It’s been raining for days, and today was one of those sunshine-and-showers days we get so often here in Capel Curig. My cottage sits in the Gwydir Forest, within Eryri (Snowdonia) National Park — about 170 metres above sea level. From my window I can see my ‘local’ mountain, Moel Siabod, rising out of the mist.

Despite the variable weather, I decided to take my new companion, Florence — a twenty-week-old spaniel with more curiosity than sense — to experience the hill for the first time. The route begins on a tarmac track past a local farm before branching off into the rough path that winds upward towards Siabod. I’ve walked it many times since we moved here in 2019, though not as often this year. Today reminded me how much I’ve missed it — and how lucky we are to live in such a place.

Siabod remains quieter than the more famous peaks, though the hiking magazines have called it a “hidden gem,” which hasn’t helped. I won’t dwell on route details; they’re easy enough to find. This is the first of what I hope will become a series of Field Notes from our walks across the park and along the north Wales coast — reflections rather than guides.

The path was running with water, but that didn’t bother me. I had good boots, waterproofs, snacks, and a fully charged phone — all essentials that too many people neglect, which is why Mountain Rescue stays so busy. I always start cool when I walk, knowing I’ll soon build up heat and strip off layers as the climb begins.

After the first steep stretch, I stopped to catch my breath. A rainbow arched across the valley, ending somewhere near my cottage — though there was no pot of gold when I got back later. To my right, the Carneddau stood half-shrouded in mist, and a group of sheep regarded Florence and me with the usual suspicion. The only other sounds were the calls of choughs and buzzards wheeling overhead. Florence sat obediently — or perhaps strategically — eyeing the snack pocket she knows too well.

Further up, I paused at a familiar tree that grows from a slab of rock almost at right angles to the hill. There’s something about its stubbornness I’ve always admired — the way it insists on being here, thriving despite the odds. It reminds me of resilience, independence, belonging. If I were a tree, I’d probably do the same.

The track grew rougher and wetter, and after a few stiles we reached the first quarry lake — a mirror of grey sky and muted hills. We stopped for photos and a quick snack before pressing on. Rain returned, and the going got tough, but Florence was in her element, splashing through puddles and chasing rivulets of water.

Soon the ruins of the old slate workers’ cottages came into view. I wandered among the stones, imagining the families who once lived here — the smoke rising from chimneys, the hard laughter of men returning from the quarry. Now only slate heaps remain, piled like a monument to endurance.

The second lake lay ahead, deep and dark beneath the broken cliffs. It’s a place of haunting beauty, but it has claimed lives — over-optimistic swimmers unaware of how cold and deep the water runs. Today three waterfalls fed into it, stirred by days of rain. Looking into that black mirror felt like staring into a void.

By now, the wind had picked up and the rain returned. My watch said I’d climbed just over 1,200 feet — half the height of Siabod — and I could feel the temperature drop. I knew from experience that the ground near Llyn y Foel would be boggy, the path uncertain. The ridge above — Daear Ddu — would be slick and treacherous. The mountain would always be there; better to turn back than to press on.

So Florence and I stopped, took a few more photos, shared a snack, and started the slow descent. I felt that familiar calm — gratitude, really — that comes when you listen to the mountain rather than fight it. I’d forgotten how restorative it can be to stand still in such a place, to feel small in the best possible way.

So that’s my first Field Note. Whether anyone reads it or not doesn’t matter. It’s a record for me — a memory of a day when the world felt vast and alive. But if someone does read it, perhaps it’ll remind them to get outside and walk awhile, wherever they are.

Field Notes: 25/10/25