This is my edited journal from my trip to Scotland last weekend. My apologies for the quality of the photos - the poor weather was entirely to blame. The quality of the writing is all my fault, however!)
Rain Stopped Play (or Thoir a-mach ris an tom)
Friday 13th March 2009
Its a long way from South Yorkshire to Inverpolly. 470 miles, to be precise; over nine hours on the road. A long way for a long weekend in the hills. But, as I drive further into Scotland, the views enchant and the anticipation draws me on.
North of Perth, the landscape is that of the Scotland known the world over; the land of distilleries and fly fishing. The saltyre cross of St Andrew flutters from kirks and castles. Just as I begin to tire, the Beauly Firth and the Black Isle leap into view, and I descend swiftly into Inverness, and the last urban sprawl of my journey.
Now, the landscape takes on a different, older character. With my back to the fertile Black Isle soil, I see a land too barren for barley, one where the crops are hard won from fell and seashore. A land of majestic, isolated peaks, survivors of the last ice sheets to cover this land, for it shares its latitude with Canadas Hudsons Bay. An Teallach, Slioch, Liathach, Suilven; Evocative mountain names formed in the old and long voweled Scots Gaelic, that we English always struggle to pronounce.
Ullapool is the last, and most charming, town on my journey. A town of trawlers and bookshops, whitewashed houses and friendly people who speak with the soft, lyrical accent of the far North. Here one might take the ferry to remote, Presbyterian Lewis, one of our most distant isles. Instead, another 15 miles north brings me to the foot of Stac Pollaidh, a tiny mountain that nonetheless rises aggressively above the road, its crags apparently unscaleable. A mountain equivalent of the short guy with a chip on his shoulder, looking for a fight. A Jack Russell of a mountain.
I change into my walking clothes, and deliberately check my gear. The air is mild, and there are few patches of snow on the summits, so I leave my axe and crampons, hoping the weather wont turn suddenly cold. As I walk along the road for a mile or so, the waters of Loch Lugainn lap gently beside me, and a curlew springs startled from its roost.
The stalkers path is well made, and leads up through pine woods to Lochan Fhionnlaidh, where a land of lochs, bogs and mountains is spread before me. Cul Mor dominates the middle distance, yet it is the whaleback ridge of Suilven that draws the eye northward.
Now I turn from the path, and head up the slopes of Cul Beag towards Cioch a Chuil Bhig, where I intend to camp. The sun has set and, as the light dims, the ascent gets steeper and harsher. Tussocks of ling and purple moor grass snag my feet and sphagnum bogs glow russet and emerald. I zig-zag wearily upwards, stopping frequently as the unfamiliar load on my shoulders tries to pull me backwards down the slope.
(Cul Beag from the North)
As darkness falls, I know I wont reach the Cioch, although I am close enough. I manage to find reasonably flat and firm, though not dry, ground, not too far from water. I pitch the tent, and lay out my sleeping bag. Fetching water from a tiny babble, I warm the boil-in-the-bag food, and sit hunched in my one-man tunnel, eating without great appetite. I need to collect more water for breakfast, but the rain arrives, keeping me in the tent, avoiding wet gear so early in the trip.
I step out briefly to piss, and the horizon is gloriously aglow with lighthouses along the coast; maritime fireflies. Back in the tent, Im not yet tired. Should I study the map? Write my journal? Masturbate? The mountain air always plays tricks on my body. My eyes ache from the great exposure to so much clear, natural light. And my libido increases greatly; a paradoxical urge for sex, alone on a remote mountain.
The wind is blowing harder now. Though the pegs are well in, the ground is very soft, and I worry that the tent will not keep its moorings.
Saturday 14th March 2009
It is 7:15, but there is little reason to rise as yet. The wind seems to have died a little. In the night, great gusts punched the tent, but it has held firm. However, the rain is still falling hard. I am trying not to think of the implications for the river crossing later in the day.
8:00
So much for the wind dying. Huge gusts have rocked the tent in the last 45 minutes, ripping a couple of the pegs out. But there is no delaying the inevitable. It is time to pack up and start climbing that steep slope in the clouds above. Besides, Im aching for a piss.
