George Borrow’s Ascent of Snowdon

By Dave Roberts   

on January 3, 2021   No ratings yet.

George Borrow’s Ascent of Snowdon

Further Details

Route Summary:

Start and Finish:

Distance: 33.44 km

Ascent: 1246 m


Timings are approximate and depend on the individual. Calculate the time using Naismith’s Rule and factor in your own pace.

Before You Walk up Snowdon, ask yourselfAre you equipped? Do you know what you’re doing? Are the conditions safe? If you answer no to any of these, stay safe, don’t go! Check the weather forecast and make sure you know about walking up Snowdon in the Snow. If you lack experience – hire a Snowdon Mountain Guide.


No running water or indoor toilets.

Public Transport:

Contact by letter, three weeks before arrival to ensure the services of a pack mule from Bangor.

Traveline for UK Public Transport


Time Travel

Remember that we cannot outline every single hazard on a walk – it’s up to you to be safe and competent. Read up on Keeping Safe on the Wales Coast Path,  Navigation and the Gear and Equipment you’ll need.

Snowdon Guidebooks:

Recommended Snowdon Maps

George Borrow’s Ascent of Snowdon Ordnance Survey Map and GPX File Download

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George Borrow’s Ascent of Snowdon

In this extract from George Borrow’s Wild Wales, he ascends Snowdon from Bangor via Caernarfon, in a day and mostly on foot! 

Snowdon—Caernarvon—Maxen Wledig—Moel y Cynghorion—The Wyddfa—Snow of Snowdon—Rare Plant.

On the third morning after our arrival at Bangor we set out for Snowdon.

Snowdon or Eryri is no single hill, but a mountainous region, the loftiest part of which, called Y Wyddfa, nearly four thousand feet above the level of the sea, is generally considered to be the highest point of Southern Britain.  The name Snowdon was bestowed upon this region by the early English on account of its snowy appearance in winter; Eryri by the Britons, because in the old time it abounded with eagles, Eryri in the ancient British language signifying an eyrie or breeding-place of eagles.

Snowdon is interesting on various accounts.  It is interesting for its picturesque beauty.  Perhaps in the whole world there is no region more picturesquely beautiful than Snowdon, a region of mountains, lakes, cataracts, and, groves in which nature shows herself in her most grand and beautiful forms.

It is interesting from its connection with history: it was to Snowdon that Vortigern retired from the fury of his own subjects, caused by the favour which he showed to the detested Saxons.  It was there that he called to his counsels Merlin, said to be begotten on a hag by an incubus, but who was in reality the son of a Roman consul by a British woman.  It was in Snowdon that he built the castle, which he fondly deemed would prove impregnable, but which his enemies destroyed by flinging wild-fire over its walls; and it was in a wind-beaten valley of Snowdon, near the sea, that his dead body decked in green armour had a mound of earth and stones raised over it.  It was on the heights of Snowdon that the brave but unfortunate Llywelin ap Griffith made his last stand for Cambrian independence; and it was to Snowdon that that very remarkable man, Owen Glendower, retired with his irregular bands before Harry the Fourth and his numerous and disciplined armies, soon however, to emerge from its defiles and follow the foe, retreating less from the Welsh arrows from the crags, than from the cold, rain and starvation of the Welsh hills.

But it is from its connection with romance that Snowdon derives its chief interest.  Who when he thinks of Snowdon does not associate it with the heroes of romance, Arthur and his knights? whose fictitious adventures, the splendid dreams of Welsh and Breton minstrels, many of the scenes of which are the valleys and passes of Snowdon, are the origin of romance, before which what is classic has for more than half a century been waning, and is perhaps eventually destined to disappear.  Yes, to romance Snowdon is indebted for its interest and consequently for its celebrity; but for romance Snowdon would assuredly not be what it at present is, one of the very celebrated hills of the world, and to the poets of modern Europe almost what Parnassus was to those of old.

To the Welsh, besides being the hill of the Awen or Muse, it has always been the hill of hills, the loftiest of all mountains, the one whose snow is the coldest, to climb to whose peak is the most difficult of all feats; and the one whose fall will be the most astounding catastrophe of the last day.

To view this mountain I and my little family set off in a calèche on the third morning after our arrival at Bangor.

