'Croeso i Gymru' the greeting ran, as we crossed the Severn Bridge into Wales in the car. The rain greeted us as well, which wasn't that surprising, and this was followed by hail. All we needed now was snow, and on the Brecons there it was. We parked in Brecon and headed out in a stiff oncoming breeze sharing our route with a fairly elderly rough-stuffer from Birmingham. Apparently it was the Rough Stuff Federation's AGM in Brecon that weekend, and he was getting in an early ride with his brother before the serious business started.

After Upper Chapel we came across a 'Road Closed Ahead' sign. The nearby farmer said it was a firing range, but we should be OK - if flags weren't flying. Half a mile up the road and the flag was flying, but no sentry in sight. Andrew was all for going on, holding a small branch over his head for camouflage, but in the end we opted for safety via a longer route. This took us through another firing range, but the signs simply warned us to keep on the road. After the final short but horrendous climb we arrived at Bryn Poeth Uchaf to find a mix-up over the booking, but they coped with this by giving us the family room. To Jeremy's joy there was a shower, but his face fell when he found it wasn't working. The common room fire is notorious for smoking badly, so we were glad to have our own room to retreat to.

The day started brighter, but rapidly deteriorated. A tail wind, fortunately, but plenty of rain and quite cold. We got chilled waiting for Jeremy to mend his puncture at the highest point, then had a three mile descent to make us even colder.

Lunch was taken sheltering under some trees from very heavy rain, then the sky cleared for the beautiful long descent to Tregaron. We had to wait quite a long time for Hazel to appear at the bottom of the hill, and this was because she had taken a tumble onto the grass verge somewhere near the top. Her brakes had been insufficient to cope with the wet, the steep drop and the sharp bend. Both bike and rider were OK, although Hazel nursed a heavy bruise on her leg for the rest of the tour.

We spent an hour in the cafe in Tregaron, drinking tea and steaming gently, before we ambled the three miles out to the hostel at Blaencaron. Jubilant Jeremy: a shower that worked!

Cold but dry, and the wind was even stronger. However, today it would be in our favour. Jeremy was our tarmac fanatic, and left us at Pontrhydfendigaid to take the easy route through Cwmystwyth and meet us in Elan Village: at the post Office, we said.

A steady climb took us to the start of the track at Ty'n-y-cwm farm and the very rough track gradually petered out as it climbed steeply to 450m near Llyn Egnant. It was then a matter of sheep-tracking and tussock-jumping to make our way down to Claerwyn Reservoir. After all that bouncing around it was a pleasure to get on to the stony farm track alongside the reservoir. We lunched out of the wind, basking in the sunshine in the lee of a bend in the track. Mind you, after five miles of the track it was even greater comfort to hit tarmac again at the head of the reservoir.

The post office in Elan Village had disappeared since the map was made, so it took a few minutes to find Jeremy. The A470 to Newbridge on Wye had pleasantly little traffic on it, but the last few miles from 100 House to the hostel at Glascwm seemed quite a slog. A fairly typical simple hostel, using an old village school and with the warden living nearby. No shower, to Jeremy's disgust, but delightfully quiet.

The weather forecaster was hedging his bets: 'Sunshine and showers, with the possibility of hail and thunder.' What else could there be? we wondered. The sun was shining as we set off in a brief shower, back into the teeth of that wretched wind again. A Little Chef is not Richard's ideal eating place, but the one in Builth Wells appeared just as a really heavy shower began. (This time the forecaster was right about the hail.) Stodgy second breakfasts were consumed until the weather brightened and we headed off towards Llangammarch Wells. On the way we saw a strange rural sight, one which those of you who like poultry might prefer to ignore. The pig was fine, but the flock of chickens that followed it around competed vigorously with each other to consume its excrement. We had our own lunch later, on a lovely sunny bank by a small church. This had a font with grooves cut in it which tradition said were caused by Cromwell's Roundheads sharpening their swords during the Civil War.

The road narrowed down to single track and we knew the Devil's Staircase was approaching - 1 in 4 and quite a challenge. We paused at the bottom to watch the cars struggling up the hairpins, and then off we went. It snowed for the next twenty minutes, but this wasn't enough to stop Andrew and Jeremy coming back down to enjoy the climb again. Hazel and Richard were happy to walk most of the way.

We arrived at Dolgoch to find George the warden asleep in front of the fire. We hesitated to wake him, as we'd heard he was a little crochety, but we found him very pleasant and helpful. He was a little fussy about lighting the gas lamps (the hostel has no electricity) but happy to get the heater for the shower going. Two hikers arrived in the dark, otherwise we had the hostel to ourselves. The lights faded and died and we had to switch the cylinders over in the dark and rain. Thunder rumbled and lightening flashed, so the forecasters were vindicated at last. Richard is keen on juggling, and by this time the others were tempted to learn. The warden was so impressed that he bought three of Richard's beanbags for the benefit of future visitors.

We awoke to find a thin sprinkling of snow on the ground, the first since November, according to George. It soon melted in the morning sun, but it meant that Jeremy's spectacular fall in a ford must have been pretty chilly. We left the bleak peace of the mountain roads and descended long valleys into the warmth of civilisation. We had one final reminder from the weather, a violent hailstorm at the top of the last big climb, then we were back in Brecon, relieved to find the car where we had left it, and on our way home.