I pack my gear, and move up towards the invisible Cioch. The map offers no help in direction, and even the compass and GPS are of little use here, on these barren, rock-strewn slopes. The ground grows steeper, heather and boulders making progress difficult, until I am scrambling up a 45deg slope. Rocky bluffs bar the way above. I find tiny paths, running across the slope, but attempting to follow them just confirms my suspicion that these are deer trails. The wind increases, snatching at my rucsac, threatening to spin me around. It is now blowing a steady 50-60mph, with ferocious gusts. I try not to think of slipping with 50lbs strapped to my back. These hills can go without visitors for weeks on end.
Pinned to the slope by the wind and rain, with no visibility of a way through the cliffs above, I take the decision to go back down. That prospect does not appeal either, given the steepness of the terrain I have just covered. But a series of ledges and deer trails give me an easier descent. I emerge below the cloud base, and fix my bearings. Below me Loch an Doire Dhuibh lies fringed with ancient birch and sandy bays. A herd of hind are startled by my presence, and canter elegantly away, turning to stare at me, silhouetted on the ridge. Small cliffs and marshes check my pace, but I finally reach the tree-line, and a stalkers path.
The track leads back to the road and, as the rain beats down on me, proves a genuine temptation. But, as I follow it, I think of what I always tell others about this land. That it is a place that requires patience. It will throw all it can at you, but reward you with the most sublimely wonderful days of your life.
I abandon the path, and head instead further into the wilderness of Inverpolly, towards Loch Sionasgaig, where I had originally planned to camp tonight. At this low level, the ground is marshy and saturated. In between the heath rush and reindeer moss lay clear pools, bubbling with frog spawn.
It is hard to convey the wetness of this land. The peat soil acts like a sponge, retaining huge volumes of water, and supporting the acid loving moorland vegetation. As you walk, the ground sucks at your feet, and water pours over your boots, making progress wearisome.
The river crossing is little trouble, although walking poles were essential, and I stumble on, my shoulders and hips aching under my load. The wind and rain tear into me still, but now I am becoming almost manically defiant. I shout and swear at the weather, and when I finally, after much meandering, find a good camp spot, I mock the conditions, You lost! I made it, you bastard! By now the wind is my personal enemy, malevolently attacking me. But I have won, for now.
(Camp by Loch Sionasgaig; Suilven to the north)
A wind sheltered promontory by the loch edge provides an ideal spot to camp. I pitch the tent, repairing a pole I had snapped that morning, in the awful conditions. I dive inside, out of the rain, and swap my wet clothes for dry. And I eat. And eat. I have hardly had anything all day, barring a little orange juice and water. I wolf down pate and pitta bread, soup, fruit loaf, chocolate, sweet coffee, all in no particular order. I feed my calorie debt voraciously. Then I doze as the rain still hammers down.
16:00
The rain has stopped! The wind still gusts, but that is to my advantage now. I haul out my damp clothes and hang them from guys and walking poles.
(Clothes drying in a brief rain-free spell - Cul Mor in background)
The clouds lift, revealing the gusty tops of Cul Mor and Cul Beag, my lost objectives. I gaze out across the windswept loch, waves scudding across its surface. Stac Pollaidhs jagged top rises to the south, and majestic Suilven to the north. I take a stroll, free of the weight of my load; make more coffee and sit by the lapping water, writing my journal, happy that I have been patient enough to enjoy this brief moment.
But there is rain in the air again. It is time to haul in the drying clothes, and take shelter!
19:00
The light has faded, and the rain patters down. Tonight, ladies, my bedroom attire consists of blue longjohns, with matching vest and a balaclava (think Grandpa Clampet meets Ernest Shackleton). Please form an orderly queue!
I pull my sleeping bag around me, cup my hands around my balls to warm them, like back and listen to the lapping waves as darkness falls.
Sunday 15th March 2009
8:30
The wind and rain have not let up all night, but as I boil the kettle again, to fill my flask, the clouds have lifted a little. A teasing breeze gusts now and then, and a rushing burn cascades into the loch nearby. It is hard to predict what kind of day it will be, but for now it is, what? Peaceful, perhaps. Well, maybe not. But enjoyable all the same. A good walking day if it stays like this; dry and cool.
