There’s a saying in Welsh mythology that if you spend a night on top of Cadair Idris, South Snowdonia, you wake up as either a madman or a poet. I lived in Wales for the best part of four years, and for whatever reason never got round to it. Always had an excuse of some kind. So this time, I literally set an alarm, with the promise to myself that whatever kit I had in the bag, when the alarm went off I was going to just shut the bag, get in the car and go. An amazing feeling of freedom doing that. You’ll be surprised by how little you actually need to carry with you.

I finally went and did it. Wild camped on its summit. The ultimate question is, which one did I become? Well, the answer is not so straightforward as that. You see, you could argue I was mad in the first place to bother hiking up at midnight to its trig point. Even more crackers to pitch a one person tent and ‘sleep’ (shiver) for about 3 hours until the first glimmer of dawn. But to be fully crazy? Well, you’ve got to spend a night on Cadair Idris…

Poet? Well, I’ve loved a well-written line or two since I was at school, and have made loads of song lyrics etc so I guess you could call me a poet well before I even set foot on the mountain side. But was I full and ‘proper’ poet? Not until I had spent a night on Cadair Idris.

The ascent, past Llyn Cau, was fully in the cloud, with compass out, taking bearings. Proper ML stuff had I been with clients. But I was on my own, and as an added bonus, not a soul in the world knew where I was. In my mind I was already at the top, impatient to get there, but at the same time feeling more overwhelmed than usual by the atmospheric surroundings. The mountains at night can feel vast.

I had almost given up hope of seeing the moon or the stars when I hiked the final steps to the trig point. But then, as if by some kind of universal nod of approval at my efforts to lose my sanity, the moon suddenly appeared above a couple of thin bands of cloud. Its light gave just the faintest hint of a huge cloud inversion, a tantalising glimpse of the morning show to come.

I pitched and shivered. Usual stuff. I’ve never been warm when camping. Yeah yeah, I hear you; get better sleeping bags, get better layers, get this, get that. Believe me, I’ve tried. I wild camp cold and that’s that. I dread the winter. Wild camping in winter – that’s proper mad.

What’s that, you want a poem too, do you? Well, here it is, written by Llyn Cau (that’s a lake, not a random girl’s name) at the base of the mountain before you take the summit ridgeline:

”I stand shivering at the summit trig

Penygadair via Yr Wyddgrug

I watch the full moon rise

Into the starry skies

A million mountains high.

The saying goes that for those

Who stay one night here

Will become either madmen or poets;

Have I anything to fear?

Am I a madman or a poet here?

Both of these and none.

I wake to find the sun is up and the moon and stars are gone.”

In conclusion, I judge that if you’re reading this and you have yet to spend a night on a mountain to see the sunrise, then you’re either very busy writing poetry or you’re the mad one, not me! Check out my short YouTube video below to see what you’re missing…