Summer and Winter on Stuc a' Chroin. Part 2, Winter.

Around this time I discovered there was a Kirkcaldy and District Mountaineering Club. Joining as a junior member cost £1. I would wait outside the paper shop on Kinghorn High Street for the bus to arrive, usually about 8am. On the first trip, in October, the rain hammered down and didn't let up till late afternoon. The roads were bad in those days and we didn't arrive at Forest Lodge at Inveroran till eleven o' clock. As the weather was awful most of the members went for a low level walk down Glen Kinglass. I was impatient with this chattering gaggle and set off into the mist to climb Stob Gabhar. I was soon completely soaked but made it to the summit where I met a couple of other lads from the bus. I felt quite self righteous about this as we were the only ones who made the effort.



Stob Gabhar from Loch Tulla near Inveroran. October 2015

Back at the bus I sat on the step and poured about a pint of water out of each boot. I hadn't thought of bringing a change of clothes so had to sit in wet clothes all the way home. We'd dropped off two lads at Bridge of Orchy and picked them up again. The bus hadn't travelled far when one of them asked the driver to stop so he could vomit spectacularly onto the verge. He came back into the bus muttering sheepishly

"It must have been the pork chops"

I knew he was a real mountaineer because he was wearing big boots, ragged tweed breaches with braces and a tartan shirt. I couldn't fathom, however, why I was soaking wet and he had remained dry.

The real mountaineer.

.
In November we went to Glen Clova. For once the weather was half decent with only a few snow squalls high up. We climbed the steep Scorrie onto Driesh then walked over the plateau to Mayar, all covered in light snow, then descended by Corrie of Fee. I was impressed by this place and made a mental note to return as soon as I could.

For the last trip of the year the bus picked up some people from the Rosyth Civil Service Mountaineering Club and took us up to the Lawers range. I climbed Ben Ghlas with two men and a young woman from Rosyth in wild, snowy conditions. We could hardly stand on the summit so they turned back but I was exhilarated and decided to push on to Ben Lawers. Unfortunately the coll between the two peaks was a sheet of ice and I was blown over and had to whack my pick in and crawl on hands and knees. I thought things were getting a bit silly so slid over the edge on my backside to get out of the wind and made my way down by the old ski hut. I was annoyed when I found that another two people and a German Shepherd dog had made it to the summit.

By this time I'd read W.H. Murrays's ' Mountaineering in Scotland' and although most of it was above my school boy head the chapter about high camping in winter interested me immensely. I read it several times. As the winter came on a began to think about another jaunt.



Lochearnhead from the summit of Stuc a' Chroin.

It was the 26th December 1964 and almost a year since we'd been washed out by the great Glen Ogle gale. Now we were in a Ford Anglia on the road to Callander, driven by Robert's dad. As we approached the town the sky over Ben Ledi was leaden grey and the first few flakes of snow were beginning to fall.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.

"It's only a few flakes," I said, "It'll probably come to nothing."

"I hope your right."

During the walk in the conditions became worse. We found shelter in a shed at Arivurichardich and ate a snack, watching balefully as the snow came down, heavier every minute.The plan was to follow the same route as taken in the summer, up to Lochan a' Chroin. The contrast in the seasons couldn't have been greater. It was as well that we knew the way as the mist and snow closed right down. We struggled up the steep slope on a few inches of new snow, two steps forward, one sliding back. Fortunately we had ice axes which were useful as walking sticks and to whack into the slope to stop a slip. My heavy load suddenly became lighter as the tent slipped off the top of my rucksack and slithered into the deep burn gulley. I had no choice but to retrieve it as our survival depended on the tent. I'd rarely used an ice axe and it seemed ludicrous using it in a burn gulley instead of the pristine snowfields of a sunlit summit. I rescued the tent and whacked my way up the banking using the pick for security. This couldn't have taken very long but when I emerged from the gulley the mist seemed thicker and it was now getting dark. We were concerned because everything was taking so long. Having come up here without a care in the long days of summer we were now faced by the winter night, snow and mist closing in around us.

 I was relieved when the slope began to ease a little and I was in the lead when it began to flatten out. I had feeling that we were nearing the loch. The snow was deep and level. I moved forward cautiously for twenty or thirty yards. There was no horizon, no view other than a few feet. When I glanced round I could just make out the ghostly figure of Robert who was a few yards behind me. The snow swirled down relentlessly, piling up on balaclava and rucksack, plastering us from head to foot. I had the dawning sense of something wrong. I looked at the snow at my feet. It was incredibly smooth and without spears of grass or heather sticking out of it. I shouted,

"Robert! Stop! I'm on the loch."

