forty years on, to the day

ME, I'M A REPUBLICAN — but mostly of a softish sort;

I am however, certainly not a monarchist. But it is what it is. Nevertheless, even in Cheldon there was a festive feel and 'an event' on what I might call Cheldon Green, on the Platinum Jubilee weekend, (June '22) marking QEII's 70 years of being the monarch, etc. etc. We had a group eat under blue skies and comfortable heat, courtesy of S&J at The Barton. Good fun. Croquet and all. 

But that is not what this post is about. 

You see, as the weekend approached, my mind kept swinging back (unbidden) to reflect on a trek I once did into the Ben Alder Forest, up there in Scotland. So I eventually looked out my trusty log of those far back days and looked it up. 1982. Really? As long ago as that? May-June, a two week trip from Oxford on my Moto-Guzzi… And then it dawned on me: the day I reached the summit cairn/trig station of Ben Alder was forty years ago – to the day, this day, Friday 'party day' – as far as I can compute… 

In the twenty years of my 'Scottish Period' that excursion had been one of the very best. I bagged eighteen Munros, I had startlingly good weather, the experiences rose to a crescendo and included some very distinctive wild life, I had solitude but not loneliness, I ate well, slept well; I read a compelling new book called Midnight's Children. I was FIT damn it! And it all went swimmingly, very well. 

I have now poured over the mapping to see where I went, and at what points I pitched my shelter. The pictures I took have not stood the test of time particularly well: there are the tell-tale spider tracks of the mould that seems to eat colour transparencies even when stored with care. Oh for a digital camera then! 

So Here Goes. Just for me, but if you are interested, you might pass a few minutes sharing this recollection with myself, if you are a hill lover, past and/or present. I'll try to be brief and try to stick to the point.

Drove from Oxford to Derbyshire, overnighting at my younger brother's home, then on again to a second night at a friend's home at Great Ayton, and from there up into the Scottish Highlands south of Crianlarich – which was my sort-of base for this two weeker. I camped on arrival in Glen Falloch and turned my attention to the Munros thereabouts. I devoted my first three days in the area to ascending Ben More, Stob Binnein [day one, a Sunday], Cruach Ardrain, Beinn Tulaichean [day two, Monday], Ben Lui, Beinn Oss, Beinn Dubhchraig [day three Tuesday]. 

And of these, the finest was Ben Lui and its associated summits. 

 

After that (centred on those four nights camped close to the West Highland railway line) I took myself to Crianlarich Youth Hostel for the Wednesday night which is where I left the bike for the main event: my trek into the Ben Alder and Ardverekie Forests! Here we go!

By train from the conveniently hostel-adjacent Crianlarich station, north to the remote Corrour railway halt, without connection to the road network. I walked the Loch Ossian track, past the hostel and through the trees fringing the loch's southern shore, loud with cuckoos, sheltering me from the increasing heat of the day, passing by a pair of red throated divers cavorting on the loch, passing by Corrour Lodge, over the bridge and onwards up the Uisge Labhair (that's a river) to a site where I could put up my humble tent, grid reference NN474729. A hard back-packing day in almost cloudless heat, but to a spot that I recall as being very lovely, comfortable, discreet, where two major streams meet and 'loud with the music of water'. An early evening thunderstorm did not dispirit your author. I slept well there for three nights. 

I awoke! Friday. Ben Alder. 

My route to the summit plateau is pencilled onto the map sheet I carried in the field (no it isn't: I checked and he'd stopped doing that by '82 —ed). I need not recite it here, but I can report that there were still many snow filled hollows and cyms on my way, where red deer had congregated to take advantage of the cool (see left). I found icy deposits (deer free) a welcome source of drinking water, for it was mightily hot and as my pictures attest, hazy. Snow buntings were foraging amongst the summit outcrops and were far from timid. I had the top (apart from these birds and the odd transiting deer) to myself. Ben Alder is 1148m high. It feels big as well as high.

The east facing cliffs looked even grander from the second hill of my round, 

namely Beinn Bheòil, [1019m] right on the shoreside of Loch Ericht  (see above). No real signs of 'man'. I wish now I'd gone right round Ben Alder to get back to my humble tent but no matter, I would be going that way anon . . . I came back along the southern flanks of Alder. Oh my! A great day out!