9:00
I leave my beautiful, wild campsite, feeling far readier for the day ahead than I had yesterday. My rucsac now sits quite comfortably on my hips, relieving the strain on my shoulders. While not sunny, the breeze gusts and blusters, and moors, lochans and mountains spread around me.
I love this moorland scenery. Not many would call it attractive, and it is certainly no Poussin paradise. Neither is there a huge biodiversity, the saturated acid peat limiting the ability of most plants to survive. Yet our small island has 12% of the worlds moorlands, and the Inverpolly Forest is a pristine example. I squelch past three different heathers, several mosses, rushes, grasses and sedges, and some plants I cannot identify. By late spring, this will be home to curlew, dunlin and snipe, as well as being the year round residence of our native red grouse. In autumn, the stags will roar across the glens as the red deer begin the rut. And in winter, otters will hunt for frogs in the pools, while the fish hibernate.
(Looking across Inverpolly Forest from the slopes of Stac Pollaidh)
Regardless of the sucking ground, I am enjoying myself. And then I reach the river crossing. The water is now considerably higher. I cannot use my previous crossing, and I am now on the wrong bank. The river is only short, a conduit from one loch to another. But it is swift and quite deep in places. I find the only realistic route, place my walking poles firmly, and step onto the first rock. Green algae makes the surfaces slippery. I quickly find that I have to be deliberate in my movements. As the water rushes around my legs, if I lift a foot in anticipation of a step, the water snatches it away. I have to decide to move, then do it rapidly and precisely. My poles are invaluable in steadying myself. While there is little chance of a disaster, being submerged in the rushing water is not high on my wish list, and I reach the opposite bank more than a little relieved.
My objective, Stac Pollaidh, rises ahead. I walk past small, sandy beaches where hoof prints lead to the waters edge. Then up through an ancient birch woodland, fenced to prevent the deer eating the saplings, or stripping the bark from the mature trees, and killing them. Here is a vision in miniature of what this land was once like. Birch and Scots pine grow in profusion, with holly and dog rose also establishing themselves. For moorlands are rarely true wilderness, rather created by continual deforestation, that dates back to the Stone Age, and the management of stock and wildlife for food. Climate shift will alter the level of the high treeline, but at these low levels, it is the deer that prevent the reversion of this landscape to woodlands. Getting over the fences proves challenging. Before I can pull myself up and over a strainer post, I have to launch the equivalent of a bag of cement over a 7 high wire!
The ground steepens towards the Stac Pollaidh path. One of the amazing features of sphagnum bogs is how they still form on 30deg slopes, or even steeper. The final push to the path, sinking into the bog at every step, really saps me.
But now I can leave my rucsac. Taking only a small bottle of water, I make rapid progress up the steep, rocky path towards the pinnacle strewn ridge. As I near the top, the rain arrives again and, although I am in the lee of the hill, I can see it being ripped across the summit ridge by the wind.
The true summit is at the western end. I know that to get there, I have to negotiate a challenging 15 rock step. The guide book says the inexperienced mountain walker should leave this step alone, since a slip could have disastrous consequences. Well, I have twenty odd years of experience, so there should be no problem. After a couple of false turns, I finally find a gully that seems to fit the description. But it looks a damn sight harder than I expect. At the top of the scree slope, I put my foot on a rock, and jump as it splits from the cliff and skitters away down the gully below. The Torridonian sandstone is heavily eroded, sloping and friable. And, today, it is also very wet.
Concentrating hard, I heel-toe into the crack, and edge up a few feet. I can just latch my fingers around a high hold. This is getting stupid; and I am feeling very nervous by now. The sloping, damp hold feels insecure under my fingers, and the wind is gusting hard up the gully, buffeting me on my fragile stance. Taking a deep breath, I pull hard, all the time thinking that this is going to be a nightmare to reverse. A few more pulls and I reach the top of the gully. I peer over the other side, and see.a path. Shit! Shit! Shit!
Another less than pleasant rock slab takes me to the top of the pinnacle. And I stare across at the summit, as it momentarily appears in the cloud. Still 200 and several more pinnacles away. I have had enough. I cannot care less now; even an escalator would not tempt me. My nerves are frayed, and so I retreat to the path which, thankfully for my ego, ends in a blind drop. Instead, I traverse west and skitter down the steep screes back to the point where I have left my rucsac.
