I’M AT PEN-Y-GWRYD, a pass in the southern foothills of Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon), and I can’t see a thing. The winter cloud hangs so close that I feel I’m ducking under it as I plod the wet tarmac towards the hotel – a refuge for climbers since 1810, when someone knocked on the door of John Roberts’ farmhouse and asked for something to eat.
A rescue helicopter throbs overhead, appearing briefly before heading towards Nant Gwryd below me. I can barely see