I cautiously retraced my steps till I new there was grass below me.



The realisation of walking on thin ice.

Following what we thought was the edge of the loch we came to the spot we'd camped at the summer before. By scraping with our boots and axes we moved as much snow as we could and pitched the tent. This went well till I removed a glove and picked up a steel peg which immediately froze to my skin. We quickly dragged the kit and quite a lot of snow into the tent and pummeled our fingers to restore circulation. With a candle lit and the stove purring away we felt much better. Beneath us lay a couple of inches of snow and frozen turf but we were lying on thick foam mattresses which gave excellent insulation. We were many miles from habitation, it was midwinter and we were completely alone. Conditions had been difficult but we were exactly where we wanted to be. The night had descended, they snow built up on the flysheet and spindrift rustled and swished round the tent. It may seem a strange thing to say, but I was happy.

When the grey light of dawn filtered into the tent the apex of the roof was covered in glittering ice crystals. I had expected this from reading 'Mountaineering in Scotland' and had arranged the vents accordingly to ensure an essential air flow across the roof. This had been a success. What I hadn't expected, and wasn't mentioned by Bill Murray, was frozen boots. To go out for a call of nature and a billy of water for the breakfast I needed boots, but they were frozen solid, with the laces as stiff as pencils. I thawed them out gently over the stove, a practice not recommended by boot manufacturers.




Thawing out frozen boots.

While doing this I said to Robert,

"I wonder what the weathers like? Often after snow like this you get clear skies and a good hard frost."

I pulled on extra sweaters, balaclava, anarak, over trousers and the now wet and clammy boots. I untied the door. A great blast of spindrift blew in as I crawled out into the snow. All around me snow swirled and billowed. It was difficult to tell if it was still snowing or not because of the spindrift. The tent was plastered with snow and barely visible from a few feet away. The mist was just as thick as yesterday but it was much windier. I managed to find a little trickle of water flowing under a turf and filled the billy, then retreated to the tent.

"It's murder out there."

We lay there to midday, occasionally looking out to see if conditions had improved. They hadn't. That afternoon frustration drove us out and we walked as far as we could away from the tent till it was almost out of sight, only twenty or thirty yards. This was no good. We returned to the tent again. Before it grew dark I stuck my head out. Something was happening. We pulled our kit on and crawled out. The mist had lifted a little to reveal a land of brilliant, disorienting white, without form or shadow. The wind had eased, there was no spindrift and a small patch of blue sky opened above us. Then what seemed like a miracle to our sensation starved eyes appeared as the snow and clouds were briefly tinged with pink at the last dying of the day. It did not last long. Soon we were back in shadow, deep blue shadow as the mountains were seized again by the iron grip of cold.

It was another freezing night but again we slept well. As predicted by Bill Murray, who had tried foam mats, I noticed ours were getting damp with condensation and wouldn't have done another night. Our boots required thawing again but when I looked out I could see immediately that conditions had changed. For the first time I could see across the frozen loch. The cloud ceiling had lifted and a thaw had started. The temperature felt more like rain and the snow was turning mushy.


"It's thawing!" I shouted, "It's thawing!"

Our course of action was clear. It was time to go down.



Stuc a' Chroin from Ben Vorlich, Feb. 2016

I stood in the doorway of the paper shop as the rain lashed down. I was waiting to be picked up by the Mountaineering Club bus. It never arrived. I didn't know what had happened and there were no phone numbers on the membership card so that I could contact someone. I never knew if it was a temporary aberration or the club had permanently folded. I still don't know.

I was annoyed at he time but it didn't matter much. Everything was changing. Cammy was working, Josh had gone to Edinburgh University to study medicine, both Philip and Robert joined the Army to learn trades. I had my mind set on Art College and the mountains would recede into the distance for a time. That summer I left school and made some money working at the commercial salmon fishing on the River Tay. I was living in a bothy and turning out for every tide, so I had little time for the mountains. It was hard graft, but a way of life that has, like the salmon, virtually disappeared. That autumn I enrolled at Duncan of Jordanston College of Art, Dundee. 

Summer and Winter on Stuc a' Chroin. Part 1 Summer.

It was obvious that our winter expedition had ended in retreat. As we had been honourably overwhelmed by wind and weather we never considered that our tactics were at fault. I was undeterred and started to plan another  long trip, this time in summer.