Less than an hour from my struggle in the gully, I am back at the car, damp, filthy and tired. It is heavenly to put on dry clothes, although I suspect that I smell rather skanky by now! Twenty minutes later, I am driving into Ullapool, which feels like a metropolis to me. Being Sunday, virtually everywhere is closed. But the Chippy is open. Not just any fish and chip shop, but the one that BBC Radio 4s Good Food programme voted the best takeaway in Britain. And, my God, the haddock is gorgeous!
(Boats in Ullapool harbour)
I eat by the harbour, watching a Scottish trawler unload its catch onto a Spanish lorry. Smells of fish, diesel and brine wash over me, the smells of a living hard-won. Then I drive 125 miles from Ullapool to Glencoe, through some of the finest scenery on this island; the light finally fading, and rain returning as I travel along the shores of Loch Ness.
And now I sit in the Clachaig Inn in Glencoe, a belly full of beer and burrito, photos of mountains and climbers lining the walls. Three summits attempted; none attained. Do I feel like I failed? No, not at all. It is not just about the summits. It is about the wilderness, about coping with the conditions, about making the right choices, and about absorbing your surroundings in all their marvellous detail. But I must stop. I have a beer to finish, and a tent to pitch. And it is raining. Cest la vie.
Epilogue
Monday 16th March 2009
It rained all night. It rained as I packed up, and as I drove south through Glencoe and over Rannoch Moor. The waterfalls were glorious though. I rang my wife, and she told me how wonderfully sunny the weather had been in South Yorkshire...
(Soundtrack for the trip: Julie Folwis wonderful album, Cuilidh. Julie was born and raised on the remote Hebridean island of North Uist, one of the few places where Scots Gaelic is still spoken as a first language. She revives and arranges the traditional folk songs of her island, and the lyrical beauty of the Gaelic shines through in her wonderful voice. I defy anyone not to be enchanted: http://www.juliefowlis.com/ . And if you visit her website, you may be able to translate my alternative title!)
Rain Stopped Play (or Thoir a-mach ris an tom)
Friday 13th March 2009
Its a long way from South Yorkshire to Inverpolly. 470 miles, to be precise; over nine hours on the road. A long way for a long weekend in the hills. But, as I drive further into Scotland, the views enchant and the anticipation draws me on.
North of Perth, the landscape is that of the Scotland known the world over; the land of distilleries and fly fishing. The saltyre cross of St Andrew flutters from kirks and castles. Just as I begin to tire, the Beauly Firth and the Black Isle leap into view, and I descend swiftly into Inverness, and the last urban sprawl of my journey.
Now, the landscape takes on a different, older character. With my back to the fertile Black Isle soil, I see a land too barren for barley, one where the crops are hard won from fell and seashore. A land of majestic, isolated peaks, survivors of the last ice sheets to cover this land, for it shares its latitude with Canadas Hudsons Bay. An Teallach, Slioch, Liathach, Suilven; Evocative mountain names formed in the old and long voweled Scots Gaelic, that we English always struggle to pronounce.
Ullapool is the last, and most charming, town on my journey. A town of trawlers and bookshops, whitewashed houses and friendly people who speak with the soft, lyrical accent of the far North. Here one might take the ferry to remote, Presbyterian Lewis, one of our most distant isles. Instead, another 15 miles north brings me to the foot of Stac Pollaidh, a tiny mountain that nonetheless rises aggressively above the road, its crags apparently unscaleable. A mountain equivalent of the short guy with a chip on his shoulder, looking for a fight. A Jack Russell of a mountain.
I change into my walking clothes, and deliberately check my gear. The air is mild, and there are few patches of snow on the summits, so I leave my axe and crampons, hoping the weather wont turn suddenly cold. As I walk along the road for a mile or so, the waters of Loch Lugainn lap gently beside me, and a curlew springs startled from its roost.
The stalkers path is well made, and leads up through pine woods to Lochan Fhionnlaidh, where a land of lochs, bogs and mountains is spread before me. Cul Mor dominates the middle distance, yet it is the whaleback ridge of Suilven that draws the eye northward.
