(Continued from page 5)

Saturday had been very overcast, but the cloud base stayed about 4000', so the tops were clear.  A mass climb (of 10 climbers) took place on a low crag about 40 mins walk from the hut.  Unfortunately Norman took a 20ft peel and sprained an ankle.

Geoff & Tony Edwards walked up Tryfan, Bristly Ridge and Glyder Fach, and Albert pottered up the Carnedds, before returning early and driving to Capel Curig to buy a paper and read it in the Bryn Tyrch.  This was a fortuitous move, as the knowledge that a shop was being renovated next to the Cafe in Capel was to come in handy on Sunday.

Saturday night saw a group drinking and eating in the Bryn Tyrch, and everyone except Norman being served their meal.  Eventually a hobble into the Kitchen, and a verbal assault by Norman on the staff resulted in a generous over-refund, and a free meal as well.  Norman was still not chuffed.

The drinking continued at the Hut, waking a few people who had stayed behind, with light banter discussing what should be done with a little island off the west coast of Great Britain.

Sunday dawned with a brilliant blue sky, the twittering of the birds, and the groaning of Alfie Conn, leader of the banter.

Most people breakfasted outside in the sun, and gradually packed for a good day on the hills.  Tony headed for the Carnedds, Geoff headed for Bala, Norman headed for a hospital, Albert packed the car, thinking about the ridge up to the Glyders, and all the climbers left the hut to drive to Tryfan, and climb Pinnacle Rib, starting from Heather terrace.

Unfortunately, the last person out of the hut, an un-named Barrister who has recently got married, thought Norman was still in the Hut, and pulled the door closed, leaving the key safely locked inside.
So a note was left on the door by Albert, starting with 'Euston, there is a problem..............', and explaining the situation.    A grand day on the hills followed for everyone.

Returning to the hut Sunday afternoon, and finding no one there, Albert drove to Capel Curig and purchased some putty from the man decorating the shop next to the Cafe,  and returned to await the climbers, just in case they had the key with them. 

They did not.  So with the assistance of Bill Savage, 

Bill Burt and Stepan Ptacek from Slovakia, the putty was taken out of the window next to the door, the glass removed, the door opened, the key retrieved, the glass replaced and the window re-puttied. 

A successful end to an excellent day.  Just hope the hut warden thinks so.

Albert Sillwood

when we got back down, and had decided on the severe start - a tricky vertical crack that pulls onto easier slabs. After placing a runner, Charles thrutched up the crack and charitably decided to test Bill's new found belaying skills by falling off. Bill, standing back from the foot of the crag and chatting to no one in particular about the striations in the bedding plane of metamorphic slate, was lurched forward, and expertly fielded Charles by clinging on to the dead rope, and digging a furrow in the ground with his nose.

Charles arced through the air with all the grace of an old television set that has been discarded from a tower block window, and emitted a little gasp on the way down. He bounced with the stretch of the rope, and missed a series of sharp spikes and boulders on the ground by a generous margin of 2 inches. Charles uncurled himself from the foetal position he had adopted, and, grinning like a cheshire cat, gently put his feet down. Bill, utterly unfazed by the drama, wiped the peat from his nose, spat out a few bits of turf and heather and explained that unlike most other rock types, slate splits on the perpendicular.

Charles, having established that his runner was safe, leapt up the crack like a man possessed, swarmed up the slab above and grunted to Bill about the various methods climbers employ to seat their runners. We gently enquired whether Bill had a nut key...

Bill, the newcomer, nipped up the crack with little difficulty, and was followed by me and then Justin. Indeed, had there been more members of the HMC in attendance, I'm certain that a queue would have formed to discover why Charles had opted to test his gear on this particular move, but we all graciously told him it was undoubtedly the hardest thing we had ever done...

A brief flurry of light hail swept over Snowdonia, just in time to deny Justin the chance of leading an E6 he was manfully eyeing up, and we decided that a few pints in Beddgelert might be a good idea. And it was.

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