 

Starting from Callander Phillip and I intended to walk north to Kingussie, a distance of over ninety miles. This meant crossing several ranges of hills but with a lot of road slogging in between. The interesting part, to my mind, was the last leg when we crossed the A9 and entered the western Cairngorms by the Pass of Gaick. When I looked at the tight packed contours and lochans on the O.S. map my pulse quickened with excitement. This was big country. As it was we never reached that far.

 

Common sense told us to travel as light as possible and replenish food in the towns we passed through. I insisted, however, that we be entirely self sufficient and carry as much food as we could. This trip would last at least six days so we amassed a massive bundle of groceries. As well as this I was now the proud possessor of a Blacks Mountain tent which weighed about as much as the planet Saturn. To use this as a summer hike tent was a mistake.

 

We set off from Callander quite late, at 6pm and walked on into the evening. When we pitched the tent in Glen Artney we found we were in midgy hollow. Both the evening and early morning were windless and we were eaten alive by midges. Philip, who seemed more allergic to them than me came out in a blizzard of red pimples.

 

On the second day we rested for an hour near Comrie then 

Philip with midge bites

reluctantly started the long trudge up Glen Lednock. We

had been up since 5am so the heavy loads and heat of the
afternoon were taking their toll. Eventually we reached the dam
and decided, as there was still several hours of daylight left,

to finish the climb over the ridge. This should leave us with an easy morning next day. By the time we pitched camp on the reverse slope we were dog tired and couldn't be bothered to make a proper meal. Dehydrated soup and crisp breads were hardly enough to power us for the next hard day.

 

Up till now the weather had been warm and set fair but during the night the wind got up and it started to rain. we hoped it would soon pass over but instead it got worse. We should have moved on when our kit was still dry but lay in our bags waiting for it to pass. It didn't. We ended up mopping up pools of water and our sleeping bags were soaked. Eventually we accepted the inevitable and headed down to Ardeonaig in torrential rain. A passing motorist took pity and gave us a lift into Killin.

 

We were sitting looking dejected outside a bakers shop wondering how to get home when a van driver with a bread board on his head asked,
 

"Whaur ye goin lads? Do ye want a lift?"
"Aye, we're trying to get back to Kinghorn."
"Jump in. I've one more delivery to mak then it's richt hame tae Kirkcaldy."

Relief at getting such a lucky lift quickly changed to terror as we realised we were being driven by a madman. Every panel of the bread van rattled as he shouted over the noise of the engine 

"Leave hame at five o' clock - deliver Beatties


Glen Lednock dam. Our path took us over the horizon ridge.

bread roond Perthshire - up the glens - wee twisty roads ken."

Change gear, pull out, overtake, foot flat down
on the accelerator.

"Up Glen Lyon - hit hump back brig - heid hit roof - ye see yon rivets (pointing to the roof above his head) "Rivets ripped scalp - drove doon the glen - heid pishin bluid - couldnae see a thing - didnae care a fuck - back tae Kirkcaldy in record time."

He thought of himself as the Jim Clark of
bread van drivers and we arrived back in Kirkcaldy deafened, rattled, shaken, terrified
and still wet from our soaking. It was a great ride!

Back home I was quite dejected by this failure. The highlight of the expedition had been the drive back. Everything seemed so exhausting and difficult. It was certainly not fun. The first thing I did on a practical level was buy a flysheet for the tent. This then served me well in all conditions and in storms was often the only tent left standing.



Beinn Each, Stuc a' Chroin and Ben Vorlich from the David Stirling, SAS memorial, near Doune.

I soon bounced back and planned another trip, but this time a short walk in and a high camp. I enlisted another three palls and a parent gave us a lift to Callendar then up the little road as far as Braeleny. We walked to the reservoir and took the track up Gleann a' Chroin. It was late afternoon on a fine August day and very hot.

We turned up the Eas lochan a' Chroin and the hard work began. Our packs were heavy and it took us ages to climb up to easier ground. With many rest stops the day had sped away and it was evening before we reached the Lochan a, Chroin. Here we were surprised to meet another two walkers who were heading over to Lochearnhead. The lochan seemed bigger and more open than I expected and we soon found a good camping spot with views south west to Beinn Each.



Lochan a' Chroin with Beinn Each in the background

 

 With the tents pitched and a meal cooked we were able to enjoy what was left of the evening. We retreated to Grahams tent and drank some beer, read books and listened to the radio. This little transistor was a most un - Spartan innovation but I enjoyed it.