Now I turn from the path, and head up the slopes of Cul Beag towards Cioch a Chuil Bhig, where I intend to camp. The sun has set and, as the light dims, the ascent gets steeper and harsher. Tussocks of ling and purple moor grass snag my feet and sphagnum bogs glow russet and emerald. I zig-zag wearily upwards, stopping frequently as the unfamiliar load on my shoulders tries to pull me backwards down the slope.
(Cul Beag from the North)
As darkness falls, I know I wont reach the Cioch, although I am close enough. I manage to find reasonably flat and firm, though not dry, ground, not too far from water. I pitch the tent, and lay out my sleeping bag. Fetching water from a tiny babble, I warm the boil-in-the-bag food, and sit hunched in my one-man tunnel, eating without great appetite. I need to collect more water for breakfast, but the rain arrives, keeping me in the tent, avoiding wet gear so early in the trip.
I step out briefly to piss, and the horizon is gloriously aglow with lighthouses along the coast; maritime fireflies. Back in the tent, Im not yet tired. Should I study the map? Write my journal? Masturbate? The mountain air always plays tricks on my body. My eyes ache from the great exposure to so much clear, natural light. And my libido increases greatly; a paradoxical urge for sex, alone on a remote mountain.
The wind is blowing harder now. Though the pegs are well in, the ground is very soft, and I worry that the tent will not keep its moorings.
Saturday 14th March 2009
It is 7:15, but there is little reason to rise as yet. The wind seems to have died a little. In the night, great gusts punched the tent, but it has held firm. However, the rain is still falling hard. I am trying not to think of the implications for the river crossing later in the day.
8:00
So much for the wind dying. Huge gusts have rocked the tent in the last 45 minutes, ripping a couple of the pegs out. But there is no delaying the inevitable. It is time to pack up and start climbing that steep slope in the clouds above. Besides, Im aching for a piss.
I pack my gear, and move up towards the invisible Cioch. The map offers no help in direction, and even the compass and GPS are of little use here, on these barren, rock-strewn slopes. The ground grows steeper, heather and boulders making progress difficult, until I am scrambling up a 45deg slope. Rocky bluffs bar the way above. I find tiny paths, running across the slope, but attempting to follow them just confirms my suspicion that these are deer trails. The wind increases, snatching at my rucsac, threatening to spin me around. It is now blowing a steady 50-60mph, with ferocious gusts. I try not to think of slipping with 50lbs strapped to my back. These hills can go without visitors for weeks on end.
Pinned to the slope by the wind and rain, with no visibility of a way through the cliffs above, I take the decision to go back down. That prospect does not appeal either, given the steepness of the terrain I have just covered. But a series of ledges and deer trails give me an easier descent. I emerge below the cloud base, and fix my bearings. Below me Loch an Doire Dhuibh lies fringed with ancient birch and sandy bays. A herd of hind are startled by my presence, and canter elegantly away, turning to stare at me, silhouetted on the ridge. Small cliffs and marshes check my pace, but I finally reach the tree-line, and a stalkers path.
The track leads back to the road and, as the rain beats down on me, proves a genuine temptation. But, as I follow it, I think of what I always tell others about this land. That it is a place that requires patience. It will throw all it can at you, but reward you with the most sublimely wonderful days of your life.
I abandon the path, and head instead further into the wilderness of Inverpolly, towards Loch Sionasgaig, where I had originally planned to camp tonight. At this low level, the ground is marshy and saturated. In between the heath rush and reindeer moss lay clear pools, bubbling with frog spawn.
It is hard to convey the wetness of this land. The peat soil acts like a sponge, retaining huge volumes of water, and supporting the acid loving moorland vegetation. As you walk, the ground sucks at your feet, and water pours over your boots, making progress wearisome.
The river crossing is little trouble, although walking poles were essential, and I stumble on, my shoulders and hips aching under my load. The wind and rain tear into me still, but now I am becoming almost manically defiant. I shout and swear at the weather, and when I finally, after much meandering, find a good camp spot, I mock the conditions, You lost! I made it, you bastard! By now the wind is my personal enemy, malevolently attacking me. But I have won, for now.