Our first stage was to Caernarvon.  As I subsequently made a journey to Caernarvon on foot, I shall say nothing about the road till I give an account of that expedition, save that it lies for the most part in the neighbourhood of the sea.  We reached Caernarvon, which is distant ten miles from Bangor, about eleven o’clock, and put up at an inn to refresh ourselves and the horses.  It is a beautiful little town situated on the southern side of the Menai Strait at nearly its western extremity.  It is called Caernarvon, because it is opposite Mona or Anglesey: Caernarvon signifying the town or castle opposite Mona.  Its principal feature is its grand old castle, fronting the north, and partly surrounded by the sea.  This castle was built by Edward the First after the fall of his brave adversary Llewelyn, and in it was born his son Edward whom, when an infant, he induced the Welsh chieftains to accept as their prince without seeing, by saying that the person whom he proposed to be their sovereign was one who was not only born in Wales, but could not speak a word of the English language.  The town Caernarvon, however, existed long before Edward’s time, and was probably originally a Roman station.  According to Welsh tradition it was built by Maxen Wledig or Maxentius, in honour of his wife Ellen who was born in the neighbourhood.  Maxentius, who was a Briton by birth, and partly by origin contested unsuccessfully the purple with Gratian and Valentinian, and to support his claim led over to the Continent an immense army of Britons, who never returned, but on the fall of their leader settled down in that part of Gaul generally termed Armorica, which means a maritime region, but which the Welsh call Llydaw, or Lithuania, which was the name, or something like the name, which the region bore when Maxen’s army took possession of it, owing, doubtless, to its having been the quarters of a legion composed of barbarians from the country of Leth or Lithuania.

After staying about an hour at Caernarvon we started for Llanberis, a few miles to the east.  Llanberis is a small village situated in a valley, and takes its name from Peris, a British saint of the sixth century, son of Helig ab Glanog.  The valley extends from west to east, having the great mountain of Snowdon on its south, and a range of immense hills on its northern side.  We entered this valley by a pass called Nant y Glo or the ravine of the coal, and passing a lake on our left, on which I observed a solitary corracle, with a fisherman in it, were presently at the village.  Here we got down at a small inn, and having engaged a young lad to serve as guide, I set out with Henrietta to ascend the hill, my wife remaining behind, not deeming herself sufficiently strong to encounter the fatigue of the expedition.

Pointing with my finger to the head of Snowdon towering a long way from us in the direction of the east, I said to Henrietta:—

“Dacw Eryri, yonder is Snowdon.  Let us try to get to the top.  The Welsh have a proverb: ‘It is easy to say yonder is Snowdon; but not so easy to ascend it.’  Therefore I would advise you to brace up your nerves and sinews for the attempt.”

We then commenced the ascent, arm-in-arm, followed by the lad, I singing at the stretch of my voice a celebrated Welsh stanza, in which the proverb about Snowdon is given, embellished with a fine moral, and which may thus be rendered:—

“Easy to say, ‘Behold Eryri,’
But difficult to reach its head;
Easy for him whose hopes are cheery
To bid the wretch be comforted.”

We were far from being the only visitors to the hill this day; groups of people, or single individuals, might be seen going up or descending the path as far as the eye could reach.  The path was remarkably good, and for some way the ascent was anything but steep.  On our left was the Vale of Llanberis, and on our other side a broad hollow, or valley of Snowdon, beyond which were two huge hills forming part of the body of the grand mountain, the lowermost of which our guide told me was called Moel Elia, and the uppermost Moel y Cynghorion.  On we went until we had passed both these hills, and come to the neighbourhood of a great wall of rocks constituting the upper region of Snowdon, and where the real difficulty of the ascent commences.  Feeling now rather out of breath we sat down on a little knoll with our faces to the south, having a small lake near us, on our left hand, which lay dark and deep, just under the great wall.

Here we sat for some time resting and surveying the scene which presented itself to us, the principal object of which was the north-eastern side of the mighty Moel y Cynghorion, across the wide hollow or valley, which it overhangs in the shape of a sheer precipice some five hundred feet in depth.  Struck by the name of Moel y Cynghorion, which in English signifies the hill of the counsellors, I enquired of our guide why the hill was so called, but as he could afford me no information on the point I presumed that it was either called the hill of the counsellors from the Druids having held high consultation on its top, in time of old, or from the unfortunate Llewelyn having consulted there with his chieftains, whilst his army lay encamped in the vale below.

Getting up we set about surmounting what remained of the ascent.  The path was now winding and much more steep than it had hitherto been.  I was at one time apprehensive that my gentle companion would be obliged to give over the attempt; the gallant girl, however, persevered, and in little more than twenty minutes from the time when we arose from our resting-place under the crags, we stood, safe and sound, though panting, upon the very top of Snowdon, the far-famed Wyddfa.

The Wyddfa is about thirty feet in diameter and is surrounded on three sides by a low wall.  In the middle of it is a rude cabin, in which refreshments are sold, and in which a person resides through the year, though there are few or no visitors to the hill’s top, except during the months of summer.  Below on all sides are frightful precipices except on the side of the west.  Towards the east it looks perpendicularly into the dyffrin or vale, nearly a mile below, from which to the gazer it is at all times an object of admiration, of wonder and almost of fear.

There we stood on the Wyddfa, in a cold bracing atmosphere, though the day was almost stiflingly hot in the regions from which we had ascended.  There we stood enjoying a scene inexpressibly grand, comprehending a considerable part of the mainland of Wales, the whole of Anglesey, a faint glimpse of part of Cumberland; the Irish Channel, and what might be either a misty creation or the shadowy outline of the hills of Ireland.  Peaks and pinnacles and huge moels stood up here and there, about us and below us, partly in glorious light, partly in deep shade.  Manifold were the objects which we saw from the brow of Snowdon, but of all the objects which we saw, those which filled us with delight and admiration, were numerous lakes and lagoons, which, like sheets of ice or polished silver, lay reflecting the rays of the sun in the deep valleys at his feet.

