The privilege to walk these hills is something I do not take lightly. It is a gift that has delivered wonder from the first day I set foot on them and will do so until my infinitesimally brief stint on the planet concludes.

The lane up to Esgair Olwyn is icy. I’ve been warned, so I pick my way carefully. The postie, perhaps confident that no-one will be coming down, appears to have ‘taken a run at it’. I press myself against the wall as he passes, toots and waves. The sun is up, but treacherous patches lurk in the shadow of tall trees whose roots were loosened by Storm Darragh. There were no named storms when I was growing up. We just ran around the playground with our coats held out like wings. Our new school gymnasium extension blew down once. They just rebuilt it without the need for proper nouns to describe the gale that demolished it. On my left, a giant oak lies across Afon Eisingrug, plucked from the steep riverbank as though it was no more than a weed.

The roof of Andy’s outhouse lies in the next door field. Darragh. At the top of the lane past the ‘homestead’ and the ‘burnt mound’ – what is a burnt mound? – we happen upon a group of lads renovating a section of wall. We’re not far into the conversation when we discover that one of them originates from Cwm Nantcol. My Nain’s family came from there many, many moons ago. We talk about Pwll y March (my bygone ancestral seat) and marvel at how they actually ‘farmed’ there. We discuss the beauty of Nant Pasgan. Apparently in bygone times prospective farm workers thereabouts had to lift above their waists the huge rock that sits outside the farm, to prove their strength and fitness for working these tough lands. The waller tells me he’s lifted it off the ground but only to his knees. They must have been strong, he says. Looking at him and the boulders he’s handling, they really must …

The sunshine is bright, the breeze is keen, there is ice on the puddles and my nose is streaming. This winter’s lurgy has been a slow burn, but a desperate slog around Cnicht and Moelwyn Mawr on Sunday caused no added ill-effects, so I’m working on the basis that moderate exercise is good for the constitution, and besides, the forecast promised a nice dry day.

We round a corner above Llyn y Fedw to be greeted by the unexpected sight of black skies out to sea. Everything happens at speed. In minutes, the hitherto sunlit Pen Llŷn disappears from view, Porthmadog is obliterated under a curtain of sleet, and the Dwryd is banished from view. The Moelwynion morph from majestic outlines to a swirling white-out. To the south, the barrier of the Rhinogydd is picked out in glorious golden light and for a moment we deceive ourselves that this rogue squall might just be sucked past us onto the high peaks. But it isn’t. The hasty addition of layers is completed with seconds to spare. The temperature plummets, the wind rises, the air is full of snow and we even contemplate an adjustment to our planned route. For maybe five minutes at most, we are in deep midwinter. And then it’s gone, this burst of raw energy, a memory as quickly as it was a threat. No wonder a giant tree lies across the Afon Eisingrug.

Diverting to scale the outlying hump of Moel y Gerddi is hugely rewarding. I’d never noted its presence, but now I’m standing here on its summit looking at an epic view across to Cwm Bychan and the intimidating strata that defends Rhinog Fawr. These ‘minor’ tops are always a revelation. Out to sea the sun elbows another giant cloud formation out of its way, ensuring that the rest of the afternoon will conform to the Met Office prediction. Andy’s knowledge of gateways hereabouts is impressive. We cut across to another one and give my post-viral lungs one last workout before the long descent to sea level … and the pub. Before long, the main interest of the day is secured. Moel Goedog aches ‘ancient’.

The four walls that meet along its furrowed, rippling, distinctly odd, crown, speak of the ‘modern times’ when my great, great, great ancestors toiled to eke out their survival in the unlikely agricultural paradise of Nantcol. But below the thin skin of this grassy top lie millennia of human presence; and struggle. What a place this is.

The sun is making its excuses. Hundreds of pools and creeks in the Glaslyn and the Dwryd and out to sea beyond the Cob in Porthmadog reflect gold in the lowest of tides. Sarn Badrig snakes out towards Ireland. We can see its line. One channel remains into Port – the one uncle Simeon knew, the one down which he spent his life bringing the ships safely into the harbour. They moved, you see – from Cwm Nantcol. They moved across the years to Harlech, then Ynys and Talsarnau and Llandecwyn to Porthmadog and then joined with a tribe from Sarn Mellteyrn and Nefyn and Pistyll and Pwllheli. And my Nain was born. And my dad. And me. And mine.

From the top of Moel Goedog, their journeys are laid out as far as the eye can see. In the saturated fields and the dripping former quarries and mines; along the shorelines and out to sea. A man and his three daughters eking a living at Pwll y March in Cwm Nantcol when his neighbour, my namesake, from Maes y Garnedd was hanged, drawn and quartered at Charing Cross. His descendant the Scotch Baptist preacher who ranted in Harlech and is buried in the tiny graveyard opposite the castle. Simeon the pilot, steering a course for his cousins returning from distant ports. His uncle who died on deck at Milford Haven. Uncle Johnny who was sunk by U-boats. Wil Parry collecting rents. His cousins in Boston Lodge. Aunty Annie and Auntie Minnie who went to Liverpool. My Nain who moved north to Tregarth and Bangor. They were all born in sight of where my freezing cold fingers take too many photographs.

How many of them saw the inside of The Ship Aground in Talsarnau?

From here it’s three and half miles to said pub. Aside from a knee-sapping shortcut up into Soar, it’s all downhill. There’s an odd patch of ice on this lane as well – the kind of patch the wouldn’t deter a postie in a van, but might just dump a tiring lurgy-bearer on their backside. Deep in conversation, we cover the ground quickly, pausing only to photograph a Castell Harlech sunset.

The wooden tables and chairs in the front bar of The Ship lend themselves to good conversation. The beer selection matches the vibe. In the back, they’re watching a darts prodigy. It’s just over an hour until my train is due, so in the company of an incumbent enthusiastic man with Sunday papers and valid views on the reliability of pub opening times, we conclude our extraordinary afternoon.

The train rumbles across Pont Briwet. The train manager chats about storms. I disembark at Penrhyndeudraeth and head past the Griffin and the Tan Dderwen. It’s cold.