I’ve been eyeing up this jagged rock edge all week. From my home away from home, I can see it from the windows, looming darkly on the brow of the hill. The storms of the last few days have passed, lingering only as a fierce wind that should dry the rock nicely.
I’ve never been to Carn Ffoi before, but I’ve always wanted to explore those broken tors that dot the hills of Carningli Common. Below them, the sandy Trefdraeth bay opens its arms to the Irish sea and its changing tempers, and the gorse, still singed from last year’s fires, gives way to scrub and close-cropped grass. The view of the endless, rugged coast will be special.
As I shoulder my bouldering pad, it catches the wind like a jib. I’ve left my phone behind, and the small booklet of climbs I brought instead, with its hand-drawn climbing routes, is indecipherable. Mostly we climbers go out to repeat the feats of others, but without this foreknowledge, I find myself rootling around in the bracken for rocks.
I look for a possible path – a pure line – up my chosen boulder, and find a contender on the lee side. I warm up my fingers, exploring the surface of the overhanging block, pulling this way and that, climbing it in my mind.
Nestled under the roof among the ferns, I pull on and reach the edge. It’s sharp. The geology here is volcanic, rough as old bark. I move another hand and make my body rigid, then hook a foot into a dark crevice, hands reaching up to the light. Tiring arms tell me it’s time to go – body swinging, I throw a leg up high to heave myself over, grunting, to the top.
I lie awhile, basking, catching my breath. There’s a light haze and I can see for miles out to sea, where small fishing boats are braving the wind. To the west, a brother tor, Carn Enoch, watches over Dinas Cross.
As I leave, I stumble upon another sun lover: a pale (male) adder, fresh from its moult, minding its business on a stone of its own. We regard each other a second, before we both slither off.