“Here,” said I to Henrietta, “you are on the top crag of Snowdon, which the Welsh consider, and perhaps with justice, to be the most remarkable crag in the world; which is mentioned in many of their old wild romantic tales, and some of the noblest of their poems, amongst others in the ‘Day of Judgment,’ by the illustrious Goronwy Owen, where it is brought forward in the following manner:

“‘Ail i’r ar ael Eryri,
Cyfartal hoewal a hi.’

“‘The brow of Snowdon shall be levelled with the ground, and the eddying waters shall murmur round it.’

“You are now on the top crag of Snowdon, generally termed Y Wyddfa, which means a conspicuous place or tumulus, and which is generally in winter covered with snow; about which snow there are in the Welsh language two curious englynion or stanzas consisting entirely of vowels with the exception of one consonant, namely the letter R.

“‘Oer yw’r Eira ar Eryri,—o’ryw
Ar awyr i rewi;
Oer yw’r ia ar riw ’r ri,
A’r Eira oer yw ’Ryri.

“‘O Ri y’Ryri yw’r oera,—o’r âr,
Ar oror wir arwa;
O’r awyr a yr Eira,
O’i ryw i roi rew a’r ia.’

“‘Cold is the snow on Snowdon’s brow
It makes the air so chill;
For cold, I trow, there is no snow
Like that of Snowdon’s hill.

“‘A hill most chill is Snowdon’s hill,
And wintry is his brow;
From Snowdon’s hill the breezes chill
Can freeze the very snow.’”

Such was the harangue which I uttered on the top of Snowdon; to which Henrietta listened with attention; three or four English, who stood nigh, with grinning scorn, and a Welsh gentleman with considerable interest.  The latter coming forward shook me by the hand exclaiming—

“Wyt ti Lydaueg?”

“I am not a Llydauan,” said I; “I wish I was, or anything but what I am, one of a nation amongst whom any knowledge save what relates to money-making and over-reaching is looked upon as a disgrace.  I am ashamed to say that I am an Englishman.”

I then returned his shake of the hand; and bidding Henrietta and the guide follow me, went into the cabin, where Henrietta had some excellent coffee and myself and the guide a bottle of tolerable ale; very much refreshed we set out on our return.

A little way from the top, on the right-hand side as you descend, there is a very steep path running down in a zigzag manner to the pass which leads to Capel Curig.  Up this path it is indeed a task of difficulty to ascend to the Wyddfa, the one by which we mounted being comparatively easy.  On Henrietta’s pointing out to me a plant, which grew on a crag by the side of this path some way down, I was about to descend in order to procure it for her, when our guide springing forward darted down the path with the agility of a young goat, in less than a minute returned with it in his hand and presented it gracefully to the dear girl, who on examining it said it belonged to a species of which she had long been desirous of possessing a specimen.  Nothing material occurred in our descent to Llanberis, where my wife was anxiously awaiting us.  The ascent and descent occupied four hours.  About ten o’clock at night we again found ourselves at Bangor.


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Dave Roberts

Dave Roberts founded Walk Eryri in 2004, with the aim of providing routes that are off the beaten track. Walk Eryri is now part of Mud and Routes which continues to provide more off beat routes and walks in Snowdonia and beyond. Dave has been exploring the hills of Eryri for over thirty years, and is a qualified Mountain Leader. Dave also established Walk up Snowdon, Walk up Scafell Pike and Walk up Ben Nevis just to mention a few.

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4 thoughts on “George Borrow’s Ascent of Snowdon”

  1. I agree Dave. Definatly a man of his time, and could one say an explorer???. As you say some of his Welsh leaves a lot to be desired, but he managed to make himself understood and respected in a mostly monoglot, at that time, nation where “English/Saesneg” was a very foreign language to most of the people. I would go with about a 65/70% truth to hyperbole ratio, as in many instances he is spot on.

    Regards. T.

  2. Glad to see someone still reads Borrow even tho’ his descriptions and translations sometimes leave a lot to be desired. Also one of the few English men at his time to bother learn welsh, instead if just shouting louder and louder. {this as you know still happens a lot in Europe}

    Regards. T.

    1. Picked up a copy from the early 1900s recently, and I’m in the process of dipping in and out of it. I hadn’t realised he was fluent in Welsh until I started reading the book properly, rather than just from extracts.
      He really is a man of his time, and read that way I find the book entertaining as well as enlightening. You really wonder how much of it is true, and how much is hyperbole. Some of it is just plain incorrect, such as the naming of Port Dinorwig being due to a Norse man (Dyn Norwy – Norway Man) as opposed to being the port of the quarry of DinOrwig.
      I’m thinking of adding his Pumlumon route on next, and while I’d like to plot the entire book on a map, that’s going to take a bit of work.

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