The quarries closed 60 years ago, but the slate is still the backdrop for life here. The great slate pile is really a mountain, Elidir Fach. It sits above Llanberis, guarding the entrance to the pass, much in the same way that the now-dwarfed Dolbadarn Castle did back in the times of Llywelyn the Great.

The climbing season here is stop-start. I drink my tea at the window facing east, squinting past the wild trees and a huge derelict chapel, just about making out the streaks of wet at Busstop Quarry. The thick clouds press a cold moisture into the air here, but occasionally the carpet of fog breaks and an orb of golden light begins to shred at the fringes of the grey mat. With it comes an ocean of white light that seems to pick out every rock and tree in the valley in a vibrant riot of colour. The greys and blacks at once recede and in their place come greens and reds – colours I scarcely remember existed. I can feel the air sharpen and the humidity seems to drop from the sky in an instant: it is time to climb.

Sessions are short here and everything is sped up. The drive to the crag and approach to the quarries are short. The hard impermeable rock dries in an instant and days of mottled dampness can give way to great climbing conditions in only a few minutes. I can feel a familiar breeze buffeting down the pass today, taking with it the cold clamminess of the morning. The destination is the Yellow Wall, a quiet buttress tucked halfway up the mountain side, rarely visited and with a fine outlook across the mountains to the south. I can look across the valley and follow the skyline from my house at the bottom of the lake, up towards the great dome of Moel Eilio, then across another half dozen blobs, east to Cloggy and eventually Yr Wyddfa.

The approach pierces the ears, as loose slate smashes together, creating a shrill-pitched clank with every step. The path snakes between flat-bottomed quarries and steep scree. Between the patches of loose slate, man-made structures poke out. The old railway inclines are built on impossibly steep hillsides and gently mesh at their edges with the monumental slate piles. It is as if the high order of Victorian engineering is gradually being swallowed back up by the chaotic grand sweep of Elidir Fach, as if everything here will one day be back as it was before we took the heart from the mountain.

The routes here are 'fast food', with a handful of bolts placed a very long way apart. This is the slate style, with compact buttresses, little protection and the potential for enormous falls. The climbing flows up beautiful natural lines of perfect crimps and whilst they're scary enough to engage the mind, they have none of the complexities of natural protection and complicated rope work. The sun is unabated. I can feel its burning rays baking the back of my neck as I look across and down to the slate quarry path below. The skyline here is like a dream, with huge wooden winding wheels at the top of the inclines. Over the years they have gradually broken free from their huts and now stand as great cotton reels, with their thick rusted metal cables stretching in drooping orange arcs across the quarry. I think again on all those who worked in this place.

Everything here is distilled – it feels as if there is only rock and sky. Despite having more than half a century to reclaim the mountainside, the grasses are only just beginning to sneak back. The colour palate remains all grays. Only the distant mountains and pioneering patches of grass break the aggressive mould. The bottom of the cliff is flat rock, with angular boulders strewn around its base and this is where I begin taking the rope out. Racking up for the first climb is always a pleasure. Often in life, we go through the automations, failing to be aware of the present moment. But in the slate quarries I am always aware. I feel the walls around me and the mountains in my periphery. The rope is smooth and flakes into satisfying piles of open loops. My climbing shoes are stiff and hurt at first, but as I pull them on further, I can feel the sides of my feet sinking perfectly into the moulded leather. They are done up tight and I take a handful of quickdraws for my harness. Chalk on the hands, making the perfect surface to grasp the faint friction of the square holds. The climbing starts at once, and I can see the toes standing on the smallest of footholds. All of my huge frame is supported by the tiniest patch of rubber. This climb is only a warm up, but the holds are smaller than those you'd get on the hardest climbs elsewhere. I am pulling impossible moves, with enormous spans between unbelievable holds and that's when I feel it: the magic of this place.  

A project in the quarries is a strange beast. This massive landscape was once the workplace of thousands of people. Their lives were hard - every slate in this huge pile was moved by hand. Some left their homes on Anglesey at the start of the working week and walked more than ten miles before they had even started on Monday morning. A climber's life here is difficult to compare, despite occupying these same holes. I spend so many days here, walking the same paths, but I never really get more than a faint hint at the culture that is now lost to a seemingly abandoned hillside.  I will never be able to fully comprehend what life was like here. After all this is supposed to be fun for me, but if I close my eyes, I can still feel the energy that all those thousands of people brought to this place.

My destination is the big hole, Twll Mawr. It is a cliff like no other. The main face is more than 300 feet tall and from bottom to top forms a complex web of geometric patterns. The climbing here is brutal, with sharp crimps and invisible feet scattered in a crazed pattern of gymnastic movement. All of the climbs are hard, but the hardest are unique in the world of hard slab climbing, with hard moves from beginning to end and extremely poor protection. As a result it takes years to work the lines here. You must first learn the positions, get to know the holds, learn how to hold them without cutting through your fingertips. Then the movement must become second nature, learn how to get between the positions, find the way that the line goes. Only then can you appreciate how safe or dangerous the climb is. And on this face, whether there is protection or not is everything.

Projecting these lines becomes a commute. The low-level daily dangers of sharp edges and huge drops become less scary over time and stepping out over the edge starts to feel mundane. The abseil down the face is fun, zipping over an incomprehensible scale of cliff. You know that one day you will need to know every inch intimately, but for now I can see this incredible architecture for the huge monolith it is. My destination today is the top pitch, with its other worldly 'elevator move' above a swirling mass of air. After tenuous and very bold moves teetering up unreliable dishes and questionable edges, I arrive at the magic.  As is often the case with slate, the wall feels steeper than it is and with nearly all of my weight on my feet, I can take my hands off for a brief moment of dynamic climbing. I go miles, arms in the air, feeling like I'm floating. It is one of those many moments of the uncanny here. There are still years of work required, but every day is a step closer and the dream gets sketched with a little more detail.

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