Scotland Again

Belgian friends, learning of our connection to Scotland and nervously curious about the possibility of a holiday there, often ask what the best season would be to visit. I hesitate to give my honest opinion. End October/early November strikes most people as more than just eccentric. Anyway, I'm pretty scared of possible come-backs of the type: "You recommended the late Autumn, but it rained and blew all day, every day and got dark half-way through the afternoon!" But sometimes you're lucky, and this time we were. The long, lingering autumn had left the trees incandescent with aureate foliage, while sudden late October snow-falls had cloaked the hills in a mantle of immaculate white. Then, a spell of high pressure brought clear, blue skies, which turned every casual glance into a perfect Scottish calendar view.

Nigel met me at Inverness station and was very soon whisking me (and Ben the dog) down narrow country lanes in the trusty Xantia (see earlier entry). His original intention was to head on down Glen Cannich, but it quickly became apparent that, even with all warp-engines on full thrape in the traditional Lyle manner, we were going to be strapped for time. We found ourselves admiring an icing-sugar hill to the north of the entrance to Glen Strathfarrar. We had a reasonable prospect of getting up and down it before it got dark. "Anyway, one hill's much like any other", I opined heretically and so we decided on Beinn a' Bha'ach Ard, a throat-clearer of a Corbett, weighing in at 862m.




One hill's much like any other


The first problem we encountered was that we didn't have a map. Resourcefully, Nigel revealed a hidden cartographic talent, artistically transcribing the sketch-map in his SMC Corbetts book onto the back of a screwed-up check-out receipt and we set off.



Nigel's sketch-map

All orientation difficulties thus solved, we headed west along the road by the River Farrar for a mile or so (so far, so good), before turning off at the power station. From there we followed a track up through golden birches and snowy heather out onto the open hillside. I asked after Nigel's mother. Nigel's father had recently died. "Well, she's been very busy dealing with all the practicalities, which has sustained her in a way." "And yourself?" "Well, they say it's a mercy it was all so sudden, but I can't help feeling cheated." "To be honest," I answered, "having lost both my parents, I think it's difficult to know what you feel. Everything seems to happen at a level which isn't really affected by our normal coping strategies." We continued on up in a pensive mood. Morbidly, we discussed the relative merits of a sudden as against a slow lingering death. On reflection, it strikes me that all death is sudden. One minute you're there and then you're gone. How utterly, utterly strange life is. You don't have to go far in any direction before bumping into the questions: Who am I? What am I?



On the slopes of Ben a' Bha'ach Ard. Beinn in foreground

Meanwhile, we were headed in the direction of the broad southern ridge of Beinn a' Bha'ach Ard. It was heavy enough going. A surface crust on the snow would just about sustain our weight - until it didn't - and we would plunge in up to the knee. We started to develop a Miss Smilla type feeling for the snow. That bit looks like it might just hold, that's obviously too powdery. And in this exigent fashion, we continued on up the slope, finally arriving at the top of the hill.

Our heroes at the summit

We stopped to take in the vast winter vista, then continued northward along the tops to Sgurr a' Phollain. A new degree of urgency entered into the proceedings, as it became obvious that the light was beginning to fail. We headed east for a bit, then, as suggested by our "map", set off down in a south-south-easterly direction. It quickly became clear that we weren't going to just skip off the mountain and nip home for an early tea. On this side of the hill the snow was much softer and deeper. Even heading downhill, we were labouring and floundering. There wasn't the faintest hope of finding any sort of path. We were drawn to the security of the burn, which in the gloaming, at least offered us some sort of guide to follow. But as we thrashed our way down, it became increasingly clear that we were drifting too far to the west. We should have been passing by the eastern shore of the little Loch na Beiste. Peering through the half-light, it was difficult to interpret the landscape. Was that the Loch? Hadn't we already passed it, covered in snow? Was that shadow a track? Occasional glimpses of lights from the roadside houses offered us some encouragement. Basically, we just plunged on down. We blundered into a deer fence. We climbed it straight, lifting Ben perilously over, only to discover there was a step a few yards away. Five minutes later we had to reclimb the fence to get out of the plantation! On we went, through forest now, and then down steep grassy slopes, tripping over the bracken. With less snow lower down, the going was easier, but in the dark it was hard to know where the going was taking us. With a sort of uncanny instinct, Nigel found the best place to cross the burn and led us up to the track by the lit farmhouse. Phew! Fifteen minutes later we arrived back at the car, sodden but relieved.

