My first trip to Snowdonia with Peter was when we were at college. I’d been going there on family holidays since early childhood, so one summer I persuaded a few student friends (including my unfortunate girlfriend Lucy) to come on a camping holiday in typical North Wales summer weather (relentless rain). None of them were keen to repeat the experience in a hurry – except for Peter.

In no time he was as smitten with the mountain landscape as I was and our hill-walking holidays soon became a regular date.

In the early days we’d camp on the shore of Llyn Ogwen, giving us immediate access to a number of ascents, including our favourite: the North Ridge of Tryfan. One year, accompanied by our partners Melanie and Bärbel, we set up camp as usual with our tents facing down the beautiful Ogwen valley and lay there enjoying the sunset view.

We were still lying there at 4am but circumstances had changed: the tents were gone, torn away from around us by the storm force winds that were now raging up from the coast. That was the last camping expedition. From then on our base was the lovely, somewhat idiosyncratic Bryn Tyrch hotel in Capel Curig.

For several years in the early 90s I’d accompany my dad, a teacher, when he took a group of schoolchildren from London up to Snowdonia in the summer. Once the kids had departed I’d stay on and Peter would come and join me for a few days. This once gave me an irresistible opportunity to play a cunning trick on him.

At the summit of Tryfan are two granite monoliths, about three metres high and just over a metre apart, known as Adam and Eve. It’s long been the tradition to jump from one to the other for good luck. It’s barely more than a step but, exposed as they are, it’s an intimidating prospect for many. I’d been doing the jump since I was about ten so by now I was quite blasé about it. Peter had already been to the summit a couple of times but had so far declined to make this leap of faith.

On this occasion I’d made preparations, having been up there a few days earlier with the kids. I told him that if he made the jump I guaranteed that the goddess of the mountain would perform a miracle for  him.

He sat hesitantly on top of Adam for about ten minutes, smoking nervously but gradually plucking up courage. Then finally, with a kind of resigned expression, he suddenly stood up and stepped into the void – without mishap. I helped him down off Eve and told him to put his hand deep into a crack in the stone at the foot of the monolith, from which he withdrew the quarter bottle of whiskey that I’d stashed there the week before.

It’s not really advisable to descend from a peak like Tryfan whilst under the influence but we made our merry way down, happily unscathed.

For years the tradition continued. Frequently we were a team of three: Jones Bros Outdoor Holidays Inc (in other words my brother Bill and myself) plus our small but admirably loyal client, Mr Peter Millson. Sometimes customer numbers were given a boost by friends such as Bärbel, Cathy, Rob or latterly Yasmeen.

We carried on in spite of my move to Germany, and long after the diagnosis of Peter’s spondylitis. As his body gradually got stiffer the walks became a little slower, a little less demanding but no less enjoyable. He was determined not to give up a pastime that was such a huge benefit to his (or anyone’s) mental health, in spite of the physical challenges it involved.

Eventually it became clear that Tryfan North Ridge was no longer a viable option, involving as it does a fair bit of scrambling. No matter, there were plenty of other gorgeous routes available. Still, I recall one conversation when we were discussing his disease: “it just depresses me to think that I’ll never get to the top of Tryfan again,” he said.

And then came the “Jungle Juice’”as he called it, the experimental medication that significantly eased some of his symptoms, at least for a while. It wasn’t a cure: but by enabling him to move more freely than he had for a long time ,it provided a big psychological boost. Cautiously, we started to dream of Tryfan again.

Not long after that there was a further enormous boost that suddenly breathed a whole new sense of purpose – and of happiness – into his life: namely, Yasmeen.

So in the summer of 2015, fuelled by medical science and the power of love, off we jolly well set: Peter, Yasmeen, Billy, Bärbel and me. Tryfan or bust.

It wasn’t the fastest of ascents but we had all the time in the world. The weather was perfect, clear and sunny but not too hot, a pleasantly light breeze and – unusually – not a trace of rain. We knew the North Ridge wasn’t an option so we went up the West Face (excuse me getting technical for a moment).

This involved a long, steep uphill slog, followed by a fairly short scramble up the gully between the north and central summits. The plus side is that you reach the top surprisingly quickly once you’re in the gully. The last leg was quite a struggle for Peter but it was obvious by then that nothing was going to deter him – and suddenly there we were, standing next to Adam and Eve one more time, gazing down across sunny Snowdonia.

We relaxed on the summit for half an hour or so. I made the leap of faith deciding as I did so that I needed to grow out of this young man’s habit and that would be the last time. Then it was time to head back down, albeit reluctantly.

The descent was trickier, but slowly and steadily we made it with no real problems. Unable to bend his back or look over his shoulder Peter had to rely on me to guide his legs into footholds every time it was necessary to go backwards, which was quite often on the higher parts. He had no real choice in the matter of course, but he trusted me completely – the mad fool…

I knew you for over half a century, old friend, but never in all that time did I see such pure happiness in your face as on that afternoon. We hear plenty of talk about “going out of one’s comfort zone”. Well, you were forced to spend most of your life outside any kind of comfort zone. You never had a choice. But that day you did have a choice, and boy did you take it.

As you stood there in the sunlight next to Adam and Eve your joy was palpable and infectious. We all felt a bit drunk on it. Then, just to make sure, Billy passed around his hip-flask…

Owen Jones
RIP Peter Milson, 21 January 1959 to 15 December 2025.
MaxEider.com.

Main photo: Adobe Strock Images.
Lower photos (L-R): Peter thinking about the leap of faith; the author making the leap of faith; the final ascent.