Glen Clova, Glen Doll

 



 

The glens of Angus all have their charms. Glen Isla, Glen Prosen, Glen Clova and Glen Esk all head north into the heart of the Grampian Mountains. Although in the old days seemingly remote, they were more heavily populated than now and were through routes over the hills bringing drovers, whisky smugglers and seasonal labourers travelling to find harvest work at the lowland farms.

 

Glen Clova is best approached from Kirriemuir, an old mill town nestling in fertile Strathmore. Kirrie is famous as being the birthplace of J.M.Barrie, author of  'Peter Pan' and infamous for the mythical 'Ball of Kirriemuir', a wonderfully inventive bawdy folksong, not much sung these days.

 

The road to the glens winds through pleasant woods and cultivated land then beyond the wee fermtoun of Dykhead the terrain takes on a more upland feel. Just before Gella Bridge the road splits and by local convention those heading north hold to the western side. Now you are in the land of sheep and cattle, with grassy moorlands higher up. If you are travelling in the early morning, pheasants, partridges, rabbits and occasionally deer play daredevil on the narrow road. Then winding up and down the hillocks and through the trees you can see at a distance, at the head of the glen, the dark, foreboding slopes of Glen Doll.

 

At Milton of Clova the road turns back down the eastern side of the river South Esk. A sharp turn left, however, takes you the last three miles of single track road to the head of the Glen. Here it becomes 'Y' shaped with Glen Doll the western arm. Both glens are attractive, but Glen Doll especially is heavily planted with commercial woods. Above the trees the bluff crags of Craig Mellon, Craig Rennet and the Scorrie tower over everything. In winter, when the snow lies thick, it has a distinctly Alpine feel.

 

When I first visited Glen Doll with the Kirkcaldy Mountaineering Club the bus parked in an old quarry at the end of a long strait below the Red Crags. Just round a sharp bend lay Braedownie Farm and a cattle grid. Beyond this the road became a dirt track which in a few hundred yards was faced by a locked gate. This led to the stalkers house at Moulzie , but before that the old Capel Mounth track cut up through the woods to Spittal of Gen Muick then on to Ballater by narrow tarmac road. Beyond Moulzie the track winds up below the crag of Juanjorge to the beautiful larch wood of Bachnagairn.

 

Glen Doll from below the Red Crags, Glen Clova. The Scorrie is the slope on the left, Braedownie farm at the bottom of the picture. Mixed media on paper, 38cms x 56cms.

 The road to Glen Doll, however, swings hard left at the gate over a robust bridge then passes through an avenue of tall pines to Acharn Farm. Here the road forks to the right and in a few hundred yards arrives at the old shooting lodge of Glen Doll Youth Hostel. This is as far as civilisation goes. Walking further takes you onto Jocks road, a serious hill route, especially in Spring or winter. The Tolmounth, as it is properly called, rises at Crow Craigies to over 3000 feet, then drops down sharply to Glen Callater and eventually Braemar.

 

I met Eric in a car park at the Fife side of the Tay Road Bridge. He was on his BSA Lightning 650cc while I rode my little two stroke C.Z.175cc. We had both been at Art College in Dundee and shared a flat in London for about the last five years. Haven driven  from London independently I had broken my journey visiting friends in the Lake District. There, with Chris, another college friend, I had climbed Helvellyn. It was the beginning of April, 1976 and still quite wintery.

 






The CZ 175 with Tiso 'tattie sack rucksack and mountain tent.



Over lunch at Eric's mum's we hatched a plot. We would drive to Forfar and visit friends there, then go on to Glen Doll. It was a pleasant Spring afternoon with fleecy clouds in a wide, high sky and to the north the snow capped Grampian Mountains peeped over the horizon. After years in London we just cruised along, all our senses intoxicated with the sights and smells of the fertile lands of Strathmore coming alive again.

