Three inches of snow on top of a foot of mature welsh bog – think I have found the limits of the Geax Saguaro.

Up on the tops the wind is whipping the snow off the ridge against a bright blue sky.  A frighteningly sketchy descent (the brakes work but nothing’s gripping anything) and ten minutes later it’s like a summer’s day in the valley.

Apart from the half mile stretch of black ice on the road, which I can’t even walk on.

Home for a warm bath. Perfect.