(Camp by Loch Sionasgaig; Suilven to the north)
A wind sheltered promontory by the loch edge provides an ideal spot to camp. I pitch the tent, repairing a pole I had snapped that morning, in the awful conditions. I dive inside, out of the rain, and swap my wet clothes for dry. And I eat. And eat. I have hardly had anything all day, barring a little orange juice and water. I wolf down pate and pitta bread, soup, fruit loaf, chocolate, sweet coffee, all in no particular order. I feed my calorie debt voraciously. Then I doze as the rain still hammers down.
16:00
The rain has stopped! The wind still gusts, but that is to my advantage now. I haul out my damp clothes and hang them from guys and walking poles.
(Clothes drying in a brief rain-free spell - Cul Mor in background)
The clouds lift, revealing the gusty tops of Cul Mor and Cul Beag, my lost objectives. I gaze out across the windswept loch, waves scudding across its surface. Stac Pollaidhs jagged top rises to the south, and majestic Suilven to the north. I take a stroll, free of the weight of my load; make more coffee and sit by the lapping water, writing my journal, happy that I have been patient enough to enjoy this brief moment.
But there is rain in the air again. It is time to haul in the drying clothes, and take shelter!
19:00
The light has faded, and the rain patters down. Tonight, ladies, my bedroom attire consists of blue longjohns, with matching vest and a balaclava (think Grandpa Clampet meets Ernest Shackleton). Please form an orderly queue!
I pull my sleeping bag around me, cup my hands around my balls to warm them, like back and listen to the lapping waves as darkness falls.
Sunday 15th March 2009
8:30
The wind and rain have not let up all night, but as I boil the kettle again, to fill my flask, the clouds have lifted a little. A teasing breeze gusts now and then, and a rushing burn cascades into the loch nearby. It is hard to predict what kind of day it will be, but for now it is, what? Peaceful, perhaps. Well, maybe not. But enjoyable all the same. A good walking day if it stays like this; dry and cool.
9:00
I leave my beautiful, wild campsite, feeling far readier for the day ahead than I had yesterday. My rucsac now sits quite comfortably on my hips, relieving the strain on my shoulders. While not sunny, the breeze gusts and blusters, and moors, lochans and mountains spread around me.
I love this moorland scenery. Not many would call it attractive, and it is certainly no Poussin paradise. Neither is there a huge biodiversity, the saturated acid peat limiting the ability of most plants to survive. Yet our small island has 12% of the worlds moorlands, and the Inverpolly Forest is a pristine example. I squelch past three different heathers, several mosses, rushes, grasses and sedges, and some plants I cannot identify. By late spring, this will be home to curlew, dunlin and snipe, as well as being the year round residence of our native red grouse. In autumn, the stags will roar across the glens as the red deer begin the rut. And in winter, otters will hunt for frogs in the pools, while the fish hibernate.
(Looking across Inverpolly Forest from the slopes of Stac Pollaidh)
Regardless of the sucking ground, I am enjoying myself. And then I reach the river crossing. The water is now considerably higher. I cannot use my previous crossing, and I am now on the wrong bank. The river is only short, a conduit from one loch to another. But it is swift and quite deep in places. I find the only realistic route, place my walking poles firmly, and step onto the first rock. Green algae makes the surfaces slippery. I quickly find that I have to be deliberate in my movements. As the water rushes around my legs, if I lift a foot in anticipation of a step, the water snatches it away. I have to decide to move, then do it rapidly and precisely. My poles are invaluable in steadying myself. While there is little chance of a disaster, being submerged in the rushing water is not high on my wish list, and I reach the opposite bank more than a little relieved.
My objective, Stac Pollaidh, rises ahead. I walk past small, sandy beaches where hoof prints lead to the waters edge. Then up through an ancient birch woodland, fenced to prevent the deer eating the saplings, or stripping the bark from the mature trees, and killing them. Here is a vision in miniature of what this land was once like. Birch and Scots pine grow in profusion, with holly and dog rose also establishing themselves. For moorlands are rarely true wilderness, rather created by continual deforestation, that dates back to the Stone Age, and the management of stock and wildlife for food. Climate shift will alter the level of the high treeline, but at these low levels, it is the deer that prevent the reversion of this landscape to woodlands. Getting over the fences proves challenging. Before I can pull myself up and over a strainer post, I have to launch the equivalent of a bag of cement over a 7 high wire!