Nigel was staying at a mansion in the Black Isle with a group of scoutmasters and mistresses of his acquaintance. I was given to understand that it would be mal vu to appear late at dinner. White tie, it seemed, was, given the circumstances, not de rigueur, but nevertheless it was clearly expected that certain niceties be observed. I was quite happy to abandon my anti-establishment principles in exchange for a warm dining-room and a hot meal. In fact, we couldn't get there quickly enough as far as I was concerned. The only trouble was we couldn't see where we were going. The "trusty" Xantia's demister was on the blink. Peering and wiping, opening and closing of windows, nothing really helped. Nigel passed me a baby-wipe(!) with which I succeeded only in smearing a layer of cloying, scented, greasy soap across the inside of the windscreen. Using a unique combination of ESP and head-out-the-window techniques, we guessed our way across the Black Isle and finally arrived at the magnificent, tastefully down-at-heel Poyntzfield House.



Poyntzfield House


I was a bit nervous about meeting the whole party. I felt a bit like a new boy arriving in some hellish prep school. Everybody, except me, knows what's going on. Everybody knows each other, everybody knows the school rules and, more importantly still, everbody is tacitly au fait with the unspoken codes of conduct. My anxiety was quite unwarranted, of course; everyone, including matron and the headmaster, was very charming and very welcoming, quickly putting me at my ease. I have sometimes thought it would be great to rent a big place and have all your mates come for a week. In fact, in my hippy(-ish) youth, I imagined it might be very stimulating to live in a commune, where a group of like-minded and creative people could strike sparks off each other. A close friend of mine did actually live in a commune in Copenhagen in the late sixties, early seventies. He said that, at its best, it was just that, a crescendo of creativity. But it fell down on the obvious things: who does the cleaning? who does the dishes? It's just a question of organisation, I hear you answering; but there's no more than a cigarette paper between necessary organisation and a rigid set of rules. Yet a straight-jacket of rules is what destroys the spirit of spontaneity which we (presumably) are seeking. It's a dilemma, and a dilemma we face whether or not we live in a group. In myself, I veer between psychotic control-mania and casualness to the point of irresponsibility. There are times, however, when I have felt the influence of a sort of organic order, while still being free, freer than normal in fact, to be myself. This is not a state I can impose, but I nevertheless need somehow to be deliberately open to it...

Dinner was served to a couple of dozen people around the large mahogany table. It was a well-ordered, but gargantuan affair. I ate heartily, but with a degree, I like to think, of polite decorum. Nigel, however, gave uninhibited rein to his trencherman talents. In this area he is peerless. Hefty second portions were followed by thirds and, as supplies failed to keep up, he resorted shamelessly to snaffling up others' leavings. Confronted with an anguished choice of pudding, Nigel compromised and had all three! Admittedly, we had an ambitious programme for the next day, but it would take a couple of Himalayan 8,000ers to work off that lot!

Next morning's breakfast was almost as elaborate. Grapefruit, porridge, bacon and eggs, toast and marmelade etc. etc. I was anxious to get going, but Nigel had deviously opted for a visit to the far end of Glen Strathfarrar. "They don't open the gate until 9 o'clock. No point in rushing." I acquiesced, sceptically, suspecting that we would be finishing in darkness again. We set off into the fine morning, but with the threat of cloud coming in from the north. Bombing cross-country, it was not yet 9 o'clock when we arrived at the estate lodge at the start of the glen (the previous day's starting point). With jobsworth pedantry the lady-gatekeeper refused to let us through before the appointed hour. We had a lot of remote hills to climb and every minute counted if we were to get back before the gate shut again at six in the evening. But she was not to be persuaded. Dante must have a special place in Inferno for these people. Finally we were allowed past the barrier and we were soon rattling up the glen.