I woke up after a good nights sleep feeling almost human but the weather was lousy. Thick mist meant we couldn't see across the lochan. A perpetual drizzle was punctuated by torrential showers. We hung around for as long as we could then decided to have a go at Stuc a' Chroin. As we started scrambling up the steep slope the weather improved a little with the cloud base lifting above the summit. We were camped at about two and a half thousand feet so it didn't take us long to get there. A plan to carry on to Ben Vorlich was abandoned as I'd left the map and compass in the tent. Instead, we turned west and followed the line of an old iron fence that took as back along a ridge then cut back down to the lochan.

The next morning we were woken by a blazing sun but before we emerged from our sleeping bags the heavens opened with a torrential down pour. The noise was intense and I thought the weight of water would split the flysheet. Fortunately it stopped as suddenly as it started then settled into a fine day.

The moisture laden atmosphere of the Scottish hills often plays tricks with distances. So it was with Beinn Each, which was closer than we thought. We used the morning to walk along the rocky and contorted ridge. Unfortunately we had to pass through a great cloud of flies and stench from the putrefying cadaver of a dead sheep, crackling with maggots. Not put of by this, we lay on the summit and dined on sardines, chocolate and oranges. This was a curious mixture but all we could carry in our pockets. Great storm clouds built up to the north west and we watched apprehensively as they dumped sheets of rain on Lochearnhead but fortunately none came closer than Glen Ample.

On the summit of Ben Each with Stuc a' Chroin in the background

Stuc a' Chroin from the busy summit of Beinn Each, October 2016

Back at camp the sun came out again. Two naked figures streaked across to the lochan carrying Graham's air bed.

"Come back you bastards!" he shouted. "That's not fair, I've got to sleep on that." They ignored him and swam out to the middle of the loch pushing the airbed in front of them.

"Why don't you join them?"
"No!"

He retreated to his tent in a black huff. I thought I'd go for a dip too so stripped off and carefully entered the water. I'd expected it to be bitterly cold but the sun had warmed it up so that it was bearably pleasant. After a swim I lay for a bit in the sun. High on the shoulder of Stuc a' Chroin I could just make out the tiny figure of a shepherd working his dogs. The pale flock flowed gracefully across the hillside. I could hear, but not make out, his calls which sounded entirely expletives. The only other sound was the occasional drone of insects, but there was a pleasant light breeze and no sign of midges. This was more like it.

Back home, Cammy was keen to initiate us into abseiling and rock climbing. There was a high, crenelated wall we called the battlements just outside the Scout hall so we practiced descent on that. Fortunately, this was not with the old clothes line as used on Ben Vorlich but with a new, nylon climbing rope. Getting started on the descent was always nerve wracking. It takes a lot of confidence to lean over a void on a rope to the point you can start to walk down the wall. He showed us how to do it in classic fashion, with the rope wound round the body and also with a sling and screw gate karabiner.Both of these methods use the body for friction and was hard on the shoulders and clothing. We also scrambled along the foreshore to Carlin Head where he showed us how to belay and practiced rock climbing on the low crags. 

.





Cammy abseiling off the battlement. This feature was demolished a few years later.



Myself, Cammy and Josh striking a pose on Carlin Head

This was all good fun on a boring Sunday afternoon. It usually ended with us swaggering into the Rosslands café for a hot coffee and playing the jukebox. The Dave Clark Five's raucous 'Bits and Pieces' was a favourite as we'd stamp the springy wooden floor in unison with our big boots till the cups and saucers bounced on the tables and Mrs Mac would run out from behind the counter and scream at us.

A note on Hill Fever.

A few years back I was trawling round the second hand bookshops of Edinburgh looking for Artists anatomy books. I happened to glance in the medical section and came across this reference to Hill Fever. The book was too specialised and expensive for me to buy but the bookseller very kindly photocopied the relevant part. Here it is.

 

HILL FEVER

 

"Hill fever is a chronic condition which once contracted can lie dormant for many years. The symptoms range in severity from the frequently fatal 'Extreme Mountaineering' to the less life threatening but deeply pernicious 'Munro Bagging', named after the earliest recognised Scottish sufferer.

The psychological symptoms are just as pronounced as the excessive physical activity. The sufferer loses the use of the reasoning faculty and the more frequently they expose themselves to danger and hardship the  wilder their delusion that they are 'having fun'.

There is, as yet, no antidote. Research suggests that marriage and its attendant procreation at least delay the recurrence of Hill Fever, but is never a cure."

 

Quoted from

Grays Dictionary of Hyperborean Disease.

 



Sufferer of hill fever showing classic symptoms. Illustration from Grays Dictionary of
Hyperborean Disease

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Praise of Ben Vorlich

It was in August 1963 that we shouldered our packs and trudged up the twisty wee road that leads north out of Callander. Desperate to have an attempt at something bigger than the Lomonds I had been poring over maps and decided that Callander, and from there Ben Vorlich, was reachable by taking three buses from Kinghorn.

