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The connecting ridge between Carnedd Dafydd (back right) and Carnedd Llewelyn on Route A2

Buttoned up and resolute, like ships out of port, dark shapes are seen to rise and shudder, casting off for Carnedd Llewelyn. Rounding the Black Ladders they must negotiate the peaks and troughs of petrified waves, glimpsing the horrors of the Black Pit. They gather themselves up into convoys for safety, drawn ever onwards by plastic map cases held to the fore like spinnakers in a following wind…

Thus aided, a fixed number of upward metres ought to land us on Carnedd Llewelyn. But can we be sure? On a misty day the summit is thronged by confused travellers who, like train passengers, are certain only of their final destinations. Bewildered, we clutter the platform – Is this it? Are we here? – while those who have the answers stride purposefully through like unapproachable station porters and disappear into the gloom. Soon we are gripped by communal panic and give up the wait. Like brave Oates we up and off into the storm, promising to return. But we never do.