1993
Alone in Glasgow
In December 1992 my partner, Gisella and I moved from our rented house in Great Bedwyn into an old property in Marlborough that we bought to do up. This meant that I changed Doctors and during an introductory appointment I mentioned about the problems with my knees. The Doctor examined them and then she asked me when I got the problems. "Oh after five to six hours of walking up mountains," I replied. I could sense her desperation to hit the buzzer and shout "next". I'd have to seek out alternative treatments but I feared whether this would prevent me from ever finishing the Munros. I resolved to plod on; the need to do them was real and powerful. Very little would stop me.
In the May I had a short spell between jobs and elected to spend some of it Munro bagging. I arranged to depart on May the 29th. The day before I confided in Gisella that I was nervous about the drive. Just the length of it I guessed...
I set off early, 0630, and soon discovered that I was very tired. I stopped at various service stations and bought food that I did not want just so that I could force a rest. I felt myself lose concentration a couple of times so I stopped and dozed for a few minutes. I could not get it out of my head that I was not happy with this journey. I pressed on and the day passed by with the miles. As the M6 ended and Scotland began so did the A74. It was undergoing a major upgrade with some bits up to motorway standard and other bits still the old dual carriageway with interspersed road works. Consequently the traffic was pulsating between fast and slow sections. Still feeling tired I stopped in a lay-by. As I came to rest another car pulled in and just clipped my wing mirror. A very minor incident, with no damage done, but it added to my state of anxiety.
Once suitably rested I continued with the journey. Soon, in my rear view mirror, I could see an MG Midget. I am very fond of the MG marque so slowed down to let it pass enabling me to get a better look at it. The Midget nipped by and was off into the distance. I remained in the inside lane as I was able to maintain an adequate speed. I was approaching an ever so slight incline when suddenly a black cloud of smoke mushroomed high in the air with a column of similar smoke propping it up like a nuclear explosion. It did not look good at all. Within a few seconds it was all in sight and I pulled up. A car angled towards the central reservation was a complete fireball and another car to the left had its front on fire. I killed my engine and, for some unknown reason, grabbed my wallet and sprung out of the car. The fire in the first car I saw had engulfed it to such a degree that barely any metal was visible. It was roaring with thick black acrid smoke being flung out of the furnace. A woman with smouldering hair was standing to the left, she was bent forward and bringing her arms up and down whilst screaming "help me, help me, my bairns." A man to the right of the car was picking up some tool debris that had obviously been strewn when the cars collided. He picked up what looked to me like a hammer and was shouting, "I'm going to kill you, you bastard." I looked to my left and saw that this anger was directed toward the driver of the other car who was standing by his fire bound vehicle. The first man started to run towards the other with his hammer. I diverted my path and blocked him and with my arms raised said "it's no use, it's no use." I went to see what could be done. Nothing. The car was so alight that to get anywhere near it would have been certain death.
The screaming woman and the man that I had blocked had managed to get out of their car but were unable to rescue their two daughters who were sat in the back. Myself and a rapidly expanding group of other motorists stood and watched our eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the darkness. I kept thinking that the kids would suddenly emerge from the car unscathed. My mind did not want to accept the reality as an option. They were clearly dead.
The driver of the second car was removing articles from his car. As the front was on fire, from the impact, I suggested that he and everybody else should move away from it. He said it was a diesel so it would not explode. Not being one to question his knowledge on the flash point of diesel I retreated and left him to it.
Both directions of the dual carriage way were blocked and we were about seven miles north of Lockerbie, of all places. We had to stand through each of the four tires exploding in turn sending out a punch of flame with it. The driver of the second car joined a group of us and asked if anybody had a light for a cigarette. He asked quite a few people not realising the tragic connotation of his request. During this time the father of the two children was on a bank opposite shouting abuse at the driver of the second car.
"You're dead pal."
"I'm going to find you, you fucking bastard."
"Do you know where we have been today you fucking bastard."
"Do you know?"
"To see the kids Granny, she is dying in hospital."
"You bastard. You're dead you fucking bastard."
And so the language and the abuse grew and with it the horror and the futility of the situation. I could sense the "C" word coming; it was almost a relief when it did. A woman was praying and saying "Lord have mercy on him, he does not know what he is saying." The driver of the second car said, "You can not blame him." This was a statement that I was questioned in detail on in the ensuing court case.
After what felt like an age the emergency services arrived, unfortunately the fire brigade last. Perhaps it was fortunate, if they had arrived first then the parents of the dead children might have tried to reach them in the tortured metal remains of their car instead of being sedated by the ambulance crew. I gave a statement to the police, for what it was worth. I think most of the witnesses were in shock, we all spent about three hours at the scene. The practical approach of the emergency services struck home the cruel reality of the situation. Some people at the scene, I heard, complaining about the waste of their afternoon. Some late arrivals, not fully aware of, or not suitably shocked by, the situation took photographs. There was no sign of the little MG Midget that I slowed down to see. If it had never been there I'd have kept up my speed and perhaps never known this had happened.
