Walking the West Highland Way - Episode 5 : What the Devil????????

Leaving the King’s House, we continued along the old narrow military road while heavy threatening clouds hung overhead, like banners around the tops of the neighbouring mountains, obscuring any views of their peaks.

My brother and nephew had taken the option of having their rucksacks sent on ahead to the hostel in Kinlochleven, our next resting place. My son and I carried our full rucksacks. Knowing my luck, if I had entrusted it to a company as my brother and nephew had done, that would probably be the last I would see of it.

Anyway, on this part of the walk we had to negotiate an upward gradient called “The Devil’s Staircase”. This apparently scary name held no fears for me, as it clearly couldn’t really be the Devil’s staircase as I do not believe in such medieval entities as devils, demons, angels, goblins, fairies, elves, trolls…………I think you get the picture. Also, I didn’t believe that it could be that torturous a climb as I had taken a look on the map and it was clear that I had been up far steeper hills than this before. Also, I know of at least one person who is much less fit than myself, and managed to get over it, so I just knew it wouldn’t live up to it’s name. I was right. When we finally came upon it, I knew I had definitely made the right decision in hanging on to my rucksack. Ascending the scary “staircase” was a walk in the park. We passed quite a number of fellow walkers, many of whom had just stopped to admire the view.

Once over the “staircase” it was pretty plain sailing down into Kinlochleven. Then my mobile phone rang. It was my wife. She was staying at her sister’s while I was on my adventure and she rang to ask how I was getting on and to wish me well. I really appreciated the call, even though I was coping well with the walk, despite the still intense pain from my horsefly bite, I was nevertheless really tired and looking forward to the finish the following day when we were due to arrive in Fort William. So, hearing my dear wife raised my spirits. I was alone at this point. I had stopped to take a solitary pee, and when I finished and got walking again, my comrades had disappeared ahead, not to be seen again by me until my arrival in Kinlochleven. What the Hell! I was past caring. I decided I would walk slowly, deliberately with indolent ease. There was no rush. Why rush? I wasn’t for rushing.

Presently, I caught sight of a corner of Kinlochleven, in the far distance, and a long way below me. From a purely psychological point of view, this was good. Even though I still had a few miles still to go, the fact that I could see where I was headed made me put a spring in my step. Even so, I had to ensure that my step was not too springy, as the going got very steep – downwards. Any undue stepping springiness at this point was liable to send me falling arse over head, so I held back, leaned back and took very careful, deliberate and decidedly unspringy steps. Anyone who has done any hill walking will know that walking on a stony, rocky track down a steep incline is far harder and more painful than going up. Well, it was painful alright, to the point that I was swearing under my breath for quite a prolonged period. When anybody passed me, I kept the swearing in my head, rather than verbalise it, not wanting to cause offence to anyone, given how easily people are offended these days………if you believe the media.

The phone rang again. It was my son. He had arrived at the hostel and was wondering what was keeping me. I was reassured by the thought that at least one of our group was thinking of me! He asked me what I saw looking around me. I told him what I saw looking around me. It was pipes. Big pipes – lots of pipes. They were water carrying pipes, and ran down the steep slope of the hill. My son was glad I could see the pipes because it meant he was able to tell me I was nearly there! Wonderful – my body screamed out for rest as the soles of my feet felt like they were disintegrating from under me. The stones under my boot soles were starting to feel like they might penetrate through into my feet.

Continuing down, I finally set eyes upon the turbine sheds at the bottom where the electricity was generated. A few hundred yards after leaving the track and setting foot on flat and level concrete at the bottom, I spotted the hostel ahead and off to my right.

The room was small. Very small. And spartan. But then, what do you expect for £15? It was a place to crash out and rest our heads, so it served its purpose. It was also the last stopping point along the way before reaching the relative luxury of the Fort William Premier Inn on the morrow.

