A bit more encouragement would go further than putting people down
On a crowded Welsh summit during a bank holiday weekend, two exhausted charity hikers completing a gruelling three-peak challenge chose to bypass an informal queue to touch the trig point at Yr Wyddfa, and were met not with encouragement but with jeers and physical obstruction. The moment intended to crown hours of effort became instead a collision between personal endurance and collective social expectation. Their experience invites a quiet but pointed question: when custom hardens into enforcement, and tradition displaces compassion, what does that reveal about the communities we form — even briefly — on a mountainside?
- Two charity hikers, already having scaled Ben Nevis and Scafell Pike, arrived at Snowdon's summit depleted, sunburned, and desperate simply to touch the marker and descend.
- Bypassing an hour-long informal queue, they were met with booing, a man physically blocking their path, and a stranger telling one of them he should be ashamed of himself.
- The pair insist the queue carries no official status — it is custom, not law — and argue that visible charity effort should invite encouragement rather than public shaming.
- The incident has ignited a wider debate about etiquette on overcrowded UK peaks, where unwritten social rules are increasingly enforced with the fervour of written ones.
- What stings most for the hikers is the contrast: strangers offered kindness and donations on the ascent, yet the summit — the moment of achievement — became the site of hostility.
Jamie Richardson and Richard Thiedeman had already climbed Ben Nevis in Scotland and Scafell Pike in England before arriving at Yr Wyddfa in Wales — the final peak of a self-imposed 24-hour charity challenge. Exhausted, sunburned, and running on little more than determination, they reached the summit on a busy bank holiday Sunday to find a crowd and a queue stretching more than an hour long just to touch the small stone trig point marking the peak.
They chose to bypass the line. What followed was a wave of public disapproval: booing from waiting hikers, one man physically stepping in to block their path, and a voice telling Richardson he ought to be ashamed. The moment they had worked toward for hours became, instead, a moment of collective censure.
Both men were clear-eyed about their reasoning. The queue, they noted, is entirely informal — no rule, no enforcement, no authority behind it. "It is purely free will," Richardson said. Thiedeman found the hostility particularly jarring given that their charity shirts were plainly visible. "Surely anybody at the summit of a mountain deserves a cheer and a well done," he reflected. Instead, pride curdled into anger.
The irony was not lost on them. Earlier in the climb, strangers had offered lifts, kind words, and donations. It was only at the summit — the symbolic apex of their effort — that the atmosphere turned. Richardson's parting thought cut to the heart of it: a little more encouragement, he suggested, would go further than trying to put people down. The episode leaves an uncomfortable question hanging over every crowded peak: when does shared custom become a weapon, and what do we owe one another in the brief communities we form on a mountainside?
Jamie Richardson and Richard Thiedeman arrived at the summit of Yr Wyddfa on a Sunday morning in late May, exhausted and sunburned after climbing two other mountains in what they'd planned as a 24-hour charity challenge. They had driven from Lincolnshire to Scotland to tackle Ben Nevis, then south to England for Scafell Pike, and finally to Wales. By the time they reached the 1,085-meter peak—also known as Snowdon—they were running on fumes. What they encountered at the top, however, left them angrier than the physical toll of the climb.
The summit was crowded. Over the years, visitors have reported waiting more than an hour just to touch the trig point, the small stone marker that marks the peak. On this particular bank holiday weekend, the mountain had taken on what some described on social media as a carnival atmosphere. Richardson and Thiedeman, wearing charity labels on their shirts, decided to bypass the queue. They had already summited two mountains that day. They simply wanted to tap the marker and descend.
What followed was a cascade of public disapproval. Hikers booed them as they moved past the waiting line. One man who had just finished taking his photograph at the summit physically attempted to block Richardson from reaching the trig point. As Richardson touched the marker, he heard someone tell him he should be ashamed of himself. The moment that was supposed to mark the completion of their challenge—a moment they'd been working toward for hours—became instead a moment of public shaming.
Thiedeman later reflected on the exhaustion that drove the decision. "I was really exhausted," he said. "I just needed to get it over with. I'm in the sun, I'm getting sunburned. I just need to tap the trig point and leave." Richardson, on his third mountain of the day in 20-degree heat with no shade, felt similarly depleted. "I was physically struggling," he explained. "I wanted to just go up and touch the summit and get myself down."
But the pair's frustration extended beyond the physical discomfort. They pointed out that queuing at the summit is not enforced—it's entirely voluntary, a matter of custom rather than rule. "There's no policing of it at all," Richardson said. "It is purely free will. If you want to queue, you can." They argued that what unfolded was less about fairness and more about British cultural expectations around standing in line, expectations that felt particularly harsh directed at people visibly raising money for charity.
Thiedeman was particularly struck by the contradiction. "When I'm wearing a T-shirt that you can see what this person's hiking for, surely anybody at the summit of a mountain deserves a cheer and a well done?" he asked. "I was coming up feeling proud and then I'm being booed, so now I'm really angry and I'm not focused on being proud." He added a broader observation: "Whatever anybody's belief or approach is, you don't boo somebody else because they don't have the same approach."
Interestingly, the climb itself had been marked by kindness. Two young women who spotted the pair walking from a separate car park and noticed their charity shirts offered them a ride to the trailhead. Other hikers offered words of encouragement and donations as they ascended. It was only at the summit, at the moment of achievement, that the tone shifted to hostility. Richardson's final reflection captured the tension at the heart of the incident: "A bit more encouragement in the world would go a little bit further, rather than trying to put people down." The incident raises an uncomfortable question about what we owe strangers on crowded mountains—and whether tradition should ever override compassion.
Citas Notables
There's no policing of it at all. It is purely free will. If you want to queue, you can.— Jamie Richardson
Whatever anybody's belief or approach is, you don't boo somebody else because they don't have the same approach.— Richard Thiedeman
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did they decide to skip the queue in the first place? Was it just impatience?
Not really. They'd already climbed two mountains that day and were physically depleted. Richardson was on his third peak in intense heat with no shade. For them, it wasn't about cutting corners—it was about survival, almost. They just wanted to touch the marker and get down safely.
But don't people queue everywhere? Isn't that just how it works?
Yes, but here's the thing—there's no actual rule. No one's enforcing it. It's pure custom, pure British culture. Richardson made that point clearly. The queue exists because people choose to stand in it, not because they have to.
So why were people so angry? What made them boo?
That's the harder question. Maybe they felt the pair were getting special treatment. Maybe they'd been waiting an hour and felt cheated. But the pair were wearing charity shirts. People had donated to them. The anger seemed to come from a sense of violated fairness, even though fairness wasn't actually being violated—just tradition.
One hiker physically tried to stop Richardson. That's pretty aggressive.
It is. And it's telling. The man had just taken his photo. He was done. But he still felt compelled to block someone else from doing the same thing, the same way. That's not about the queue anymore. That's about enforcing a social norm.
Do you think the hikers handled it well?
They were angry, and they had a right to be. But what struck me was their restraint. They didn't argue back at the summit. They just pointed out afterward that encouragement would have meant more than shame. That's a pretty mature response to being booed while exhausted.
What does this say about crowded mountains?
It says we're running out of space and civility at the same time. When peaks get this busy, the old rules break down. And we haven't figured out what replaces them yet.