So there we were, on a fine day with the hills of Stuc a' Chroin and Ben Vorlich before us. The first obstacle was the Keltie Water which was crossed gingerly on a shoogly wooden footbridge, which sadly, is no longer there. From the reservoir we climbed the steep eastern ridge of Stuc a' Chroin and found it hard going. The view from the bealach was worth it, however. Compared to the Lomonds the Stuc and Ben Vorlich seemed massive and dark with foreboding. We picked our way down through the peat hags to the little patch of green at the junction of two burns that was Dubh Chorien and pitched our tent there.



The old footbridge over the Keltie Water, 1964

That evening we climbed the broad ridge towards the summit of Ben Vorlich. A gale was blowing and it was bitterly cold. Rain
showers swept across the dark corrie and
gloomy clouds huddled down over the tops of the hills.

When we entered the mist I had an outbreak of caution. Although Davy was beside me I felt utterly alone, in a remote, hostile place. I also remembered our debacle in the Ochils The ridge was now narrowing with lethal crags on either side and clearly this was no place for wandering, navigational blunders. I had a failure of nerve and decided to go down.

It was not long, however, before I had another crack at Ben Vorlich..


Stuc a'Chroin and Ben Vorlich from Gleann an Dubh Chorien, 2015. Mixed Media on Paper.

Cammy was an engineering apprentice at Rosyth Naval Dockyard and being noted as a strong, likely lad had been sent away for a month on an Outward Bound course. Character building, I suppose.

 

He came back brimming with confidence and keen to organise an expedition. Cammy and Josh put their heads together and came up with a plan. We were to walk from Callander to Aberfeldy via Lochearnhead, Killin and Glen Lyon. I noticed that apart from the first leg it was all on roads. The other disadvantage, which none of us seemed to consider was we were setting off on Hogmanay, the 31st December. This is a time of year with less than eight hours daylight and the nights long, cold and dark.

There was a problem with tents, as the Scouts had only one rather old and basic hike tent. Cammy decided to take that as a store and cooking tent and we all chipped in to hire two Blacks Mountain tents. As there were six of us going on this trip it meant sleeping three to a tent. This was rather cramped, I thought, as they were only two man tents. They were, however, top of the range 'Ventile' tents as used on major expeditions in high mountains. Cammy assured us that even without flysheets they would keep out the rain. These were bomb proof tents, sure enough, but at 16lbs., extremely heavy.

My own Blacks Mountain tent is over 50 years old. Still in
reasonable condition as I always used a flysheet. The more
expensive Ventile version was paler in colour.

We arrived in Callander about 11am. The main street was busy with folk shopping for the New Year celebrations. Surprisingly, Cammy dived straight into the Café Rex for a cup of coffee. We were keen to get started but followed him in as he was the leader.

Eventually we got going in a fine drizzle but just before Braeleny farm Pete threw down his pack and produced a large bottle of cider. He had intended to keep it for the New Year but was a heavy burden. We all had a slug and it was quickly guzzled. Refreshed by this we crossed the Keltie and climbed the slope above Arivurichardich in good spirits. The mist was down and there was the usual argy-bargy about which way to go with people wandering off in different directions like random atoms. Having been this way before I had at least a feeling for the lie of the land so kept my head down and plodded on. Suddenly a gust of wind tore apart the mist and the peaks of Stuc a' Chroin and Ben Vorlich appeared, black and streaked with snow. They were silhouetted against the dying light and swathed in cloud, which obscured, then parted giving us brief, tantalising visions.

"Wow", said Josh, "That's something. Do you fancy climbing that?"

"Yes," I replied, "When?"

"Tonight."

"Why not?"

The camp at Dubh Chorien. This is a ruin of an old shepherds lambing bothy, used at least until the 1920's



We camped at Dubh Chorien again and the tents were up and the stoves roaring away. The menu, arranged by Cammy, was
 

Soup (dehydrated)

Stew (tinned)

Potatoes (dehydrated)

Mixed Veg.(dehydrated)

Tea, bread and whatever delicacy individually carried.
 

I was looking forward to this and most of the food was hot and ready to serve.

"Can we dish out the soup?" I asked.

"No," said Cammy, "Just Hang on. This is what we'll do."

He tipped the soup into the biggest pot that held the Smash potato then we watched, appalled, as he poured the hot stew and veg. in as well.

Who's got a spoon?"

He stirred the mess vigorously then stood up.

"Stand back!"

