, this time to the west. Again I enjoyed the company of a very noisy pair of sandpiper who were very agitated by my presence. A pair of heron, usually so static and stately, were in active mode pursuing fish trapped as the tide fell. Shelduck, wagtail, and an array of smaller birds caught my attention.

The gold amble

For a while the skies thickened and the sun disappeared. It seemed a good moment to follow in the steps of the gold prospectors who swarmed into the hills above Bontddu, on the north side of the estuary, in the mid 1850s. The area had been mined for copper and lead by the Romans and on an organised scale from the 1825 to 1845. In 1854 a chance discovery in a spoil tip triggered a series of gold rushes. Several companies tried and failed to make a business work at Clogau mine (grid ref 673202). A larger scale enterprise, begun in 1898, involving nearly 200 men below ground, marked the peak of production – 18,417 ounces in 1904. Most of the activity involved adits (tunnels) rather than shafts. Fame (or notoriety) has been sustained for Clogau in the intermittent working of the mine during the last century to produce gold for royal wedding rings.

To dispose of your first question: no I did not in my ramblings trip over a nugget of gold sufficient to banish all financial worries, and nor will you. But this is a compelling area to explore, dramatic and melancholy. A path up into the hills starts along the heavily wooded, overgrown valley out of Bontddu along which are some disused sheds and tramways of the mine. (This can be avoided by following a metalled lane, harder on the feet but as densely surrounded by delightful woodland).

Then the real fun begins. Little used tracks wind between and over a cat’s cradle of stone walls, through steep little meadows choked by thick bracken, with some large farm outbuildings teetering on dereliction. I found my first target, the main adit to the lower Clogau mine and its extensive spoil tip, without difficulty.

The tramway into the adit is still traceable. The entrance, solidly gated, is deeply black and forbidding. From the dressing floor on top of the spoil some electricity poles march down the hill along the line of the old mine ropeway.

The main Clogau mine is 120m higher, so it is not a problem to establish an overall line of travel. But the tangle of walls, sheeptracks, shrubs, bracken and boggy soil make for slow and tortuous progress. A prominent ladder-stile across a large wall and a distinctively irregular shape on the high point of the emerging skyline give the game away. First there is an impressively large spoil tip, by another gloomy adit, which does conjure up visions of exciting and life-changing serendipity. Clogau itself lies a steep 30m higher up. The excavations are protected by fences with many warning signs of a figure tumbling upside down with boulders into the dark depths. This is not a zone for the faint hearted. The chasms into the mines are, to cosseted 21^st century views, quite terrifying. The terrain is grassy, and in bright sunshine, dramatically beautiful but there is no mistaking that this was a harsh and unforgiving place to work. I read that at one time the workforce used to gather for the day in Dolgellau and were marched out here together for three hours to start their labours at 8am. If there was glamour in gold, and in trinkets for royalty, these stout hearts shared little of it. Maybe they enjoyed, as I did, watching the rock pipits noisily defending their territory.

Below the mine, near the spoil tip, a wonderful grassy path leads all the way back to the top of the steep valley into Bontddu. This was once the tramway which bore away the riches, and the dross, from Clogau mine. Glorious views to the estuary open up as you descend. These little hills offer an evocative slice of industrial archaeology. I found it quite a disturbing place to explore, perhaps in part because there was no-one else around. Mining for coal, or slate, or working metals like lead and copper had a connecting purpose for the communities that undertook the labour. Gold is a plaything for the wealthy, precious for its beauty and scarcity. It generates greed and madness - read Jack London’s stories of the Klondyke. Somehow this adds for me to the sense of melancholy that hangs over Clogau mine.

Fitting conclusion

A warm afternoon stretched into another evening of impossible beauty and tranquillity over the estuary. I cooked my final Mawddach supper watching the light change and listening to the birds make their peace with each other at the end of another day. As the sun started to slip behind the silhouette of the hills across the sands the temperature dropped like a stone; but I delayed retreating to the tent for another hour or so. It was all too good to leave.

I woke early and determined to enjoy another gentle breakfast on my idyllic ledge above the Mawddach before I started to pack my gear. The weather was again kind. The only disturbance to the peace came from skirmishes between birds and a squirrel at Graig Wen’s bird feeders. I levered the tent pegs from the thin layer of soil above the slate floor and returned my belongings once to the car. As I set off I gave the radio a brief chance to help re-integrate me into the madness of the everyday world. By chance the 6.55am weather report was on, reporting that some parts of mid Wales had experienced a slight frost overnight. So it was not just my imagination.

I always find it difficult to adjust to the solid walls of the house after a spell under canvas. Sometimes of course this feeling is suffused with relief that at last I have left behind the incessant rain, or the tyranny of the midges, or the inadequacy of the washing facilities. At Graig Wen, on this occasion, it was all just too good to be true; except that it was.