Once the road was cleared I carried on my journey to Glasgow. When I worked in Glasgow there was mirth about a hotel called Duncan's hotel around the corner from ours. It always looked very seedy and the joke was that if you were bad you would have to stay there. I had stayed there twice the previous year whilst passing through Glasgow on the way north. It was grim and run down but cheap. This time I was destined for it again. The grimness of the hotel was no longer amusing, it was now depressing. I went for a walk. When I worked in Glasgow it was the European City of Culture, there were always friends about, people to go for a pint with after work, a buzz, a good time. As I walked I now noticed the dirty buildings not the ones that had been cleaned. Where before there were friends there was now nobody. I crossed at a crossing and two lads in their van revved the engine and laughed as they succeeded in making me jump. Suddenly I was alone in Glasgow.
Half Hearted Munroing
I spent a few days being miserable about Glasgow and did not set north until Tuesday June the 1st where I joined Willy Newlands to do Meall nan Tarmachan and its famous ridge. Willy brought his two dogs along which he claimed, in his usual dry style, that he got to keep after losing a long, and bitter, custody battle with his wife. It was cloud and mist all day and I found it a bit of a struggle. The ridge, being in cloud and not being a Munro, was against my better judgement. When Willy and I parted company I felt sad and alone.
I looked around for accommodation and felt that the world was conspiring against me as all that was available was quite expensive. After about an hour of trying I saw a sign for a B&B on the road between Tyndrum and Crianlarich. I turned into the drive in a hesitant mood because I often find that the proprietors of these establishments feel that they have adopted you for the evening and any painful rule that they can think of on the spot will be relayed to you with the glee that they get from knowing that it is restricting you as much as running a B&B does to them. This was to be no exception. On arrival the chap running the place said that they only had a double room left. I said I would leave it before he offered to split the difference between the price of a single and the price of a double. Then followed the house rules as he directed me to my room. After about ten minutes of interrogation I just wanted my own space and was glad when he left me to it in my room. However he called by every few minutes by way of a sharp heart jumping knock on the door. Initially it was the extra rubbish that he had forgotten to tell me on the previous monologue but on the antepenultimate visit he complained about my wet boots soaking the newspaper that I had put beneath them. The penultimate visit included an observation on the odour of the deep heat that I had put on my aching knee, "You're honking man," was the greeting I got as I answered the door for what felt like the eighth time. By this time I was getting fed up and I think the annoyance showed on my face. The final visit was all too much to bear, I opened the door to see him standing there in his clan Marks and Spencer kilt informing me that I had better hurry if I wanted an evening meal. This time I could not help keep the laughter back, he was clearly put out by my seeing his dress sense as humorous and left me to myself for the rest of the evening. Years later I relayed this account to a friend who thought that perhaps he was gay and was trying to seduce me. Perhaps so, I was only 27 at the time and still had a bit of a baby face.
I rested on June the 2nd and was rejoined by Willy on the 3rd along with Mike Linnett. We attempted Meall Glas and Sgiuth Chuil, with an initial hiccup of a farmer being unhappy with Willy taking his dogs onto the hills because of the lambing. After kennelling was negotiated we started the ascent. Soon we found ourselves in deep mist and deep conversation about odd jobs we had done in our adolescence, e.g. paper rounds, cleaning shops etc. Each trying to win the mantle of 'biggest mug' we overlooked the fact that nobody was glancing at a map or even attempting the art of mountain navigation.
"Where are we?" asked Willy.
Mike and I looked gormless.
"You are the oldest Willy?" I added.
"What the fuck's that got to do with it Steve?"
"And you are a policeman, if lost you should always ask a policeman," chipped in Mike, backing me up.
"So, what you are saying," Willy was drawing out his words slowly, "is that because I am an Officer of Her Majesty's law and older than you two you are blaming me for the fact we haven't a fucking clue where we are?"
Mike and I nodded in defeat. I was all for trying to bag them but the others could see what a fruitless exercise it would have been not knowing where we were in the mist.
Willy had to work the following day so Mike and I agreed to stay for one more day and found a hotel for the night. It was the same hotel that I had checked out of in the morning, having moved on from the Gay Gordons, and we were allocated the very same room that I had been in.
On June the 4th we tackled Beinn Dorain and Beinn an Dothaidh. Starting from Bridge of Orchy at 1105 we reached the summit of the first Munro two and a half hours later and that of the second in a little over four hours into the day. There was a good view on the way up but cloud and gales on the summits. The top of Beinn an Dothaidh was atrocious and we could hardly stand as the rain bullied us all the way. Once the two soggy "mountaineers" reached the cars we headed for the Little Chef at Tyndrum for refreshment and a chance to get dry. This brought back memories of my first solo Munro bagging expedition where I had got the train up from Glasgow, got soaked and spent ages drying myself off in the Little Chef.
After Mike left to go back home to his parents in Edinburgh I could not make up my mind what to do. It was Friday, I felt alone, and I had to get back home sometime over the weekend. I set off and with a half hearted attempt to look for a hotel. In the event I ended up driving all the way back to Marlborough arriving at just after seven in the morning.
Munro Count: 28 out of 277
