On Saturday I decided that a weekend mountain walking in Snowdonia would be the ideal way to fill the weekend. That afternoon I parked up below Clogwynyreryr and set off up the ridge towards Gledrffordd and then Foel Grach. Already well above the cloud, I carried on over Carnedd Llewelyn, as much wading through the melting slush as walking. At 1064m, Llewelyn is only a few metres below Snowdon in height, but a thousand miles away in terms of remoteness! Very careful navigating brought me onto the Bwlch Eryl Farchog ridge. Picking a precarious route down the ridge, the clouds suddenly lifted, like flicking a light-switch taking the exposure factor through the roof! There's no path marked on Pen yr Helgi Du on my map, but clearly those before me had managed to pick a way up the ridge and onto the summit.

Feeling more relaxed, now that the scrambling was in the correct direction, with the drop safely out of sight behind me, I was absolutely thrilled. At the top of a long walk up, you're rewarded with a great little easy scramble to carry on along the ridge – loads better than another "motorway" footpath to the summit, and a pleasure to pick your way up. I switched off as I carried on over the saddle, and twenty minutes later was cursing myself for not having paid proper attention. Convinced that I'd stumbled upon a rare magnetic-inversion, I couldn't quite bring myself to believe what I was seeing, but the facts were there. Happily wandering along in the mist onto Pen Llithrig y Wrach, I'd managed to wander off 180 degrees in the wrong direction past the summit. Cursing and chastising myself, I made an embarrasing U-turn (the only four other people I'd seen all day were there to spot it!) and descended back to the car. The horseshoe back to Llyn Eigiau is great. If exposure doesn't bother you, it's a walk and a half.

Sunday's mountain forecast was dreadful, but spirits bouyed by the superb scrambling of the previous day, I decided to try and sneak up Snowdon from Gwynant. Keen to avoid the paths, I struck off to the east, and by 10.30 I was on the ridge of Gallt y Wenallt. An RAF Sea-King was flitting around over Grib Goch (back in the office now, I discover that the man who fell is fine):

Snow and wicked winds. In good weather, you'd see down over my shoulder to Llyn Llydaw.

Although the cloud was up above 800m, as I crossed Y Lliwedd the wind and snow were almost unbearable – horizontally driven snowflakes to the face felt more like looking down the barrel of a sandblaster. By the time I reached the top of Watkin's I'd decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and keen to get out of the wind before the snowflakes actually drew blood, I descended.