To our amazement he started whirling the pot round and round his head.

"He's centrifuging it."

We expected our food to go hurtling into the night but gravity retained the lid and he eventually unwound. He took the lid off to reveal a brown, steaming sludge. It was not attractive.

"Here! Give me your plates."

He served out big dollops of this with slices of bread and in the dark it tasted quite good.

"This is how real men eat."

"Really?" I said. I had my doubts.


Cammy whirling the dinner

 



The darkness was intense, seemingly exaggerated by the faint glow of a candle seen through the thin canvas of a tent. A raucous game of cards was going on inside as we prepared ourselves for the hill. A bulky figure pulled himself out of the sleeve entrance.

"I think I'll come with you," said Cammy, "It's too cold to hang about here."

We checked our resources. A wooden staff, two torches and an old clothes line.

"That'll do. Let's go."

 

By the light of dim torches we could see little more than a few feet in front of us. The mist was thick and bounced back what little light there was.

We crossed hillocky moraines then floundered into peat hags, cursing and swearing. Eventually we won on to easier but steeper ground, climbing up the broad shoulder to the summit. It was bitterly cold but now we sweated. It was imperceptible at first but eventually I sensed a subtle change.

"Hi! Stop a minute. Look up there."

"You're right. It's getting lighter."

Soon there was a dusting of snow underfoot and ice crystals gleaming on the rocks. Suddenly the mist parted and we could see the sparking ridge above us and the sky filled with an incredible multitude of stars.

"It's very slippery," said Cammy, "maybe we should rope up."

We tied onto the clothes line as best we could but this was more an impediment to free movement and had slight psychological value. The ridge soon narrowed and we could see the summit trig point ahead.

 

I'd never seen anything like this before. We stood on the summit and looked down on a sea of cloud. Through a gap could be seen a few twinkling lights of Lochearnhead, the only sign of human habitation.To the north and west the summits of countless snow capped mountains thrust out of the cloud, bathed in the cold, ethereal light of a full moon.

"Wow!" This was something beyond my wildest dreams.

"Have a slug of this."

"What is it?"

"Navy Rum"

"No thanks."

"Come on," said Cammy, "I know it's not the Bells yet but it soon will be. Where could you find a better place?"

"Oh well' alright."

We all had a swallow of rum. The ardent spirit burnt my throat and set fire to my stomach. I'd never tasted it before.

"It'll put hairs on your chest."

"Well, happy New Year guys."

We shook hands.

"Yea, Happy New Year"

On the summit of Ben Vorlich

 New Years day 1964 saw us trudging up a boggy glen in heavy rain and thick mist. We were tired, cold, wet and not very happy. There was no discernable track and the mist was so thick we couldn't even see the steep sides of the narrow glen. Navigational chaos broke out as Cammy started to flounder away to the right. Fortunately the mist parted briefly to reveal the bealach just up ahead. I recognised it instantly and we squelched across to Glen Vorlich and Lochearnhead.

Lochearnhead was a loch side straggle of cottages with no shop and a hotel that was closed. We drank some milk from a vending machine and began to climb the road up Glen Ogle. The heavy packs and lack of sleep were beginning to tell. Even the older boys who were carrying the tents were beginning to flag. Pete began to limp badly so we stopped by the side of the road. He was wearing ancient, tricouni nailed climbing boots he'd borrowed from a relation and had developed big blisters. Fortunately he was carrying plimsolls so he changed and we carried on. However, it wasn't long till Cammy called a halt. It would soon be dark so we crossed the fence and squelched over rough pasture to find a place to camp.

The spot we chose had a great view back down Glen Ogle to Ben Vorlich. Too good, as it happened. Above us lay steep boulder fields and the viaduct of the railway. At one point, a blue diesel locomotive, travelling light, trundled roaring up the incline. This mechanical intrusion seemed to increase the solitary bleakness of our situation. It was New Years day and even the nearby road was silent.

Ben Vorlich from the Ardvorlich track. Feb.2016

After another plate of Cammy's brown sludge we took to our tents. The trouble with sleeping three in two man tents was that it was one turn, all turn. The middle person was squashed but cosy while the outer ones were pressed against the canvas and had that side cold. It was impossible to get comfortable without making the others uncomfortable. We lay in the tents by the light of a candle. There were no card games this night as we were all dog tired. We listened to the wind getting up and the rain blatter down. Soon it was blowing a full gale and more. The noise would drop to a whisper then we would hear it build up, coming from the south, over Ben Vorlich with a roar like an express train. The tents flapped and vibrated and the poles shook. Even with well pegged, sown in groundsheets and boulders on the sod cloths the floor was lifting beneath us.

