
A 10/10 bivvy camp above the clouds
Headtorch lights dot the Glyderau opposite, and it’s like the mountain range is scattered with stars; we all got the ‘cloud inversion’ memo. Below, the carpet of clouds glows eerily bright, reflecting the moon, and I hunker down in my bivvy, knowing I’m too excited to sleep.
All week I’ve been studying the mountain weather forecasts, waiting for that elusive combination of low ground temps, warm summit temps, high humidity and low wind, until there could be no doubt: cloud inversions are coming to Eryri. And so I spend my weekend chasing them. At first, they mock my efforts - the slight breeze is at my back so each valley seemingly empties of clouds as I approach, descending hikers cheerfully announcing that I’d missed them… until I reach Carnedd Llewelyn and stop in my tracks. The Ogwen valley is a sea of clouds, the surrounding summits like stranded islands. Wispy waves gently lap at the mountainsides, spilling over the connecting passes. Everyone is smiling. How could you not?

That infectious energy continues into the evening and the mountain tops are scattered with hikers watching the sunset - strangers connecting over the shared beauty of the scene, marvelling at Tryfan turning pink as dusk falls. A true testament of how nature connects us.
I find a spot to lay out my bivvy and sleeping bag and watch the sky yield to stars. It’s such a calm, still night, that I can hear other wild campers across the summit. Usually, I like to be secluded, but tonight there’s something wholesome about being surrounded by likeminded people.

To me, bivvying offers a ‘rabbit’s-eye’ view of the world. Nestled down amidst soft grasses, my own little nylon burrow. As much a part of the landscape as the Carneddau ponies whinnying in the distance, or the dawn birds. For one night, I see the world as they do. No tent blocks my view of the sunrise setting the mountains alight, the cloud inversion now a fiery orange. It’s a sight to savour, so I brew a cuppa, and enjoy the show.