We drove through scenes of breathtaking beauty. The massive glens to the west of Loch Ness are renowned for their loveliness. Years previously Carol and I had spent a few days camping in Glen Affric. I remember idyllic (and "refreshing") early-morning skinny-dipping in Loch Affric itself. But, if anything, our drive up Glen Strathfarrar was even more outrageously spectacular than those magical spring days of 1982. The intense autumn hues intermingled with the dignified stands of ancient Caledonian pine, both emerging dramatically against the soaring background of the snowy mountains, suddenly so much taller in their winter raiment. Deer were everywhere. Young stags grazing by the roadside would suddenly start at the approach of the car and trot away, proudly bearing their antler-crowns. It was as though we were drinking in a sort of condensed elixir of Scotland, the whole landscape imbued with that special Scottish quality, which I can only describe as a yearning nostalgia for the infinite. Words are inadequate, but those that have sensed this same "Spirit of the Hills" will understand what I mean.

Then suddenly we were lost. Our map had failed to distinguish between the metalled road and the land-rover track. Following what we thought was the most direct route, we forded the river and found ourselves bumping across the open moorside. We were now heading south, when we should have been heading west. We back-tracked until we found a route which took us in the right direction, but it was very slow going. We passed a lonely road-mender in a digger. We could read from the ironic smirk he gave us from his cabin, that we were not the first to have unwittingly eschewed the easy convenience of a tarmac surface. Still, having tested the terrain-going qualities of the old Xantia to the limit, we finally made it to the parking place at the little power station in Glean Innis an Loichel. We got out our kit and made ready. With confident, sweeping gestures of the hand, Nigel indicated his preferred itinerary for the day. A quick pull up to the bealach at the head of the Alt an Eas Bhàin Mhoir, a short detour to knock off An Riabhachan, before proceeding to an elegant traverse of Sgurr na Lapaich and Carn nan Gobhar, finally dropping down the hillside and easily back to the car. The fact that these desolate hills happened to be Munros was clearly purely coincidental. I kept my own counsel, merely drawing attention to the fact that we would need to be back at the car by 4.30 if we were to be sure to get out of the glen before the boom came down.

It must have been at least 10.30 before we finally set off. The going was easy enough at first, as we followed a well-laid stalkers' path up the glen. But, turning off the main track, we followed a sketchier route diagonally up the hillside. The higher we climbed, the deeper was the snow. By teetering on the outside edge of the track, however, we were able to avoid the heavier going. Just as any discernible track ran out, we arrived at the edge of the corrie. Routefinding became more complicated. We sought to skirt the deepest drifts, while at the same time avoiding unnecessary height gains. The rule of thumb seemed to be to avoid the very white snow and walk where the greatest number of grass-tufts showed through. In this way we picked our way to Loch Mor, a scene of lonely beauty and desolate purity. From a strictly landscape point of view, the mountain lochans are most often far finer than the summits. Perhaps I should draw up a table of the 500 best mountain lochs in Scotland. They would be called the Smiths, of course. A badge bearing the embossed emblem of a shrivelled male organ would be awarded to anyone who'd swum in all 500 of them! [It's probably already been done. Didn't Tom Weir write a book?]


Loch Mor

We stopped for a bite to eat and pondered our position. Swimming was obviously out, except for Ben. Another thing was equally obvious: there wasn't the faintest hope of our completing our projected route within the available time. It was now a toss-up between An Riabhachan and Sgurr na Lapaich. We opted for An Riabhachan. Nigel adduced some contrived topographical argument in its favour, but the bottom line was transparently obvious. An Riabhachan was the only Munro on our list that couldn't easily be climbed another day from Glen Cannich.