There was no sleep that night. I went out with a torch to check the guys and could barely stand against the gale. The rain was a stinging, horizontal torrent. The big pegs of the mountains tents were holding fine but the pup tent was blowing like a flag in the gale, with pots and pans scattered in the darkness.

Back in the tent the water was spraying through the canvas. Sleeping bags and clothes were soaked and we used our towels to mop up. At times the gusts were so great that we grabbed the `A` poles through the canvas in fear they'd collapse. It was a long night.

By dawn we were exhausted  I crawled out of the tent and watched great sheets of rain sweep up the glen.  The good news was that the worst of the wind had passed. There were pools and water flowing everywhere. I chose my spot and squatted down for a dump and Peter came out and did the same, not far from me. We looked at each other and laughed. In these conditions privacy seemed an unnecessary luxury. This was desolation.



The storm at dawn, Glen Ogle.

It was essential to eat so we got the stoves going to make hot coffee with bacon and beans on bread. This helped restore morale. After breakfast Cammy called us together.
"Has anyone got any dry clothes?"
Silence.
"How about sleeping bags? Are there any dry sleeping bags?"
"I think all our bags are soaked."
"What do we do then? Do we carry on or bale out?"
"Some of us have bad blisters."
"Right, that's it. Who wants to go home then?"
There was a groan of relief.

For some reason I never understood we didn't retreat to Lochearnhead but walked on over Glen Ogle, just prolonging the misery. Fortunately there was a public phone box at Lixs Toll
from where parents who had cars were phoned. After waiting for hours two cars arrived and took us home.

I had spent two nights in the winter hills that could not have been more different. The wild night of misery in the storm was quickly forgotten. Years later, however, I would lie in my bed in London and dream of the moonlight on the summit of Ben Vorlich and the endless sea of snowy mountains stretching to the north. I did not realise it then, but on that night I had contracted Hill Fever, a chronic and incurable condition. This, as many sufferers know, can lie dormant and reappear suddenly after many years.

 

 

 

 

 





 

The Lomond Hills (2)

Living in a small Burgh during the 1960's there wasn't much for teenagers to do so when I joined the local Youth Fellowship I suggested taking a party walking in the Lomonds.

 
Philip and I had a plan. On a Saturday afternoon in June we were dropped at Craigmead
and walked to West Lomond. The climb to the summit was a struggle because we were carrying heavy packs. We pitched the tent as best we could on the stony summit and it wasn't long before the wind got up and the top was enveloped in mist. The tent was to be a halfway house, as it were, for the walkers the next day.




Falkland Hill from Bishop Hill. 2016. Mixed media. 29 x 42 cms

We spent a reasonably comfortable night in spite of the gale and the mist had cleared by dawn. After a leisurely breakfast I wandered down to Falkland while Philip nipped down to Glenvale to get water.

I had expected a mixed party of about a dozen people but only four girls arrived. I was annoyed by this but quickly set off up Falkland Hill with the girls. This was a struggle. There was lots of moaning and groaning but eventually we made it to the summit to find  it crowded with hill walkers, Cubs and families with little children. The girls sat down to eat their lunch, prematurely, I thought. They were shocked when I pointed out the little orange speck of the tent on the summit of West Lomond as their next stop




John Knox's pulpit. Mixed media 29 x 42 cms. 2016
The cave is in the centre of the picture.




The ruins of Drumain farm in the 1960's. West Lomond in the Background

 

Crossing the moor below West Lomond we met Philip who had come looking for us because he thought we were late. He was right. Everything had taken much longer than I thought. The girls struggled up to the summit and snuggled down behind a little stone windbreak while we fiddled with the stove in the tent. A fierce gust of wind flapped the canvas which knocked over the stove and water. We started again but when the water was beginning to get warm the stove ran out of fuel. By this time the girls were beginning to get very cold and started to crawl into the tent. Soon there were six of us in a two man tent passing round biscuits and sipping from two mugs of tepid coffee while the rain sprayed through the canvas. Quit clearly we had to act. While the girls returned to the limited shelter of the stones Philip and I struck the tent and bundled it up as quickly as we could. It was a relief to be moving just to get off the summit and out of the vicious wind and rain. We were all soaked but while Philip and I had windproof hill gear the girls were lightly dressed and we still had a long way to go. Lower down morale picked up a bit but it was still a plod through wind, rain and mud. We reached the town of Leslie a sadly bedraggled crew, but by luck stepped straight onto a bus that took us back to Kirkcaldy.

