Day 3 (July 3):  Fan-y-Big

I knew I was in trouble when I met the rest of our hiking group this morning.  Nearly without exception, they were some combination of rangy, lithe, and trim.  I, on the other hand, am a little teapot, short and stout, as the song goes.  All of them sported specialized hiking shirts and pants, and several had caps advertising mountains they’ve climbed or trails they’ve hiked.  I, on the other hand, had a ratty old Duke sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, and a Jeff’s Puzzles hat.  Despite this, I can honestly say I like everyone in our group of a dozen – they’re all world travelers, interesting, accomplished, and a pleasure to converse with. 

Today’s hike covered 7.5 miles.  Before beginning, we stopped at a quaint farmhouse (is there another kind?) where we were served wonderful scones and Welsh cakes and were told IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS that the only proper way to eat a scone is to put the strawberry jam on first, followed by the cream.  Scone-dressing technique is a matter of debate in the UK akin to disputes in the US about the appropriateness of putting ketchup on a hot dog or the best way to eat an Oreo.  I don’t eat hot dogs so I can’t speak to that, but there is no bad way to eat an Oreo.

Fortified and already needing a nap, I tackled the first quarter mile of the hike, which went vertiginously uphill over uneven stones and left me gasping.  (They don’t call it breath-taking scenery for nothing.)  By the time I made it to the end of the uphill, most of the rest of the group were dots in the distance.  From time to time I would appear to be closing the gap (I didn’t “mind the gap”), but like a mirage, the dots kept receding.  I finally caught up with the rest of the group at the summit (800 meters), where I passed up the opportunity to sit on a ledge cantilevered over the valley far below. 

Fan-y-Big has something in common with Pluto:  it has been demoted from “mountain” to hill”; apparently, it’s high enough to be deemed a mountain but narrowly misses another criterion for mountainhood.  The trail to the top winds through sheep-filled fields (and is frequently paved with their droppings), and the mountain is home to wild ponies.  I ambled through a group of six ponies (including one foal), all of which were supremely indifferent to my presence.  Several kinds of purple, blue and white wildflowers punctuated the green fields, and the valley was quilted with farms.

With two miles left in the hike, our savior arrived – a Backroads guide with a cooler and snacks.  The cooler contained, among other things, nectar of the gods #1 (Diet Coke); after giving thanks for this bounty, I easily finished the rest of the hike.

Tonight we’re staying in a beautiful old manor house called the Gliffaes Country House Hotel.  The building is a couple of hundred years old; unfortunately, I think the wiring is only slightly newer.  I couldn’t figure out how to turn on the lights in the room:  none of the switches resulted in illumination.  Someone from the staff came by and matter-of-factly explained, as if it were obvious, that I had to turn on the lamp to the left of the bed before any of the other lights would work.    The shower was equally quirky, but I’ll spare you the details.

We ended the day with a cocktail reception (I’m now officially a fan of Welsh whisky, nectar of the gods #2) and a terrific dinner, and I’m even more sure than I was this morning that, while they’re obnoxiously fit, the rest of our hiking party truly are good people.