eBothy Blog

At long last our mutual diaries were clear and I met up with my oldest and bestest friend Allan, aka The Penguin, at the wee car park on the ski road and headed off into the wilds for a high camp on Braeriach. So it was down to the river, swollen with the interminable summer rain this year and up past Lapland, the reindeer station and along the excellent path to the Chalamain Gap. It’s an interesting name is Chalamain. Calman is the Gaelic for dove but it’s pronounced with the svarahbakti vowel, which means it sounds like calaman and I suspect it’s just been named after the peak directly above it, Creag a’Chalamain or rock of the dove, as Chalamain isn’t a real word on its own, meaning “of the dove”. So there must have been a colony of rock doves here at some point and rocky it certainly is.

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It’s been ages since I managed to get out but yesterday, with the forecast set fair, I jumped out of bed on a chilly northerly wind morning, bright sunshine and clear skies and was walking up the Blaven track by 8am. Despite it being the holidays the roads were quiet and the car park was empty. Just some vans of kids waking up on the shore of Loch Slapin, across from my most favourite of hills.

At the beginning of May, Dawn and I headed south for a bit of a scenery change and to visit the rellies darn saath. Our goal was the Cotswolds, that most lovely of English counties, where I could happily retire if I could rob enough banks to finance a life of idleness in a suitably grand pile. Alas, it cannot be. The most we could afford down there would be a squat in someone’s wood shed I fear. But there are compensations for heading furth of “The Wall”, to the land of quaint rootlessness and parochial sensibilities. They being different hills, Real Ale with Ancient Pubs in which to imbibe and Tea ‘n Bun Shops! Welcome to my rose tinted view of England! I won’t mention the current infestation of sports celebrities/presenters on the telly, crooning appallingly bad renditions of well known songs, due to the World Cup. No I won’t mention that at all, at all.

Our first port of call was Coldbeck House in Ravenstonedale. A wonderfully snug and friendly B&B on the northern edge of the Howgills, sitting in a wonderful little village which plays host to Elm Lodge, one of those magnificently English, Hammer House of Horror castellated mansions one only glimpses through towering trees and a carpet of brown leaves, on the way to the local alehouse. Flaming torches and pitchforks you expect to see as the monster is chased up the grand drive. One of those neatly maintained gravel driveways that lead tantalisingly round the corner, out of sight. So neat, yet so apparently unused, except at dusk I’ll wager, when the Master emerges to drink his fill of maidens’ blood. Now I’m getting carried away.

Me ol’ pal Graeme was up with another old climbing friend, Gordon, heading for the South Glen Shiel ridge, so I popped along to let us have two cars, allowing us to start at Creag nan Damh and pootle along the ridge to Sgurr an Doire Leathainn. 3 Munros for Graeme and myself, while Gordon added the Corbett Sgurr a’Bhac Chaolais. So it was an early start from the house but I just had to stop at Eilean Donan castle for some pics. The old Jacobite stronghold was looking superb in the morning sunshine. Largely rebuilt after the “southrouns” (you know who you are!) blew it up after a party of Spaniards had the gall to come over and take on the government in 1719. It still looks the part of a highland fortress. Just up the glen, there’s the site of the Battle of Glenshiel where the Spaniards were defeated and everyone sort of just melted away. The Highlanders to their various hideouts while the Spaniards indulged in a spot of Munro Bagging, spending the night out on Sgurr nan Spainteach (Peak of the Spaniards), before being captured on the morrow.

Winter over, 20c forecast and light winds, I jumped on the ferry on Friday afternoon and drove across to Fort William and down the road to Bridge of Orchy, hung a right and pootled along the single track road to Inveroran, aiming for my third last Munro, Stob a’Choire Odhair. Funny that. I’ve been up Stob Ghabhar at least three times but I don’t remember ever having been up its smaller neighbour. I remember one memorable traverse from the White Corries ski centre, along the Blackmount ridge at the end of winter in ’89, meeting Rab the stalker on the way down Stob Ghabhar and having dinner with Rab and Jean at Clashgour, followed by a lift in their landrover to Bridge of Orchy for a night in the pub. They called Clashgour The Land of Milk and Honey and what a place it was. Superbly isolated near the headwaters of the Dochard glen, peering into remote mountains at the head of Glen Kinglass. I remember one night there, watching the picture on their wee telly turn all sorts of colours and shapes, twisting, dimming, turning green then purple then filling the screen, only to crumple back to a geometrical mess of psychedelic shapes. All this as the generator was playing up round the back, sending the voltage haywire.

Went for a bimble up An Stac at the weekend. 500 and something metres and nice and grassy. A short day out as we had friends arriving for dinner, so I went up the south ridge above the lochan:

Three words that sum up this winter. January was Alpine, quite literally, with massive dumps of snow that made walking almost impossible in some areas, especially the route into the northern corries of Cairngorm, virtually no wind and temperatures down in the minus twenties. These are indeed, Alpine conditions and they make for hard walking and avalanches and so far this winter, the wind has been absent. Last year there 100mph+ winds that wrecked parts of the ski building at Cairngorm but so far, not a lot of wind. It really has been one of the best winters ever. Even the Cuillin are plastered. which drew me out for a simple day’s bimbling on Blaven on Saturday.

At last, the snow cleared enough to get out of the village and just in time too, as I was booked on to the Winter ML refresher at Glenmore Lodge at the weekend. So I thought I’d bimble up Ben Wyvis on the way across on the Friday. The forecast was for light snow showers and winds gusting to 60mph. Still benign for this area but a bit wilder than anticipated. I hadn’t been up Wyvis in yonks but apparently there’s a spiffing path all the way  but from the word go it was slushy snow lower down with the path disappearing once I was out of the trees and I just plodded up squishy snow fields to the foot of the steeps of An Cabar.

With Dawn doing her stint with the rellies this year I got the call from Graeme that he was heading up north for new year and would I like to spend a couple of nights at Coire Fhionnairigh bothy with a day on the hill. So on boxing day I fired up the old banger and drove across to Culags, slotting the car into a vacant hole in the snow left by a previous vehicle. It’s been subzero here for almost two weeks with a huge amount of snow at the side of the roads and very very hard ice on the paths.

Christmas Eve, blue skies, barely a breath of wind and the fishing boats on Loch Eishort following leads through the ice to reach harbour. Is this what it’ll be like if the Gulf Stream diverts? It’s been sub-zero for the last week with stunning views in very clear air and snow from sea level to summit in every direction. So I thought it would be a good idea to get out in it for a bimble and the NE ridge of Beinn na Caillich promised some sport at Grade I if it was in nick and not just all powder. You tend to get that these days. Lots of unconsolidated powder snow.