WILD WEST WALES
I CAN TASTE THE DRIZZLE on my lips. Low mist swirls and there’s a foreboding stillness in the air. The high-pitched bleating of a feral goat cuts through the silence, its tone sinister. Is disaster around the corner? I’m blocked by impenetrable craggy walls, choked by a sea of boulders, entangled by knee-deep heather. The only way out is a plunging gully of scree. This is the roughness of the Rhinogs I came for.
Slightly unnerved, I ride the river of shifting stones down Rhinog Fawr’s southern slopes. The world below my feet is transient and volatile. Every step triggers a rocky avalanche, as if a rug is being pulled from underneath me, and it takes all my hill nous not to hit the deck or jar an ankle. Am I mastering the scree or is the scree controlling me? Like a twig in a fast-flowing stream,
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