Saturday was also bright and clear so I picked off the first of the two Geall Charns in the area, this being the larger, higher of the two at 1132 meters. It has a huge almost flat plateau summit with several summit like bumps, one of which is the summit of those summits. Up here? Golden Plover nesting all over that space, wonderful to see, hear and be amongst. And hundreds of deer once again using the retreating snowfields of the adjacent choires or corries to cool themselves.

West then, to Aonach Beag [1116m] and yet further west to Beinn Eibhinn [1103m], encountering a lone walker as I did so, who gave me the time of day, as my watch had stopped. And a chat too about what we had seen via our separate ways. She was bound for the last train south of the day, but I saw her again just as I got down to my tent so I made her coffee. Fair exchange: she had some barrier cream which she donated to my burning arms and legs. She must have walked at quite a pace to make Corrour station in time. Possibly wet as well: a heavy storm came over that evening and with it two hours of rain. I stayed dry, well fed, well read and as happy as Larry. Even if I did leave my socks out to dry overnight, the result being exactly the reverse.

Sunday, and time to move on. I packed up and went up and over the Bealach Dubh in cloud, noting the aircraft wreckage scattered thereabouts (not recent). Signs of man. After the initial publication of this turgid travelogue, the son-and-heir, ever mindful of his father's inaccuracies and keen to check  on the authenticity of reporting, kindly forwarded a link, enlarging on what happened here back in WW2. I am grateful to him for this intelligence. And then I walked all the way to Loch Pattack. Why? My log records it was a pretty barren stretch of terrain even when on the faint path made by other misguided types perhaps. You ought to see it on the map I carried. What was I thinking of? Anyway then I turned back west up a valley called An Lairig and even now I can recall it as a featureless barren place. An unaccompanied white boxer dog briefly appeared from the tussocks, spared me but a glance and continued about its business… I eventually camped at about 730m well off the beaten track, because you see, I had a plan. Hmm. Grid reference NN489783. Don't go there. You won't like it. I spent two nights. Good views of Loch Pattack, mind. 

Thankfully Monday was a sunny day but with quite a lot of relief cloud about. Yes, I was here to mop up some Munros I'd not be likely to get to again and with some mild scrambling on offer. Once more I won't trouble you with the route I took, or rather made as footpaths there are not, around these parts; the map is over-optimistic. First then to the summit of the closest Munro, Beinn a'Chlachair [1087m] largely a cloud swathed experience of ankle twisting boulder fields and no views either down into the mountain's deep northern Coire (Corry if you prefer).  Not to worry, I started back off the hill almost the way I came at first but then veered more and more northwards as the sun finally got through and I gained a stalker's path, lots more golden plover hereabouts too, and up the smashing little Creag Pitridh [924m] where the views were epic! You see, you do have to take the rough with the smooth, it was worth the grind. Well I think so… from this remove…  I lunched up there and really did marvel at the mountain views all round, some partly masked by clouds, but still grand for all that, the Ben and Grey Corries etc. 

One more to complete the set: Geal Chàrn [1049m, number two]. A bit of a tedious summit if memory serves, but sporting a trig station as does Alder of course, or did when I turned up there.  I returned to my tent via various humps and dried up bogs to be entertained by some low flying fellows of the RAF. Glad when they had gone. Lots of pippets nests, I noted.

Tuesday. Another scorcher. I packed up early and started back west. But with a final Munro to take in: Carn Dearg [1034m].  I parked my pack off the An Lairig path by this waterfall (left) and zipped up (hah) and traversed to the summit cairn of CD, where I disturbed a hare seemingly fast asleep thereat. Great views again, as you'd expect by now: A stonking view of the higher Geal-Charn, (see herewith). Dashed warm too.

After two hours I had got my pack back on my back and heading past a wee loch noted it to be full of perspiring red deer, then on to pathless hags and troughs and forest tree stumps, to eventually reach (below left) Loch Ghuilbinn, honestly, I kid you not, I had a brew up on its beach fgs!  