Entering Forfar I was rudely awoken from this reverie when the clutch cable snapped. I came to an abrupt halt and as Eric had sped ahead I started pushing the bike to Colin and Laura's house. I hoped he would notice my absence and come back looking for me. Sure enough, I met up with him but found that our friends weren't in. I got on the back of the BSA and into the town centre to find Colin there. Tomorrow, Eric would take me back into Dundee to buy a cable, but for now it was a couple of pints in a pub then a big carry out of Pale Ale and back to the cottage.

The next day was over caste and gloomy as we hammered into Dundee to find a bike shop. I bought a cable, but back at the cottage discovered it didn't fit and had to file down the end to make it work. After this diversion it was on to Kirriemuir, then Glen Clova. We were enjoying the countryside but there was no doubt that it was becoming much windier. When we arrived at Glen Doll Eric sped past the camping field which had a few tents in it and motored up to the youth hostel. I knew this was a bad idea as it was a dead end and the warden didn't take kindly to noisy bikers. We pulled to a halt in the yard, where, as I had feared, the bearded warden was standing looking like a demented wizard. He was talking to some walkers and glared with contempt  at our noisy intrusion. I was shouting at Eric to turn round and go back to the camp site, while the warden was declaiming to his audience that we were everything that was bad about the world and this was exactly what he didn't like. Eric soon got the message and we turned the bikes and left them in peace. I felt guilty of having committed some terrible social transgression, but wasn't quite sure what it was

The camping field was conveniently beside the river but apart from that there was no conveniences. Sheep grazed the rough pasture but although there were a few tents the place seemed abandoned. The camp was in great disorder as violent gusts of wind came down off the Scorrie. Pots and pans were rolling merrily into the distance and the tents blew like flags in a gale. The wind was so strong that it kept blowing over the C.Z, which perched on a centre stand on rough ground was non too steady. We solved this by lashing the two bikes together with bungees. The mountain tent, however, was easy to pitch and stood as steady as a rock.

After eating we decided to wander down to the Ogilvy Arms, otherwise known as the Clova Hotel. Along the side of the road flowed a little stream, rather like a wide ditch, but running swiftly with cool, clear water. Shoals of young trout shot under the overhanging turf or hid in the lush, green  weeds. A water rat stuck his head out and regarded us with a quizzical eye. All was so fresh and clean.

About a mile from the pub an Airlie Estate Landrover pulled up and the driver offered us a lift, so we jumped in. He was a local gamekeeper, a young chap dressed in tweed breeches, jacket and deerstalker hat. He was very friendly and talked about the hardships of the deer and the young couple who died of exposure on the Tolmounth track only a fortnight earlier.

The public bar in the Clova Hotel was a small, rudimentary affair with simple wooden tables and benches but a big, blazing wood fire. We bought our pints and sat down. A party of young climbers were sprawled over the seats and in fine fettle, singing their hearts out. I guessed, correctly, that they were the occupants of the other tents and by the number of empty pint glasses littering the tables they'd been here some time. We struck up a conversation with Dave, who seemed to be the ringleader. They were mostly young tradesmen from Dundee who camped, climbed and boozed all over Scotland but this was their home turf. During a lull in the singing he jumped up and disappeared behind the bar and brought out an accordion. Although half drunk he could play quite well and was a decent singer. The hair rose on the back of my neck as he struck up 'The Road and the Miles to Dundee'

'Cauld winter was howling o'er moorland and mountain
And wild was the surge of the dark, rolling sea
When just about daybreak I spied a wee lassie
Who asked me the road and the miles to Dundee.'

When he'd finished I said,
"That was great. I'm amazed you can play so well after so much to drink"
"I'm no that pished. Ye ken, playing the accordion sobers me up. You've got to concentrate. I could even play it standing on the mantelpiece."
"You're  kidding!"
"Naw, I'll show you."

