12:15pm. The shape of the summit was just about visible in the cloud. My legs pounded as each foot arched onto the next step towards the top. This was the bit where all the paths collide, and it was surprisingly busy.
People came down, wet hair and saturated gear. People, like me, stumbled up the last unmissable stretch. It was almost solid in either direction.
“Oh I do hope the cafe’s open,” said a lady in a northern accent. I wondered exactly what she might be picturing.
The summit itself is a bit of a plateau, with a cairn of stones piled into a central high point of the peak. On the top is a trigpoint, showing you the direction to look to see landmarks of Snowdonia, the sea, the Isle of Man, even Scotland.
Or, if you like, a massive selfie platform.
I saw the cairn emerge from the fog as I approached, and the crowd of walkers slowed to a sort of reverential halt.
There it was, the top of Snowdon: we had made it, all of us: young, old, fit, unfit, trekking poles, plastic rainmac, sopping hats and fleeces and rucksacks and boots. And what nobody had expected on this most British of adventures, was a queue. But there we were.
Yep. There were so many people up there that they’d quite naturally formed a queue to go up to the trigpoint.
I wondered what to do for a moment. My colleagues were all behind me, and I knew they’d arrive at different times. The chances of us all going up together were slim. And anyway, slowing down to a stop to think it over had resulted in (you guessed it) me being part of the queue anyway.
“Would you look at those people,” muttered the Northern lady. “Pushing in.”
A smaller group were clambering up the down steps to bypass the queue. It wasn’t popular where I was standing. Plus it looked a little dangerous.
By this point, it was cold, wet, and windy. I’d taken my specs off because I could see better without them, and all around us the wind roared from the thick white fog. The cairn of stones with its up queue and its down queue was being buffeted by that freezing wind, and all the selfie-takers were struggling to stand up, their shiny waterproofs billowing in the breeze. Navigating down the down steps would be a challenge enough, without passing a bunch of queue-jumpers on the way up.
“Bit rude in’t it?” she said. I nodded in agreement.
It was just as she’d finished saying it, that I happened to look up and see Tim and Robert happily taking selfies on the trigpoint.
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12:50pm. I made it. I’ve got to be honest, the golden disc of directions wasn’t entirely helpful on the day. The Isle of Man? Cloud. Scotland? White cloud. The sea? Cloud. Snowdonia? Cloud. The rest of the queue? Cloud. There was no danger of vertigo up there; we were surrounded by white cloud.
My phone was wet but I did manage a selfie of me looking grumpy about the take-photo button not working properly. Then I put both hands on the trigpoint and prayed for Wales. The party of people around me did the same it seemed; there were suddenly several pairs of gloves around the disc. I found myself wondering whether angels need gloves and whether it could just be that... but I wasn’t brave enough to ask any of them.
“Right,” I said to myself. “Time to find the warm.”
And so I did. I tottered down the down steps, and headed for the café, Though I’ll be honest, the word café doesn’t quite do the job in describing the next scene...
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