We set off round the eastern side of the lochan. On more than one occasion we were deceived by the stalks of grass and found ourselves plunging chest-deep into snow-choked stream-beds. We would wrestle ourselves free of the snow's grasp and blunder heavily on. It was hard work and it didn't get any easier as we hit the steeper slopes leading up to the col. Arriving at the col, it was blowing hard, as the wind funnelled through the gap between the hills. We adjusted our dress accordingly and set off in the direction of An Riabhachan. I started off across the first snow-slope, plodding unimaginatively away, well within my comfort zone. Behind me, however, I could sense Nigel getting impatient. At this gentlemanly pace there was a real prospect of his being cheated of his prize. Did he suspect me of deliberate anti-Munroist sabotage? Did he see me as a climbing anarchist striking a blow for Pointless Mountaineering? On some thinly-veiled routefinding pretext he forged past me and was soon disappearing off into the middle distance. I had no option but to start picking up my feet. With the tops clouding over and the weather clearly deteriorating it was probably a good idea to keep him in view. Actually, it wasn't a bad climb. The ridge steepened to a rocky edge and we were frequently forced onto the steep northern flank to avoid toiling exhaustingly through the heavy drifts. From the cairn at the top of the ridge we carried on through the mist to the summit. I had the map in a map case around my neck. Caught in the wind it acted as a propellor, winding up the chord around my neck until I near choked. Arriving at the summit, I had ignominiously to ask Nigel to release me from my garotte. Nigel took a photograph which subsequently revealed itself to be an experimental video of my feet: it might do something at some festival of avant-garde film. We returned to the subsiduary top, took a bearing and headed due north down the westerly arm of the corrie. We had a vague idea of finding a route back down to the corrie itself, but as we emerged from the cloud, it became obvious that we would do best to continue on down the long flank where the going was easier, the wind having blown away much of the snow. Once clear of the crags to our right, we set off cross-country in an east-north-easterly direction with a view to rejoining the original path up. I'd imagined I would at least be able to hold my own with Nigel on the way down. Far from it. He had the bit between his teeth and was going hell-for-leather. I struggled to keep up as we slithered and stumbled and plunged and bounded down and across the trackless hillside. It started to snow perfectly formed flakes, borne horizontally on the wind, like a souvenir snowstorm rotated through ninety degrees. Meanwhile, the wild cloud-driven hills to the north were illuminated by an unreal, other-worldly blue light. I was awakened from my aesthetic reveries by Nigel calling back to me that he had found the path. He waited to allow me to catch up and we continued on down together, crossed the burn, and hit the main track. The easier going seemed to trigger the turbo-charger in Nigel's bionic leg. There was no keeping up with him. At one stage I tried actually jogging, but quickly concluded that it would be less distressing to accept reaching the car a few minutes after him. Arriving, I threw myself into the moving vehicule, rucksack and all, as we careered round the bends and bombed down the straights. Nostrils flaring at the prospect of another slap-up country-house dinner, Nigel wasn't taking any chances. No way was he wasn't going to be locked out on the hill for the night. Following the metalled road this time, we rallyed our way around and over the Strathfarrar dams and on down the glen. Deer loomed scarily out of the night into the beam of our headlights. Unperturbed, Nigel raced on through the darkness. We reached the lodge gate a very generous fifteen minutes early.

The easy dawdle up An Riabhachan

Back at Poyntzfield we bathed and changed for dinner. The vast repast was followed by organised parlour-games in the gigantic sitting-room, the highlight of which was a wine-and-cheese guessing game. Although highly fancied as a "continental", I disappointed my team-mates with my hapless ignorance. Cheaply, I retreated behind the "I-only-know-expensive-wines-and-French-cheese" ploy. An old trick, but I escaped unchallenged.

