Dutifully, although with slight trepidation, I arrived, with a rather more colourful jacket and top hat in place of the more traditional evening wear. Old friends began to arrive, many of whom were mountain people, all of whom I had shared tents, boats, climbs and adventures with. In a field we changed into our finery and our adventure began.

Assembly of a small pile of equipment began, with people producing pans and stoves, candles and table cloths, boxes and bags, cutlery and crockery, folding chairs, plywood sheets and scaffolding. It was quickly divided up and disappeared into rucksacks.

Leaving the road we set of on our path. Despite the heavy, awkward loads the equipment presented, there was a sense of amusement and good humour as we took the steep path up towards the top of Tryfan. As the path gave way to scrambling the pieces of scaffolding were passed hand to hand up the rock steps and the people followed. Two hours hard work and we were on the summit.

Once there, the miracle began. The scaffolding and plywood became a table, complete with cloth, candlesticks and cruet set. Some laid it for our feast while other set to cooking the meal. Dressed as if for a country house, we dined on soup and goulash, bread and biscuits, cheese and fruit, and wine and port and watched the sun slowly set over the Irish Sea.

More photos here

However, Dave from Boulder Adventures called and said he had a new gorge to explore and would I like to tag along. Jumping, swimming, climbing and sliding, all mixed up with a little adventure, of course I would!

Multiple layers of wetsuit warded off the worst of the cold as the four of us waded into the Afon Cynfal. The slow seep of frigid water in through the zips and up the cuffs caused occasional curses but, once moving, the temperature was bearable, if not comfortable.

As we headed downstream, the river quickly gorged up, with a series of waterfalls from the knee high to well overhead. Each one took careful inspection, both for safety and the extraction of maximum fun. Some provided jumps into deep pools, others slides or mini rollercoaster rides through a series of waves and drops.

It was great to be out and about, functioning as a team and exercising judgment in the stunning but hazardous environment. For two hours only two things mattered, the safety of the group and having fun.

The sides of the gorge began to steepen and narrow. We scrambled up onto one side and peered down ahead of us. The river plunged over a spectacular 40ft waterfall and then disappeared through a slot less than 3 ft wide. Glad we’d exercised caution we continued downstream.

A small foot bridge crossed the gorge and provided an ideal platform for scouting ahead. The river once again narrowed and disappeared from view. A trip along the cliff edge 100ft above the river showed a series of increasingly large and impassable waterfalls. We scrambled on until a 50ft waterfall into a pool less that 8ft wide convinced us that our exploration was at an end. As Dave put it, this river changes quickly from “gentle to mental”.

Photo: Dave Crombie, Boulder Adventures

It was midnight and my finger was hovering over the transmit button on the radio microphone. For the first time in 40 years of sailing I was about to call the Coastguard for real. Suddenly without warning the static ceased and the speaker spluttering into life.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday…”

Someone else had beaten me to it!

We had been racing in Cork Week and were returning the boat to her base on the West Coast of Scotland. It had been a great regatta, our results weren’t outstanding but the racing against the cream of Irish sailors had been exhilarating and the craic as lively as we had been lead to believe.

Leaving Cork we’d had 20 knots of wind from the West, pushing us home at a good speed and we arrived at Dublin harbour with enough time for a meal, shower and short nap before heading back out to make the short hop back to the UK mainland.

The forecast was good, the wind had dropped and was on our nose but it was expected to swing right behind us and strengthen. A sailor’s dream, someone up there was smiling on us! We left Dublin Bay in good spirits.

The predicted increase in wind duly arrived but as we expected it to swing round, it didn’t raise cause for concern. However, as evening came, the wind continued to rise and seemed firmly stuck in the North West. The funneling effect of the North Channel whipped the Irish Sea up and the waves started to get very big.

We had too much sail up and the foresail need to come down. However, with the bow disappearing into the waves I couldn’t send a member of the crew up there. I crawled forward myself, ducking the crashing waves and hanging on tight the lifelines. After a great deal of effort, we had a small jib on – and I was soaked from head to toe! A change of clothing inside a cabin that was being tossed around like an out of control fairground ride was not easy but raised my spirits considerably. While I was below a check of the charts showed no convenient ports of refuge so we battled on up the Straenraer coast.