Round about there I encountered an eagle quartering the ridges of Mullach-Coire-nan-Nead.  So: across a new bridge and onto the dusty track south from Strathossian House down Strath Ossian (unsurprisingly) to Corrour Lodge and Loch Ossian. You see, I had planned to do Sgor Gaibhre [955m] and yet another Carn Dearg [941m - there are three Munros so called and several non Munros also] but what the heck. 

I could not find a suitable camp spot with water: the stream beds were dry hereabouts. Neither are very distinguished hills, so . . . I got some much needed water from the Ossian hostel, tramped on to arrive at the station, boarded a train south back to Crianlarich, the hostel and a night in a bed. I still had enough vim to oggle the Blackmount from the train and mull over plans for a 1983 trip to them…  

How the blazes did I manage that day mostly shouldering my pack and in quie some heat; I must have been all man, and slightly bonkers, the propensity of youth. 

No rest though. Oh no. Wednesday I was back on the bike to drive down to Loch Awe. But this  account stops hereabouts. Yes, I bagged both Stob Diamh [998m] and Ben Cruachan [1126m] to add to my Munro score, even did the principle ridge in the process and had my sylph like countenance snapped by a fellow summiteer on the top thereof but, well, its a bit of a honey pot summit, isn't it, and camping near it is a bit of an ask, and there aren't any related Munros to draw one to the area, etc. so there we are, done that, was rather my attitude I'm afraid as I removed the rude notice some job's-worth left on my Guzzi bike seat where I had parked it in the damned car park for the power station under the mountain. A seven hour round, I was pleased enough at the time, but well, you know, a sort of transient satisfaction. 

I drove back to the hostel, overnighted there and the next day, took off back to Oxford, via Great Ayton. Had some jolly storms on the way from there to Oxford but my spirits could not be dampened: for once I had a fully waterproof suit to bike south in… 

The trip did for my walking boots by the way. 

In 1983 I was back up there again, based again at Crianlarich, and riding the Moto-Guzzi again. I did the Upper Glen Lyon Munros (some anyway, like those indicated above Bridge of Orchy in the railway snap) and much of the Blackmount, together with the three Munroes I missed above Glen Falloch, just to be tidy this time: another seventeen hills to add in. Don't worry, I'm not going to roll that one out here … just now. A long time ago now (>sigh<). 

Just one other note: I used the now long discontinued OS 1:25000 10x20 km maps second series for this and many other Scottish jollies. Proper maps. Easy to handle in the field. Not those more recent bloody daft Outdoor Leisure maps, the size of Rutland and a devil to open and close in even the slightest breeze… and sometimes double sided, fgs! I mean, how stupid is that? Where ever you are looking for, it is always au verso, of course it is.  Progress I suppose. Explorer Maps? See above, just another level of Outdoor Leisure. The criticism holds good for them as well, don't get me started. Fine for your table top planning but up the hill? Mais Non!

Of course, most folk on the hills these days no doubt proceed with one hand extended, sporting a smart phone to tell them where they are, where they are going,  how long it may take, who they are, and who wants to know. Very useful I'm sure, reassuring and all that, don't want folk wandering off and getting misplaced, now do we?  But for me and many like me (there are still a few) the map remains supreme, while we can still get them in printed form that is.  OS Maps used for the Ben Alder section were a bit of NN26/36 Corrour and mostly NN47/57 Mid Loch Ericht. No longer available in this most useful of formats. Look at the price!

To conclude. An excellent two weeks then, my rating. What I fail to convey in the above, is the pleasure of solitude one can gain by such an endeavour, which I have often sought, supported even to the extent of hiding from other walkers out in the wilds. Plus sleeping out in it: big Plus that. Plus eating one's carefully planned meals out there, coffee never tasted so good. Sight and sound. Light. The quality of the rock and lochan. Birds and beasts of the field. Time to think. Plus much more. Plus Plus plus…

If you have been, thanks for reading through this. Any the wiser? I've got the maps and m'log still if you want to relive it with me… no? Hmmm…  Don't blame you, unless you've done it you won't get all this and that's a fact. Show us a dvd now, that would be the business, would it not?  