The next day I had to catch the five o'clock train from Inverness, so we would have to be off the hill by three in the afternoon. We opted for a shortish day in Strathconon. So did the rest of the house-party. A convoy of vehicles headed up the glen and parked at Strathanmore. Our goal was Meall nan Uan, an elegant Corbett. It occured to me that, by setting off ahead of the main group, I could at least pretend to have the hills to myself. I followed the track up the slope. It took an agreeably shallow line. Assuming it would take a generous zig-zag back in the proper direction, I allowed myself to be tempted and followed it across the Allt an t-Strathan Mhoir where, neglected by the deer that had presumably made it, it promptly disappeared entirely. I had to contour steeply back to the proper route, over slippery rocks and through deep heather. No tragedy in itself, except that a sizable proportion of the party had rashly followed me on my idiotic detour. I felt like a retarded Pied Piper. However, I was still in front with the virgin slopes ahead of me. I plodded steadily on up. As the angle got steeper and the snow deeper, I became increasingly reconciled to sacrificing my lonely commune with nature for the convenience of having someone else break the trail. Sweating from the work, I stopped to take off a jersey and happily relinquished the lead. Our group stopped for a short rest behind the shelter of some rocks just short of the ridge as Nigel and Jane caught up. We spent the rest of the morning on a glorious winter ridge-walk, first up Creag Ruadh and then on to the enticing summit of Meall nan Uan. At the summit, we sat on scattered rocks and ate our lunch. I got to talking with one of the party, who shyly confessed to being one of my blogfans (bless you sir!) Oh really, and what bits do you like best? Oh, the bits where you make fun of Nigel, of course! I felt a defensive pang towards my oldest friend, but it quickly became obvious that Nigel is held in great affection by all, not least because of his idiosyncracies.

The enticing summit of Meall nan Uan

And so we headed back down, flying, as it were, along the perfect ridge. There was a slight regret that we didn't have the time to continue on with the "élite" group, which was doing the full round of the corrie to take in Sgurr a' Mhuilinn, but, then again, one hill's much like any other! Back at the car, I quickly got changed into civvies and stuffed my muddy gear into my pack. I stashed it in the back of the Xantia, got into the back seat with Jane in front, and before I'd even closed the door, Nigel had dropped the clutch and we were on our way, so we thought, to Inverness station. For the sake of variety he decided to take the quiet back road. Thrashing along at the usual full tilt, he suddenly had to brake violently as he pulled in to allow an oncoming vehicule along the single-track. The engine promptly died. We got out of the car and stood around vaguely. The Xantia was well past its prime but still not old enough to be the sort of car you can fix. However, as it transpired, hanging around seemed to do the trick. Nigel turned the engine over in the spirit of desperate hope - and it fired! Everybody back in and flat out down the narrow lane. We continued in this way for a mile or so. Then the engine cut out again. Despite violent attempts to bump it, Nigel couldn't coax it back to life. We limped into a passing place and pondered our next move. I was resigning myself to missing my train and had even started phoning to that effect, when a chunky 4x4 appeared from the other direction and drew up alongside to commiserate. The driver was a friendly southerner with a poney-tail. He had something of the ageing rock star about him. He could have been the model for "Celeb" in Private Eye. We explained our train problem. No problem. I'll just drop off a couple of things at my place and come back and take you to the station. It's the sort of gesture that restores your faith in human nature. True to his word, he was back within the twenty minutes. I felt a bit awkward about abandoning Nigel and Jane to their fate, but they urged me on my way. I didn't insist.

Thanks to my guardian angel I made the train. Embarrassed, I offered him money for petrol but he wouldn't hear of it. The whole situation was redolent of my old hitch-hiking days in the early seventies, when lift-givers and lift-takers shared an unspoken bond of non-conformist sympathy. I remember queues of hitchers at certain key junctions. Where are they now? All too rich? Or too scared? Something magical has been lost, it seems to me.

And so all ended happily. Nigel was fully insured against breakdown and the car had nothing more serious than air in the fuel lines, I made it to my haute cuisine dinner appointment with the family at the Roman Camp in Callander, and, most importantly, inspired by natural beauty, constant friendship and human decency, I have taken renewed courage to live till I die.