By now the waves were big and black, dwarfing our vessel. With breaking tops and vertical faces, she was climbing the fronts well but crashing full square into the troughs. Soon after midnight, having been at the helm for thirteen hours, I went below and left David at the wheel. For twenty minutes I lay on my bunk and tried to rest, wedged in with a duffel bag and some sails. David was doing a great job but every time we crashed into the trough my imagination ran amok. Would the mast stay up? Would the keel bolts hang onto the ton and a half of lead suspend beneath me?

And so I decided to call the Coastguard. Not a Mayday, not even the less severe PanPan. I would call and tell them where we were and what was happening. I’d let them know our status every couple of hours and I might even tell them what I thought of their weather forecast! So there I was, finger on the transmit button, Channel 16 and the VHF set on high….

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This Coastguard calling vessel Osprey*. You have sent a distress call, please confirm that you are in distress? Over.”

And so the conversation continued, although the vagaries of VHF radio meant we could only hear one side of the interchange. I noted the position of the distressed vessel as the Coastguard read it back and was alarmed to realise it was not very distant from our own. Would we be required upon to offer assistance, just as we were thinking we might need some of your own?

The speaker continued to emit half of the exchange:

“Number of people on board?”

“Could you repeat that please?”

“Could you confirm that you have two adults and TWELVE children on board?”

Twelve children, gone midnight in a Force 8 Gale. Suddenly our situation was thrown into stark perspective. We had a sound boat, four adult crew and the Coastguard had its hands full. I put the microphone back on it’s hook.

The Coastguard dispatched a lifeboat to escort the other vessel to safe harbour. “Escort” means they weren’t sinking and we wouldn’t be needed to help. Relieved, I returned to my bunk.

Through the night, the wind slowly subsided and dawn showed us the hills on the West Coast of Scotland. By eleven we were tied up in harbour and eating a late breakfast. Over our bacon butties, we all agreed that sometimes, after a little reflection, your troubles aren’t as big as you thought they were.

* name changed to protect their dignity.

LittleBigAdventure contributed by Alan Moore.

Weston-Super-Mare may be full of grandmothers and bingo halls but it’s also blessed with an enormous beach. Despite the recent snow the sky was clear and we could easily see the ten miles across the sea to Wales. We wrapped ourselves up against the cold and breathed in the sharp, fresh air, which invigorated us after spending so much time cooped up in a stuffy house.

Weston beach is usually full of people on dirt bikes, windsurfers and kiteboarders. On Christmas afternoon, with the tide a very long way out, the beach was almost empty. Over an hour or so we passed only a dozen or so people, mostly couples or families out walking the dogs. It was one of those rare occasions where you have something to say to each and everyone of them, “Merry Christmas’.

Leaving the town centre behind, we meandered towards Brean Down, the promontory at the southern end of the bay. As we did so, the sun began to set behind the headland. Despite the fact that sunsets happen everyday, I rarely take the time to appreciate them or have the chance to see them in their full glory, marred as they frequently are by London’s buildings. This one was glorious.

It may not be much of an adventure, but to a city girl like me it’s a thrill to stand somewhere without crowds and take the time to watch a sunset from start to finish. Even now I’m home, it inspired me to go outside this evening and have a look at the sunset. Even buried behind London houses, it’s still glorious.

This LittleBigAdventure was contributed by Lorna Robinson.

Then one night the cloud disappeared and it was clear. No moon meant dark skies and the stars leapt out of the inky blackness. The Milky Way traversed from horizon to horizon.

Donning head torches, two friends and I walked up into the old quarries behind the village, built a fireplace from some pieces of slate and lit a fire. Under the stars we toasted marshmallows and put the world to rights. There was a cold wind but lots of layers and the fire kept us warm.

It was gone midnight when we picked our way through the slag heaps and back to our homes. Our eyes were red and our hair and clothes smelt of smoke but it didn’t matter, it was just nice to have been out doing something.