This was an experiment. I don't think it worked. But it has prodded some of my Random Access Memory back into life albeit with some serious 'drop outs'. Forty years on. What can one expect?

picture this

 

THIS IS A NEW POST to accommodate images that probably don't have a home anywhere else, perhaps because they originated from before I started posting, or don't fall naturally into place elsewhere, or for any other reason that at the moment I've not identified specifically…

I'll start with this: a mussel farm on the northern coast of Finistère original picture taken on 4 November 2017 on the Pointe des Guettes:

This span of countryside (below, two pictures) is no longer as clean as it appears here: wind turbines now stride across the middle distance. Pictures taken early morning on 1 October 2015 and seen from close by the Russian Napoleonic memorial hill (Montaimé) near Vertus.

Poles Apart (below) is a whimsical take on the red and blue poles that stride across the ridges of Ventoux. I always liked them even if they may seem a bit of a blight to the Ventoux purist.

This rendition (rade de morlaix) is self explanatory:

a twenty twenty-two note

Right then: twenty twenty two. And winter doesn't get any easier even though we don't get so much as a dusting of snow (to date). I for one feel cheated. 

Never mind: plans are afoot, ideas are stirring, the minds are pondering the choices and challenges… there is soon, a proposal, a projection, a preference for a travelling away from here, driving on the right to a greater light… if the ongoing plague can be negotiated again.

Meanwhile, one sends birthday greetings, rides the reopened 'Dartmoor Line' en famille, makes the 2022 marmalade, walks the fields… begins to spot the first signs of spring…  One also gets one motor MoT'd, and the other cleared of rodent infestation. The boiler is serviced, the winter oil consumption has left its mark so the tank is recharged and at triple cost to that of the 2020 fill…  A pre-owned smartphone has also been purchased… and returned with full refund, being unserviceable in the battery department. Another better phone is gifted to me, so it's win win I guess. 

… and just maybe I can look forward to no longer feeling as though someone might have set about me with a sand filled sock, sometime back around  the 2021 winter equinox, quite as much as I do at the moment.  

Now it is (as I scribe this) oh two oh two twenty twenty two or 02/02/2022 if you prefer. January is done with. February is now all the rage. My birth month. Shortest month of the year, any year. 

The month of the snowdrop.

So time to make pilgrimage to the north cornwall coast, taking in the last resting place of SS Bellem and expanding the lungs to suck up the saline freshness of a favourite environment, so long neglected. No falls, no slips, no wettings; and the company of like minds. This was 03/02/22. One thousand, three hundred and fifty eight days since last I walked this shoreline. Sobering, and much missed. A lovely looking number though, don't you think?

That's Jensen Text Italic you know. 

A week later a totter round a bit of the Moor, still wintery looking as far as the place can without the snow supplement. Hot tea from the good Doctor's flask and a couple of beers with our lunch in the Tor Inn upon retreat. I can't recall the skies being quite as blue as these snaps suggest… behaps I was too intent on looking where I was putting my feet… it's an age thing. No falls no slips and nil abrasions… how about that?

After the Dartmoor perambulation there is my significant February date of course, three quarters towards the century I am not remotely expecting (or hoping) to clock up. Sobering! Tsch! Fie!!! 

Diary entry, if I kept such a thing, would comment on flying visit of younger bro-and-sis-in-law to Bullsmead Barracks the day before the tempest called Eunice that has ruffled the nation takes charge as it passes over the Kingdom, dumping trees, roofs and detritus thither and yon. We suffer nothing much beyond a further tile slippage and rather a lot of birch twiglets, even though we are in the red warning area. Oh, and loss of the interweb-u-like, naturally. But the wind did roar mightily. I learn there are trees blocking roads hereabouts.  The son-and-heir cannot return to the bosom of his family on account of the none running of the trains. It's that bad. 

Franklin follows Eunice and inflicts more distress on our gables. Now we do need a roofer…… we think we have one…… but the wait might be long…… meantime guess who has to patch 'the thatch'? Ladder work. My favourite. 

Roof put back, and patched, in not very friendly conditions, and a week without any internet connection until today although I note the notice advising the month fee-take is as efficiently delivered as ever.  Only as we recover something like normal connection do I get to see the sickening horror of what Putin is dong to Ukraine. Could someone just blow him away please?