Welsh Madness: Part 1, The Day Begins. Prelude to Pain.

A deeply chaotic journey involving snacks I didn’t want, gear I didn’t need, and 15 Welsh peaks that did not care.

🏔️ “Do the Welsh 3000s,” I said…

The Welsh 3000s. Fifteen peaks. Over 3,000 feet each. 24 hours. No sleep. No mercy. Just you, your legs, 4,000 metres of climb, and some deeply concerning choices in sports nutrition.

This is the hardest challenge I’ve ever done. And I’ve done a lot of things that should’ve broken me.

But this one? This one almost did.

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🌀 Six Weeks of Slowly Losing My Sanity

Some people train. I… spiral. It started harmlessly enough just browsing gear, checking the weather. But before I knew it, I had entered the Gear Spiral™.

By the end, I owned:

• Three pairs of Salomon trail shoes

• Two sets of knee braces

• One set of ankle braces

• Two emergency blankets

• Feet aromatherapy set (🥴)

• A tick remover (???)

• Cable ties (???)

• At least four pasta pots

• My dignity, in shreds somewhere under a pile of oat bars

I wasn’t packing a bag. I was preparing for emotional collapse at altitude.

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🧤 Weather Forecast as Personal Attack

I became emotionally co-dependent with the Mountain Weather Information Service.

Every forecast felt like a direct assault.

Me: googling 'how long does the human spirit survive in clag?'

I had my waterproofs out, back up gloves packed, and was mentally preparing to disintegrate on a boulder.

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🛏️ The Accommodation Betrayal

But the real plot twist?

My Airbnb cancelled at 8:30 PM the night before I was due to leave.

Not the week before. Not the 3 days before. No, no, it was less than 12 hours before I was supposed to leave.

I received the message and just… stared at the screen.

At that point, I had emotionally prepared for death by ridge. I had not emotionally prepared for last-minute Airbnb betrayal.

I briefly considered sleeping in the car - just me, my hiking shoes, and violent thoughts about cancellation policies 😵‍💫

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📱 Guide's Message - Friday, 8:30 AM

Then came the next hit.

On Friday morning, we got a group message from our mountain guide:

“Good morning all. Slight change of plan - we’ll now meet at 03:50 (1 hour later). Forecast is windy and damp, much cooler than this week - think freezing potentially. Waterproofs essential. Bring gloves, hats, warm layers.”

It was written calmly, like we weren’t about to walk for 24 hours in what sounded like emotional purgatory.

I read it while holding two sets of gloves and a banana.

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🧠 Mental State: Fully Unhinged, Thanks for Asking

At this point, I was:

• Exhausted from obsessing over every weather model in the UK

• Loading my backpack with so much “just in case” gear it became a travelling shrine to anxiety.

• Genuinely unsure if I was packing for a hike or a midlife crisis.

I had two torch systems, multiple snacks I didn’t want, and a sinking feeling that one wrong sock could ruin everything. Little did I know both torches would fail, and I’d end up cursing myself for not packing the third. As planned.

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🚶‍♀️ And Then… We Began

Sleep? I scraped together 2 hours, while my brain ran a full dress rehearsal for the apocalypse.

It took me more 20 min to mummify my toes. 🥴

At 3:50 AM, in the stillness of the dark, we met at Bethesda. Nine of us (five women, four men), plus four mountain guides.

Nobody said much. We all knew.

We weren’t walking. We were going to war with the terrain, with the weather, and mostly with ourselves.

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💥 And I Was Ready… I Think

This is how you go into the hardest hiking day of your life:

• 90% nerves

• 8% pasta-based regret

• 2% belief that your spare torch will somehow save your soul

I didn’t know then what would come next. Crib Goch in zero visibility, 4,000 metres of ascent, blown knees, torches failure, and a 3:00 AM finish in torrential rain.

But I knew one thing:

I was doing this.

I was scared.

And I was all in.

🔜 Part 2 drops soon. Buckle up.