He sprang onto a bench then struggled up onto the mantelpiece above the blazing log fire and stood there swaying. Sometimes the weight of the instrument pulled him forward but he would bend his knees and pull back, then he was on one leg, then the other as his palls cheered him on. He played a few verses of the 'Bonnie Lass o' 'Fyvie' then came down. He was sweating.
"Wow! That's amazing. Dae ye want a pint?"
"Aye. Why not?"

Dancing on the mantelpiece, Glen Clova Hotel, April 1976. Indian ink and watercolour, 2016

After a lull in the proceedings he strapped on his instrument again and started to play a song I'd rarely heard before, 'Bonnie Glenshee'. It had a slow, plaintive and very beautiful tune.

"Busk, busk, bonnie lassie
And come along wi' me
An' I'll take ye tae Glen Isla
Near bonnie Glenshee.    (Chorus)

Oh, do you see yon shepherds
As they walk along
Wi' their plaids pu'd aboot them
And their sheep they graze on?

Oh, do you see yon soldiers
As they march along
Wi' their guns on their shoulders
And their broadswords hanging doon?

Oh, do you see yon high hills
All covered in snow?
They parted many a true love
And they'll soon part us twa.

When he finished the room had fallen silent. I'm almost ashamed to say it, but I had a tear in my eye.

It has been said that a place that has no songs and stories is hardly a place at all. We were definitely in a place. I did not know it then, but this humble bar played an important part in the development of modern Scottish Literature. On a wet summers day in 1925 a young journalist from Montrose and his friend walked the thirteen miles from Kirrie to the Clova Hotel. The journalist was Christopher Grieve, but as a poet he became better known as Hugh MacDiarmid. His friend was the composer Francis George Scott. They had been walking and talking all day and now they were tired there would be dram followed by dram in front of a blazing fire. MacDiarmid had produced many lyrics in 'Braid Scots' but was looking for an 'Odysey', a great theme he could get his teeth into. His mind was like lightning striking on a bare mountain top, producing sparks but no fire. His friend Scott was the catalyst that caused an explosion. Scott suggested the theme and outline of  'A Drunk Man looks at the Thistle' which became MacDiarmid's masterwork. The seed was sown in this bar, which deserves a blue plaque.

By now it was closing time but a political argument had broken out between a smartly dressed man wearing a shirt and tie who had the temerity to opine that Trade Unions should be banned. There was roaring and hooting but Eric and I stayed out of it. He was verbally overwhelmed by the combined forces of the young climbers who were Socialists to a man. I agreed with them but it was very much a case of the Tory Daniel in a Socialist lions den and I felt sorry for him. We left the bar laughing and started on the dark walk back to the tent. The climbers had sped ahead, crammed in a car.

After an hours walk in pitch darkness we were surprised to find the camp site a blaze of light. The climbers had started a big fire and they shouted us over and threw us cans of beer. We didn't refuse. They started singing again but these had degenerated into the bawdy and downright obscene variety.
Gusts of wind came hammering down the glen so we all had to scatter or roll away from the tongues of flame that searched us out with a blizzard of sparks. Someone disappeared into the darkness to collect more wood and came back with a new sign post and threw it on the fire. I said to Dave,

"Don't you think someone will miss that?"
"Och! They're always putting bloody signs up. We've burnt two or three of them. If you don't know where your going you shouldn't be here. They're talking of making a car park. Bastards! they'll never get away with it as long as we're coming here."

They were dead set against any development, a band of wild land guerillas. It was not so much the immediate environment that they were concerned about, which was fields with sheep, ponies and cattle, but car parks meant more people. They didn't want that. I could understand.

Next morning we felt a little jaded but a hearty breakfast of porridge, sausages and beans washed down with mugs of tea set us up for the day. We wandered through the Doll forest intending to head for Corrie of Fee but probably because we were dreaming or blethering too much, missed the turn off.
This didn't bother us as we were just glad to be out and about. It looked like it might be a fine day but some blustery squalls were coming down off the hills.

Eric beside the track through the Doll forest, looking towards Corrie Fee. This view is now obscured by the mature trees.