The day was about to take on an ironic twist. This was the first occasion where we had arrived at our destination with a decent amount of time before bedibyes to take a stroll around and have a look around. We set out for the local shop for some emergency rations. It was a case of shop or starve. We got nearly to the shop, and it poured down with rain. Damn! Typical. The story of my life.. Soddit.

My brother's rucksack never turned up, but my nephew's was delivered as expected. Fraught words followed down the phone between my brother and the rucksack courier company. Words like “silly cow” or such like ensued in an attempt to lay the blame on the lady in reception at the Kings House who had labelled up the rucksack. However, my brother had carried the rucksack from the reception to the pick up area after it had been labelled. Most people at this stage check the address on the label................ Anyway, the rucksack got duly delivered and he breathed easily again. I was past caring, though somewhat bemused.

The evening came and we settled down to an awkward nights sleep, in closer proximity to each other than we would have liked. There was to be no escape from anyone's snoring tonight. I don't remember hearing any. I must have slept like a brick. It had escaped our notice that we had no bed linen, only rough blankets........... No one was caring. Until the morning.

Climbing Mount Probable

Just over a month ago I climbed Mither Tap in Aberdeenshire. I climbed Mither Tap because it was there, and also because it wasn't Ben Nevis. I have climbed Ben Nevis so many times now, that I feel I know every inch of it and it doesn't float my boat any more. The views are all so familiar; I know what's around every corner, how tired I should feel at any point. I've climbed Ben Nevis in various weather conditions from bright sunshine, to pouring with rain, to just downright cold and uncomfortable. Its all too familiar - that's why I climbed Mither Tap.

When I speak of climbing, I mean it in the loosest sense. I am not speaking of scaling vertical rock faces or shimmying up overhangs, using crampons and ice picks. I leave all that kind of thing to the heroes, those who have no nerves and feel no fear. When I refer to climbing, I mean it in the sense of walking, trekking, hiking - in a manner which results in a change in altitude, namely up or down the mountain.

I had been meaning to climb Mither Tap for a couple of years or so - ever since I first visited my youngest son after he moved to Aberdeen. Being a lover of mountains himself, he was keen to show me Mither Tap. This is because Mither Tap is the most prominent mountain, though not the highest, of the Bennachie Range of which it is a part. Its more a mount than a mountain; a mounlet perhaps. Whatever you choose to call it, it cries out to be climbed, standing there, beckoning and inviting.

Parking in the tourist car park in the forest at the bottom, we walked the path towards the base. At first, there is only a slight slope, so not much energy is expended. However, once out of the woods, the track becomes much steeper and you start to feel the beginnings of a challenge. It doesn't take long before you are able to stop and take in the awesome views of the surrounding countryside. Because the Bennachie massif stands alone in a gently rolling, but otherwise flat landscape, the views stretch onwards seemingly for ever to the sea. Looking northwards, features of Aberdeen can be made out.

The mountain - I will call it a mountain from now on - attracts a lot of fellow climbers. They range from toddlers barely able to walk and mainly carried by Mum or Dad, to the fitter kind of senior citizen who refuses give in to age. I'm getting a bit that way myself. Mither Tap looks like an extinct volcano; its got that conical kind of shape. I thought it was an extinct volcano. Following our descent, we - that's my youngest son and me - went into the visitor centre and looked at the displays informing visitors of the natural history and geology of the region. I was wrong. Its not a volcano, extinct, alive or just sleeping. It was actually formed over several ice ages, or glaciations. The original range was some three times the height of what we see today, but successive glaciations ground down the range and the landscape to mould it into its present form. That's an awful lot of rock to grind down! This brings home the realisation that everything is changing. Forget climate change. That is a mere blip in the greater scheme of things. Moving geological ages ahead into the future, the landscape will change again, out of all recognition to what we see today. The earth is indifferent to our efforts to control it.