All things considered the girls had done really well. It was my plan that had been over ambitious. A walk up Falkland Hill would have been enough for a first trip and hanging about the summit of West Lomond, even in summer, risked  'exposure' cases. We had been lucky.





On a winters afternoon Robert and I left Leslie behind and walked up the long slope towards Bishop Hill. It was dark and gloomy but with a mild wind blowing. We crossed drifts of soggy snow and dropped down to Glenvale as darkness descended. On a previous visit I had noticed there was a cave half way up the sandstone outcrop of John Knox's pulpit. By carefully negotiating a ledge it was possible to gain access and it was big enough for two people. We swept out the accumulation of rabbit purls and spread newspapers on the cold sandstone. The candle flickered in the draught but there was room enough to cook. It was a long, windy night. There was little chance of us rolling to our deaths because the cave was deep enough to sleep with our feet pointing out towards the void. We were glad when the dawn came up, bright and sunny. I was cold, stiff, sore and desperate to get moving. However, breakfast took slightly longer than usual because both of us had forgotten to bring spoons. I ate my porridge with the flattened end of a Nestles milk tube and Robert with the corner of a sandwich box lid. Then it was up, passed the Devils Burdens, over West Lomond and across to Falkland before meeting another walker. We were ahead of the game, as they say.



The Bonnet Stane. Mixed Media 41 x 59 cms

Since those early days in the Lomonds inevitably many things have changed. The actual pulpit part of John Knox's outcrop, a fantastically eroded, almost Gothic structure near the base of the rock collapsed in 2004. Two large sandstone blocks at the top have broken away and seem to be slowly moving to the edge. I wouldn't be too keen to sleep in the little cave now.

Although the climate takes it's toll the major changes are inevitably human. Kirkcaldy and the then new town of Glenrothes have expanded and populations increased. Most people own cars and the pressure on the hills, now seen as part of the 'recreation industry' has dramatically increased. What we knew as the Paps o' Fife are now politely known as the Lomond Hills Regional Park under the stewardship of Fife Coast and Countryside Trust. All a bit of a mouthful but they have done a lot of useful work.

Although there were always farm, quarry and forestry tracks in the Lomonds, walkers tracks were established by custom and practice. These were sometimes difficult to follow and in bad weather would deteriorate into swamps. Under the management of the Trust new paths have been constructed and old ones maintained and improved. The new Glenvale track snakes like a pink and orange ribbon through the landscape.The paths are wide enough to take mountain bikers as well as walkers but no doubt, with time, vegetation will encroach and soften their impact on the landscape.

There is now a long established car park on the east shoulder of Falkland Hill along with a cluster of Telecom masts. The car park and toilets at Craigmead allow access to both Lomond hills. On the north west periphery there are small car parks for the Bonnet Stane and Glenvale, and in the south at Holl reservoir. To my mind one of the best improvements has been the opening of the path up picturesque Maspie Den to where it turns under the waterfall. From there it is linked by a track to Craigmead where you can carry on to East or West Lomond.

All these improvements, essential to prevent the erosion caused by such an increase in visitors, create the sense that the Lomond Hills are a managed park, which of course, they administratively are. But in wind and wild weather the high places always blow away the cobwebs and solitude can occasionally be found.




Carlin Maggie, Bishop Hill

The Lomond Hills

Falkland Hill from West Lomond, winter 2015

 

When I thought of doing a blog about an artist in the Scottish Hills I wasn't sure which hills to start with. Then I thought  "start at the beginning", so it had to be the Lomonds of Fife.

 

I have a special affection for the Paps, as they are known locally. It was on these modest hills and the nearby Ochils that I first ventured as a teenager. This was at a time when four young lads from Liverpool were climbing not the hills, but the pop charts.

 

I was a member of Kinghorn Scout troop and four of us were doing the hikers badge. We were now on the second hike, still only ten miles. Now ten miles is hardly a days walk but there was a catch. We had to camp out and cook a hot meal which meant carrying everything on our backs. I had been apprehensive about this hiking lark and didn't know if I'd be able to cope with the heavy load.

When we returned we had to submit individual reports with times, points of interest, map references, list of kit carried, food eaten and hand drawn sketch maps. These short strolls seemed, in fact, quite daunting.

 

I had prepared for this, not by doing press ups and going jogging but by cutting a stout ash staff from my fathers smallholding and giving it a coat of varnish. This, I imagined, was an essential support for a young explorer. We started from sleepy Scotlandwell which lies below Bishop Hill and looks over 

 



The artist as a young hiker.  Bistre ink drawing. 29 x 42 cms.