 We had left the forest and were climbing the track opposite Craig Maude when we were engulfed by a ferocious storm of stinging sleet. Visibility was minimal and we almost collided with three teenage boys running down the track in rapid retreat. The were descending because of the weather but their morale improved remarkably when we told them it would pass and they followed us back up the hill again. Sure enough, the storm sped away down the glen and the worst of the bad weather was over for the day.



Craig Maude from near the refuge. 57cms. x 38cms. Charcoal and watercolour on paper, 1986.

At Davy Glen's bourach, a low shelter beside the path, we sat and had a snack. Another couple of lads came up and asked us the time. They were drookit, shivering with cold and carrying rucksacks with bits of kit dangling from them. One of them wore sodden suede desert boots, not ideal for crossing wet snow fields. They were walking to Braemar but had little idea of where they were or the route over the Tolmounth to Glen Callater. I showed them the way on the map and mentioned the young couple who had died on the track just two weeks earlier. For good measure I took them to the plaque on the boulder commemorating the five walkers who died in a blizzard on New Years day 1959. We were still in early April, which may be Spring in the Lowlands but up here it was still winter. They had no proper footwear, waterproofs, map, compass or even a watch. They had, however come this far and the weather seemed set fair. I wished them well.

Davy's bourach on Jocks Road. A steel door was added later.

.They plodded away over the horizon snow fields while Eric and I decided to cut back over Cairn Damff and from Craig Mellon drop down to Glen Doll near the youth hostel. This was easier said than done. The first stretch, eastward towards the Den of Altduthrie is rough terrain, although it looks benign enough. It is great heaps of boulder covered by deep heather and every footstep has to be tested and used carefully. It's an easy place to twist a knee or ankle as you suddenly plunge thigh deep in a hidden hole. After this it's an easy plod up the wide brow of Cairn Damff. There are peat hags in plenty here and a strange area of intense, black peat with bizarre clumps of pale grass sticking out of it.

Looking south to the summit of Mayar from Cairn Dampff.

  

A waterfall in a gorge near Davy Glens Bourach. 

From the summit of Craig Mellon we could see Glen Clova laid out like a map below us. The steep slope down the shallow corrie to the woods was boggy. Entry to the commercial pine forest was easy as sometime in the recent past an avalanche had swept away a deer fence and many of the trees As. this was a south facing slope there was no snow now and we startled a solitary stag that was surprised by us coming down from above. Commercial plantations are frustrating, almost impenetrable and the occasional fire brake rarely takes you where you want to go. Fortunately we found a burn where the trees grew thinner and this eventually flowed into a water tank. This was the water supply for the youth hostel so we followed the pipe down onto the road.

After a substantial plate of curry we decided to drive down to the pub. The same gang were there, already drunk as they'd been in at lunch time as well. Dave started playing his accordion but his fingers were rubbery and wouldn't do what he wanted them to. Sure enough, he began to get the hang of it and the music came fast and furious. As it was Sunday night most of his gang got up to go home but Dave and his pall had decided to stay another night as they'd be too ill to go into work tomorrow anyway. His pall seemed unconscious, slumped over the table with his face in a pool of beer. The last glimmer of sunset over Driesh was casting a red glare through the window when he lifted his head and slavered,

"Let's go an' bivy on the summit o' Driesh."

Then he slumped forward again, sound asleep. This bivouac was a lovely, romantic notion but not appropriate in the circumstances.

"He's an eejit," said Dave
"He couldnae walk twa feet tae the bar."

A little later the head came up again.

"Let's go and bivy on the summit o' Driesh."

then slumped forward again. Eventually he woke up and we were able to give them lifts to the camp on the back of the bikes.

Next morning dawned fine and sunny and as we ate breakfast we were treated to an entertainment. Surprisingly, Dave was out and about and was kicking a large aluminium cooking pot across the grass.

