Walking the Welsh hills? Take care you’re not forced to spend the night on Yr Wyddfa’s little sister, Cadair Idris.
The diarist and curate, Francis Kilvert found himself here in 1871. A hearty Victorian walker who liked nothing better than ‘villaging about’ in the Welsh border parishes of Hay-on-Wye, the 31-year old had ascended Cadair in fine weather, led by local guide Mr Pugh. But when the weather changed they were forced to shelter in a bothy.
Kilvert worried they might be marooned here, an unenviable situation for, as legend has it, anyone spending a night on Cadair Idris will be found the next day ‘dead, a madman, or a poet gifted with the highest degree of inspiration’.
Old Pugh added to the clergyman’s discomfort assuring him that the fairies used to dance here. But Old Pugh knows his stuff. Having thoroughly frightened the priest, he leads him, as dark descends, safely down the mountain to their hotel in Dolgellau. ‘You’re a splendid walker, Sir,’ Pugh tells Kilvert, a compliment which earns the wily old guide a brandy.
Bill Laws 