I knew I would fall in love with Snowdonia as soon as I started reading Eric Newby's A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush while on a holiday in India 11 years ago. Yes, I know that sounds rather incongruous, inappropriate and highly unlikely but I remember the epiphanic moment vividly.
It was around three in the afternoon and I was nursing my third or fourth chilled Cobra lager, lounging by the swimming pool of a deliciously-faded colonial hotel in sun-scorched Rhajastan with my new fiancée at my side. The temperature was somewhere in the nineties and monkeys chattered impudently in the trees above. Life was free, easy, careless and shoeless.
And where was my head? In rain-sodden North Wales that's where, fantasising about yomping my boots through the mud trails around the Glyders and Tryfan with a bitter wind lashing against my Gore-tex and chilly grand cru-quality air coursing through my panting lungs.
For those of you who haven't read it, the 1958 travel classic is a quietly hilarious account of a haphazardly-arranged, thoroughly ill-advised trip to Nuristan undertaken by Newby, a bored dressmaker (it is the only travel book I've ever read that thanks the Afghan government, Wilfred Thesiger and Vogue in its acknowledgments), and Hugh Carless, a Foreign Serviceman, who decide, on a whim, to take on the unchartered peaks and troughs of inhospitable Afghanistan.
I remember how I quickly became charmed and engrossed by the pair's reckless, impulsive, Boy's Own-ish attitude and their roaring, ruddy-faced Britishness, which seemed at its most foolhardy during their meagre, half-day of preparation in the Caernarvonshire mountains, with the fabled Pen Y Gwryd Hotel, at the foot of Snowdon, as their base camp.
"The first thing that confronted us when we entered the hotel was a door on the left. On it was written EVEREST ROOM," wrote Newby. "Inside was the facsimile of an Alpine hut done out in pine wood with massive benches around the walls. On every side was evidence of the presence of the great ones of the mountain world. Their belongings in the shape of ropes, rucksacks, favourite jackets, boots, were everywhere, ready for the off. It was not just a museum. It was more like the royal enclosure. Sir John and Sir Edmund might appear at any moment. They were probably on the premises."
What a great place, I said to myself as I read, stirred by the thought of this rugged mountaineering HQ, not in the Alps, Himalayas or Pyrenees, mind, but in North Wales, just a few miles south of Liverpool. I wondered if it was still there as I ordered another beer, let the book fall and settled down for a snooze, planning my first trip to Snowdonia.
Well, I am delighted to tell you that it most certainly is and except for the addition of a few more rooms here and there (a games room, which remains largely unused, and a mini sauna out back) very little has changed at the Pen Y Gwryd since Newby's stay almost half a century ago back in 1956.
Indeed, the hotel's reputation as a climbers' Mecca has actually grown. Fires burn bright in the Everest Room, where visiting, vertically-inclined dignitaries and hardy athletes alike, including Tenzing Norgay, Sir Edmund Hillary, Sir Chris Bonington, Chris Brasher, Sir Roger Bannister, Newby and, for some reason unknown to anyone, Bertrand Russell, have autographed the ceiling.
Agricultural-looking, hobnail climbing boots, gnarled and scarred by prolonged trail-bashing dangle from the ceiling, like so many mackerel waiting to be smoked, shards of Everest summit rock hang in frames above over the fireplace, ropes, maps, photos and glass cases full of low-tech, high-altitude breathing gear occupy every nook and corner. Imagine a remote branch of Planet Hollywood curated by the buffers at the Royal Geographical Society and you'll start to get the picture. Many of these macho souvenirs were added after 1953 by members of the triumphant Everest expedition, who had used the Pen Y Gwryd (or just "PYG", as we climbers call it) as their station for vital practice work. Naturally, the announcement of the successful mission at four minutes past one on June 2 1953 (Coronation Day) caused great excitement at the hotel.
On receiving the exciting news, the then proprietor of the PYG, Chris Briggs, a respected climber himself, went round banging on the doors of all the rooms and woke everyone up to drink a toast to the heroes. Anyone who was not down in five minutes, he said, would have to leave before breakfast. After an intensively intoxicating celebration, a party of six set off from the hotel at 1.30am to climb Snowdon.