"Ill teach him to leave kit behind," he was muttering, "I'll teach him to leave kit behind."

He picked up a large, round stone from the river bank and held it with both hands above his head, then smashed it down with all his force onto the unfortunate pot. He was leaping about and giggling with obvious glee as he beat the pot into a flat submission. Again and again he hurled the stone down until the once copious pot was beaten into a large, flat, silvery disc.

We said farewell to the 'Pot Basher' and 'Bivy on Driesh' man then set off to do what we had intended to do yesterday, go to the Corrie of Fee. We followed a wide forest road to it's end then dived into the woods. There were several ruts winding through low branches and over roots and boulders, but most of all, bog. Eventually we crested a rise and the trees abruptly stopped at a deer fence and ladder. We crossed this and were in the corrie. A short drop led down to it's floor and a clear burn flowing over shiny gravel. After drinking our fill we sat on warm boulders by the meanders of the burn and watched the clear, ice cold water slipping past. We had all day before us but time didn't seem to mean much here, give or take an ice age or two. The corrie was a sun trap, surrounded and sheltered by high cliffs. We sprawled about lazily, making the best of it.

Corrie Fee. Oil on canvas, 102cms x 61cms. 2016

Reluctantly, we decided to move on and find a way out of the corrie. We followed the track winding through moraines in deep shadow then climbed above the flat corrie bottom to a grassy gulley that led steeply upwards. To our right a waterfall spilled over the high edge of the corrie. Eric was amusing himself during this steep plod upwards by making notes in a little sketch book while avoiding falling over. I don't know how he did it. Eventually he had to put it back in his pocket as we needed hands to traverse a steep snow slope under a small crag. This meant passing through a little waterfall which cascaded over us. Now we were able to scramble up the side of the falls which were thundering with snow melt from the high plateau. It was just a heave up over a large rock and we were level with the top of the waterfall, spectacularly tumbling and crashing down to the corrie below.

Corrie Fee, looking back down towards Glen Doll. Crayon and watercolour on paper, 1986

We rested here for a bit and enjoyed the view, knowing that the worst of the climb was over. Once out of the bogs above the corrie the ground gradually swept upwards over snow fields to the summit of Mayar. By now the sun was hidden by high, grey cloud with light flurries of snow, but nothing to worry about.

We sat in the shelter of the summit cairn of Mayar and I rummaged in the rucksack for something to eat. There wasn't much left so I pulled out our emergency rations. While in the Lake District I'd purchased a slab of Kendal Mint Cake. I'd never tasted it before so this was as good a time to try it as any. Kendal Mint Cake is not what you would call a cake at all, but a hard slab of very minty and sweet glucose and sugar. I had the deluxe version, which was enrobed in chocolate. In my mind it held an almost mythic status as I'd read about it being eaten by Ed Hillary and the first team to climb Mount Everest. We sat by the cairn, nibbling this extremely sweet sweetmeat and comparing it negatively to good Scotch Fudge or Tablet. Out of nowhere a Black Faced sheep appeared. I had scanned the horizon before sitting down and there was not a person or animal in sight. It came prancing up to us in great haste, bleating incessantly. Now this was unusual, as hill sheep are usually indifferent to people and will scurry away if they think they are threatened. This one was positively friendly and started muzzling me like a dog wanting fed.

"This is crazy" I said, "This sheep thinks it's a dog."
"Maybe it was hand reared. Then it would have no fear of humans."
"Well, we've nothing to give it. I can't imagine it would like mint cake."
"Try it and see."

I broke off a corner which the sheep gobbled down. This set off another round of bleating and muzzling. It definitely wanted more.

"Come on, let's get out of here! This is mental."