The ground steepens towards the Stac Pollaidh path. One of the amazing features of sphagnum bogs is how they still form on 30deg slopes, or even steeper. The final push to the path, sinking into the bog at every step, really saps me.
But now I can leave my rucsac. Taking only a small bottle of water, I make rapid progress up the steep, rocky path towards the pinnacle strewn ridge. As I near the top, the rain arrives again and, although I am in the lee of the hill, I can see it being ripped across the summit ridge by the wind.
The true summit is at the western end. I know that to get there, I have to negotiate a challenging 15 rock step. The guide book says the inexperienced mountain walker should leave this step alone, since a slip could have disastrous consequences. Well, I have twenty odd years of experience, so there should be no problem. After a couple of false turns, I finally find a gully that seems to fit the description. But it looks a damn sight harder than I expect. At the top of the scree slope, I put my foot on a rock, and jump as it splits from the cliff and skitters away down the gully below. The Torridonian sandstone is heavily eroded, sloping and friable. And, today, it is also very wet.
Concentrating hard, I heel-toe into the crack, and edge up a few feet. I can just latch my fingers around a high hold. This is getting stupid; and I am feeling very nervous by now. The sloping, damp hold feels insecure under my fingers, and the wind is gusting hard up the gully, buffeting me on my fragile stance. Taking a deep breath, I pull hard, all the time thinking that this is going to be a nightmare to reverse. A few more pulls and I reach the top of the gully. I peer over the other side, and see.a path. Shit! Shit! Shit!
Another less than pleasant rock slab takes me to the top of the pinnacle. And I stare across at the summit, as it momentarily appears in the cloud. Still 200 and several more pinnacles away. I have had enough. I cannot care less now; even an escalator would not tempt me. My nerves are frayed, and so I retreat to the path which, thankfully for my ego, ends in a blind drop. Instead, I traverse west and skitter down the steep screes back to the point where I have left my rucsac.
Less than an hour from my struggle in the gully, I am back at the car, damp, filthy and tired. It is heavenly to put on dry clothes, although I suspect that I smell rather skanky by now! Twenty minutes later, I am driving into Ullapool, which feels like a metropolis to me. Being Sunday, virtually everywhere is closed. But the Chippy is open. Not just any fish and chip shop, but the one that BBC Radio 4s Good Food programme voted the best takeaway in Britain. And, my God, the haddock is gorgeous!
(Boats in Ullapool harbour)
I eat by the harbour, watching a Scottish trawler unload its catch onto a Spanish lorry. Smells of fish, diesel and brine wash over me, the smells of a living hard-won. Then I drive 125 miles from Ullapool to Glencoe, through some of the finest scenery on this island; the light finally fading, and rain returning as I travel along the shores of Loch Ness.
And now I sit in the Clachaig Inn in Glencoe, a belly full of beer and burrito, photos of mountains and climbers lining the walls. Three summits attempted; none attained. Do I feel like I failed? No, not at all. It is not just about the summits. It is about the wilderness, about coping with the conditions, about making the right choices, and about absorbing your surroundings in all their marvellous detail. But I must stop. I have a beer to finish, and a tent to pitch. And it is raining. Cest la vie.
Epilogue
Monday 16th March 2009
It rained all night. It rained as I packed up, and as I drove south through Glencoe and over Rannoch Moor. The waterfalls were glorious though. I rang my wife, and she told me how wonderfully sunny the weather had been in South Yorkshire...
(Soundtrack for the trip: Julie Folwis wonderful album, Cuilidh. Julie was born and raised on the remote Hebridean island of North Uist, one of the few places where Scots Gaelic is still spoken as a first language. She revives and arranges the traditional folk songs of her island, and the lyrical beauty of the Gaelic shines through in her wonderful voice. I defy anyone not to be enchanted: http://www.juliefowlis.com/ . And if you visit her website, you may be able to translate my alternative title!)
cayleigh:
oh wow sounds like an amazing trip!
cayleigh:
haha thanks! I think I might do a video blog today. I was talking to someone yesterday who didn't think I look like I have a twang and lots of people who meet me online and then hear me talk are never expecting it so I thought it would be neat for you guys to hear me. I just have to get motivated to do my hair and stuff early enough before work.