Now, no one would advise such silly behaviour these days, but the fact that these tipsy adventurers found their way to even to the foot of the mountain without getting lost en route does illustrate how perfectly positioned this national treasure of inn is for walking the staggeringly beautiful Snowdonia area.
You can leave your car keys in your room because the summits of Moel Siabod and Cnicht, and a hike around Capel Curig are within easy reach, while the famed eight-mile-long Snowdon Horseshoe, with its knife-edge traverse of Crib Goch, which can rightly claim to be one of the most exciting "hands out of pockets" scrambles and ridge walks in Europe, is a thoroughly rousing way to spend a day on the mountain and it's just up the road.
But you should not feel compelled to seduction by numbers. Snowdon might be Wales's highest mountain but it can also be an ugly experience, littered with day-trippers in Newcastle United football shirts and muddied trainers who take the juddering train up the back of the mountain, sink a few pints at the summit café building (which is a disgrace by the way, with all the charm of a Warsaw motorway service station) and then skulk around in the mist waiting for the next train down. Don't they know that there are serious climbers at work here?
On my third visit a few weeks ago, I avoided Snowdon altogether and climbed the brawny but brutally beautiful Cadair Idris, 40 miles away, near Dollgellau. I lucked out with a perfect day; clear, warm conditions and the kind of views that jet-wash your spirit and jump-start your life force.
The day after, snubbing Snowdon again, I made an attempt on the Glyders, a much less popular, much more hard-core route just behind the Pen Y Gwryd. This alluringly bleak, bristly trio of peaks and buttresses was shrouded in drizzle and mist but still utterly enthralling. And dangerous.
Do not, what ever you do, underestimate the Welsh mountains. They may be molehills when compared in height with the mighty Alps, but believe me, they are every bit as challenging, hazardous, uplifting, inspiring and intoxicating as anything you'll find around Chamonix or Zermatt.
With legs aching, socks damp and energy levels fully sapped, it was good to know that I had the glowing fires of the PYG to go home to. Predating the boutique hotel concept by a good 130 years (there's been an inn on the site since the mid 19th century), its brazen lack of Shrager-esque facilities and delightfully brusque brand of hospitality hold a certain charm to blasé, over-serviced urbanites like me.
The Aman Puri it certainly isn't. There's a buttock-clenchingly cold rock-pool at the back, while rooms are clean but, well, er... traditional. None have phones or TVs while only a handful boast en suite loos or baths, (much better to use the shared magnificent Victorian bathrooms anyway) and are named after local peaks "y Elen", "Pen Yr Ole Wen", "y Garn" etc. This creative use of the local dialect has caused a bit of confusion in the past. A disorientated, fit-to-burst Lancashire girl was once confronted while roaming the corridors "Eh, lass," she said to the landlord's wife. "Which of these means lavatory?"
Even meal times, when basic but hearty fayre is served at the bang of a gong, can be entertainingly austere. A Canadian friend of mine who had once attempted Everest and has earned a living as a hot-dog ski guide in the Alps for the past 15 years, once entered the dining room for breakfast wearing a baseball cap. The barked admonishment from Mrs Pullee, the aforementioned Chris Briggs's daughter, who runs the hotel, was swift and loud. "No hats in the dining room!"
My mate looked up and grinned confidently, in a sort of "yeah, right" kind of way and sat down, hat still on. "No hats in the dining room!" said the voice again. She was serious.
This time, he bared his head obediently and sat there like a scolded schoolboy as his fried breakfast was served in silence.
It didn't put him off the Pen Y Gwyrd. He later told me he thought the hotel was "awesome".
Way to go
Pen Y Gwryd Hotel, Nant Gwynant, Gwynedd, North Wales (01286 870211, pyg.co.uk) has 15 double rooms starting from £24 per person, per night.
Getting there: The PYG is situated at the junction of the A498 and A4086. The nearest main railway station is Bangor. For national rail enquiries, call 0845 7484950.There are hourly buses from Bangor to Llanberis. A taxi costs around £20.
