Eulogised by Wordsworth and fodder for Welsh poets since time immemorial, the mountains of Snowdonia rise high to the very roof of the green country, chiselled and formed in a rugged cacophony of rocky ridges and moss-clad stone. Below, the hills of Gwynedd roll away into the distance, peppered with ancient sheep farms, misty groves of chestnut trees, highland lakes and lichen-dotted castles still ringing with the clash of steel on steel and the spectres of rebellious princes—a land lost to legend and myth, tradition and folklore.

In Beddgelert, the faithful hound of Llywelyn the Great lies resting, watched over by the Tolkein-esque ruins of Dinas Emrys, where the bones of ancient dragons fester beneath the earth. At Porthmadog, Snowdonia tour guides tell tales of slate mines and copper pits on the rattling tracks of the Fftestiniog steam railway while Harlech exhibits the mighty bulwarks of English Edward standing strong over the beaches of Tremadog Bay. Meanwhile, sleepy Capel Curig sits awash with hikers and ramblers, necks craned skywards to the windswept ridges of Cadair Idris, serrated Glyder Fawr and rock-ribbed Tryfan of the Ogwen Valley. The intrepid types feel right at home here, mountain biking around Coed-y-Brenin, bouncing around the Llechwedd Caverns, or climbing right up to Snowdon itself, a backbone of rifts and stone and sheer-cut cliffs that form the summit of the entire Wales.