Nearing the top, we found ourselves walking between walls of stones. These are the remains of defenses to the ancient hill fort dating from three thousand years ago which was built on top of the mountain. The ancient fort surrounds the granite outcrop at the summit, though only vague traces of it remain today. From the summit the views are magnificent. Looking out towards the other parts of the massif, the landscape is carpeted by hardy vegetation, dark in hue, and criss crossed by the white tracks of walkers and ramblers. There is more than one way to reach the top, and a lady stopped by to recommend approaching it from the criss cross paths below. Another day perhaps. The summit is a place to linger and ponder the beauty of the countryside around. The sky was cloudy, but not without gaps through which the shafts of sunshine painted their fleeting patterns on the countryside below. People came and went, and the the temperature seemed to drop, though probably didn't. We had ceased to move cutting off the warmth of generated body heat. It was time to go. All too soon, we were back in the car and heading back.

I do plan to revisit Ben Nevis. However, I plan to approach it not from the familiar tourist track as before, but this time from the other side, along the ridges. Maybe then, my boat will float again!

Future present

I don't know how many of you good people out there have read any of Geoff Dyer's books. Dyer is extolled by the Daily Telegraph as "Quite possibly the best living writer in Britain".
This may well be a true statement, but if it is, it is lost on most bookshops I visit. I find it very hard to find his books. I search the shelves at the far side of the "D"s only to find an "E" where Dyer should be. Yes - I know I could order his books off the net - but that's not the point! I love the thrill of the chase, and just simply pressing a few buttons on my computer and exposing my bank details (very risque) just doesn't float my boat.

Anyway, why do I like Dyer? Well if you have read any of Dyer's books you will know why I like Dyer, and if you haven't read any of Dyer's books then read one of Dyer's books and then you will know why I like Dyer. If it is still lost on you, its no good me trying to explain it - you are obviously a lost cause!

In "Yoga for People Who Can't be Bothered to Do It", Dyer talks about an ancient ruined town he visited as a child with his parents - well, his mother at least. He had a yearning to go back, and eventually did, and the journey is recounted in his book. The place is Leptis Magna in Libya. Apart from being a very funny writer, he is also very deep at times - and profound. On visiting Leptis Magna, he talks about the common view that ruins and ruined places take us to the past. We are led to think about the people who built these places, their lifestyles, and the tragedies and pitfalls of time which led to the once-splendid building, village, town, city becoming the ruin we find today. However, Dyer doesn't see it like that. He stands that view on its head. The ruins do not point just to the past, but they equally point to the future. Ultimately, ruin and decay is where all our civilization is headed. That is what the passage of time does. Whenever I stand in front of a mirror, I see a ruin of my former self! I am a two legged ruin!

I love visiting old ruins. The one pictured here is Slains Castle near Peterhead in Scotland where I visited last November. Slains has an atmosphere all of its own. It is particularly attractive for me, because I find it very photogenic in a Gothic sort of way. Also, you don't have to pay to visit it because it is a genuine ruin - its not "preserved" by any society, so you can just jaunt along the track and explore its exposed stones and hidden places. A reason why it might not be in the possession of some such society is its position: it is perched at the top of a sheer high cliff with jagged rocks below waiting to rip your flesh and crack your bones. Explore at your peril. The castle has a dark ambiance about it. This was not lost on the writer Bram Stoker who stayed there before it became a ruin - I don't suppose he was in the habit of waiting for places to become ruins before staying in them........ Anyway, what the hell was I saying?? Oh yes - Stoker found in Slains the inspiration for Dracula Castle in his book "Dracula".

Whilst it is true that I do not believe in ghosts, or any other supernatural entities for that matter, I can nevertheless understand why people think they see, hear or feel ghosts in such places. Its as if the stones have a kind of an imprint in them, an echo if you like, of past events within and around them. Just sitting, or standing quietly in amongst ruins, you get a sense of timelessness, and a sense of the passing ages cocking a snoot at our perceived superiority made manifest in stone. But now, those stones are falling, and their cutters and builders have long since returned to dust, as will we also, and our great buildings of today which command so much awe and wonder, go the way of Leptis Magna.

Dyer was right.