We scurried off down the hill as fast as we could but the sheep kept up with us, bleating all the way. It followed us along the flat ridge to the top of Corrie Kilbo, then up the broad slope to the summit of Driesh. It was driving us crazy. Frequently we turned and tried to shoo it away, but no amount of arm waving, swearing and shooing made any difference. It still came on. The bleating was awful. I wanted to push it over a cliff while Eric was for throwing rocks at it, but we were not murderers. If it had been quieter we'd have accepted it as an eccentric companion, but the constant bleating was driving us crazy and spoiling a good day. At last we saw a possible solution. While on the summit of Driesh three walkers appeared and we tried to pass the creature onto them. Unfortunately the summit is wide and bare with no place to hide. As soon as we started to move it was after us again, bleating incessantly. I couldn't believe it would follow us all the way down the Kilbo path, but it did, bleating incessantly.

I'd never been so glad to reach a forest with a fence round it. We crossed the style and sped into the woods as fast as we could. This flummoxed the sheep which started running up and down the fence trying to find a way through, but with no success. The bleating was awful. I actually felt bad about it, but what could we do? As we walked down through the woods it's plaintive bleating grew fainter. We could still hear it, faint and far away, an hour later when we returned to the tent.

The sheep that liked Kendal Mint Cake. Watercolour 31cms x 41cms 2016

That night the bar was dead quite, as the Wild Bunch had gone. Next morning was a stinker, blowing a gale, heavy rain and bitterly cold, but it was time to go home. Again we had a breakfast entertainment as a party of school children struggled to pitch an unruly tent which blew up and billowed in the wind.

The drive back down the glen to Kirrie was a misery so we stopped for lunch at Franchi's café. This was a traditional affair of soup, mince and tatties with peas followed by apple tart and custard. This went down well and we both felt warmer.

Back in Dundee Eric's mum made us tea while we sorted out our gear and had a much needed wash. We intended to go out. Before that, Eric wanted to visit an elderly family friend so we went there for a chat but I had to nudge him as time was passing. It was after 9 o' clock and the pubs closed at ten. We rushed to Mrs Mennies, otherwise the Speedwell Bar on the Perth Road, but the place was dead. Nothing had changed, however, and it still had the Muirhead Bone lithographs of landscapes of the Great War on the walls. We had a quick pint there then I said,

"Come on, why don't we go to the Tavern?"

which was the favourite art student bar in the Hawkhill, which we'd never been in for six years. There, nearly everything had changed. The area we knew so well had been completely demolished. Tenements, shops and Jute Mills had all gone, but by some miracle the Tavern still stood, sticking out of the desolation like a rotten tooth. A solitary gas lamp flickered outside it's door. It was bizarre.

We were in an excellent hurry when we strode in but were stopped dead in our tracks. It was just as we had left it, packed out, stinking and smoky. Some of the same, well kent faces were propped up at the bar. My immediate image was of survivors in the water clinging to a sinking lifeboat for dear life. Nothing had changed, we had never been away, but of course that wasn't true. We were greeted and treated like long lost friends and drams quickly followed pints. Then it was closing time with a big carry out and back to Dave Annan's flat. The girl from next door produced a bottle of excellent Malt and it didn't take much to make us drunk after all the fresh air. There was lots of reminiscing and catching up and Eric and Ronnie Macdonald had an argy-bargy about Nationalism. We wandered home late and drunk, but happy.

Next day Eric can't move. He's had it. I can't even get a grunt out of him. I drove back to Kinghorn and thought about what to do next. I still had a few days holiday left so the next day I drove to Edinburgh and met my pall John at an Art Gallery. Then we went to the Abbotsford Bar. I drove back the next day but didn't feel well at all. I took to my bed with gastro enteritis and had to phone my work in London to say I was ill and couldn't be back for another week.

The truth was that even the thought of driving south again was enough to make me feel ill. When driving north I had a wonderful sense of anticipation which overcame the aches and pains of the journey. Going south, however, especially entering the miles and miles of urban sprawl around London filled me with nausea and gloom. When I was fit I drove the bike to Edinburgh and put it on a London train. I travelled south in comfort and by 1830 hours I was back in the Smoke, sad to have left Scotland behind.



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.