There are few better ways to spend a crisp November Friday than stomping up a mountain with a good friend and a slightly unhinged Westie. This week, my good friend Claire was staying with us at Rhosydd Bach, and on Saturday, she was due to tackle the mighty Coast to Coast Winter Ultra—a 37-mile epic that spans the wild Welsh belly of the country. But before she laced up her trail shoes for that madness, we decided on a gentler “warm-up” hike—up to Mynydd Gwaith, one of the glorious peaks that form part of the rivals here on Pen Llyn.

We are very fortunate to be able to call the rivals ‘our backyard’, only a 15-minute drive from Rhosydd Bach, and one of the very few areas of open access here on Pen Llyn, and an area I know quite well.

Now, if you’re thinking “gentle hike” sounds like an exaggeration, you may have a point. Because at the top of this particular peak stands the infamous BT Tower, a mobile phone mast that, while not particularly beautiful in itself, is surrounded by some of the most breathtaking scenery in Wales. And the route up? Well, it includes a section ominously nicknamed “The Steps of Hell.” Naturally, the ultra-runners are required to ascend these as part of their already sadistic race. Claire, being of sound mind,  wanted to recce the terrain beforehand, so off we went—myself, Claire, and Crazy Nell, who is always up for a bit of mud, a few sheep droppings, and the faint chance of snacks.

The path, which forms part of the ultra route, snakes its way up the shoulder of the hill, steadily gaining height and testing our quads. It was one of those rare winter days in Pen Llyn where the skies were clear, the air was still, and the views seemed to stretch halfway to Ireland. Looking west, we could trace “The Spine of Llyn”—a rugged chain of hills and ridges that runs like a vertebra down the peninsula, standing proud above the patchwork fields below. Just below us nestled Nant Gwrtheyrn, the former quarry village turned language centre, cradled in its impossibly steep and magical valley. It’s the sort of place that looks like it belongs in a fantasy novel—somewhere hobbits might hide or druids might gather for a midnight ceilidh.

And then… just as we crested the summit, we spotted them.
A gang of wild goats—at least 18 strong—ambling around the heather and rock as if they owned the place. Which, frankly, they probably do. No one quite knows how long they’ve called this part of the world home. Some say they were chucked up here in the 1950s by someone who’d had enough of goat-related drama. Others claim they descend from ancient breeds brought over by seafarers over 2,000 years ago. I like to imagine they’re retired pirate goats, clinging to their mountain stronghold and sneering at hikers with smug, beardy disdain.

Claire was enchanted. Crazy Nell, predictably, wanted to herd them all into a tea room. She was promptly leashed and redirected toward a particularly promising puddle, which she flung herself into with the sort of joy usually reserved for toddlers at a birthday party. She then added to the ambience by finding some exquisitely pungent sheep muck to roll in. Ah, nature.

From the top, we could see for miles—Caernarfon Bay shimmering to the north, the dark ridges of Snowdonia clawing the sky in the east, and the peaceful patchwork of the Llyn beneath us, dotted with farmhouses, dry stone walls, and the odd tractor going about its business. There are views, and then there are views—and this one was the kind that makes you forget your phone has signal, or that your legs are beginning to wobble.

We lingered at the top for a good while, soaking it all in—and dodging the wind that was trying to make off with Claire’s bobble hat—before agreeing that next time, we’d head down the other side and explore the old quarry ruins that litter the valley. There’s something strangely beautiful about the slate-strewn remnants of those long-gone days of industry. Plus, Nell loves a bit of industrial heritage (mainly for the puddles, if I’m honest).

We returned muddy, windswept, and slightly more goat-aware than when we set off. Claire, to her credit, survived the Steps of Hell and went on to complete the Winter Ultra the next day like an absolute legend. Crazy Nell, meanwhile, had a post-hike bath and is still sulking about it.

As for me? I was reminded—yet again—why I love this land so much. From ancient goat legends to modern ultramarathons, Pen Llyn is never short of surprises.

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Planning Your Own Trip Up Mynydd Gwaith?

• Best parking is near the top of the Nant Gwrtheyrn access road or in Llithfaen village.
  
• Wear good boots. The roads, trails, and those Steps of Hell aren’t for flip-flops.
  
• Keep dogs on leads—especially if your terrier thinks it’s a sheepdog.
  
• Bring a flask and a sandwich. You’ll want time to savour the view.
  

Until next time—mind the goats, dodge the steps, and may your puddles always be just the right depth.

Ger 

photo credits Claire Warner

www.the-coeliac-ultra-runner.co.uk