1996 Pt 3
Bothy Life
Come late 1996 I realised that I had not seen Willy Newlands for over three years and Mike Linnett and I were keen to meet up with him again. Mike came over to my house in Marlborough and we drove up together on Saturday September the 7th. We'd both woken at about 0430 and laid in thinking that it was too early to wake the other, if we had known then we could have got a three hour head start. Either way we arrived at the Clachaig Inn in Glen Coe at the right time.
Willy arrived a few hours later so Mike and I had nicked the two best beds in the triple room that Willy had booked. We also had emptied our rucksacks out and generally made quite a mess of the place. Willy entered and his first words to us in over three years were "For fucks sake you did not waste a moment trashing this place." Willy had not changed. Me and Mike took a bet on how long it would be before he took the mick out of the fact that I had bought a GPS system; eleven minutes forty eight seconds. Willy appeared disappointed that Mike and I were too tired to spend the entire evening in the bar.
The Sunday we spent walking into Sourlies Bothy via Glen Dessarry. The walk in was very long and arduous. I carried a full pack and the heat was just blistering so I really struggled during the nine mile trek. The weight of the pack was too much for me even on this relatively level ground and all the time I was thinking about how I would cope the following day when I would have to carry this pack over the mountains. I took my mind off the pain during part of the walk by listening to the Italian Grand Prix but came to the conclusion that I am a jinx on Damon Hill when I listen Grand Prix on the radio whilst out walking as he crashed early on in the race.
The approach to Sourlies Bothy was a welcoming site. The Bothy is on the shore of a sea loch and surrounded by dramatic mountain scenery. The evening sun glinted on the calm waters of the loch and the place had an overwhelming sense of peace and tranquillity. From the point of first seeing the bothy and actually getting there was some three quarters of an hour; this is often the case in Scotland as the sheer vastness of the place makes distance deceptive. As I approached I had to tread carefully as there were many tiny frogs, no bigger than a thumbnail, in amongst the moist grass.
Willy's hot tip for bothy life is to get there first and lay out your sleeping bag. The reasoning is that at any moment a hoard of people could turn up and take all the best places. Even though I was the last of the three to arrive I had no such worries as nobody else was yet there. Later in the evening two chaps arrived, father and son, by canoe from Mallaig. We had a fantastic evening relaxing first by gathering drift wood and then by burning it on a beach fire whilst failing to ignite a railway sleeper which, judging by the state of it, many an eager bothy inhabitant had tried to seek comfort from. We all sat round chatting and admiring the most beautiful star lit night I had ever seen. Because we were so far from civilisation there was no ambient light to ruin the display. The Milky Way was absolutely fantastic and the event was set off with shooting stars and being able to observe moving satellites. Mike and I both have scientific backgrounds so we got into a discussion about Einstein's theory of relativity. Willy was aghast - "Never did I think I would live to see the day when we'd sit far out in the wilderness discussing Einstein's bloody theory of relativity" - arts graduates, typical!
Mike and Willy have developed banter between themselves that I can only ever be a witness to. Towards the end of the Strathclyde Police Command and Control Project we went out for a meal to celebrate and we all had a great deal to drink. Alcohol changes people in different ways and with Mike he just sits there smiling a lot. Willy just gets louder and more outrageous than normal. Willy took it on himself to start hurling insults at Mike, I must add that it was all being done for the sake of humour and nothing was meant by it. Mike could not defend himself, in fact he could hardly speak. Willy picked up on this and started hurling the abuse thicker and faster. Never have I seen a spectacle where a man has had to take so much abuse, it was a very funny moment. We were all cracked up as Mike desperately tried to defend himself and only ever got as far as saying "Well Willy" before the next barrage hit him. Whilst staying at Sourlies another example of this banter displayed itself. Mike and I retired to our sleeping bags first whereas Willy stayed up to enjoy more of the night sky. In the morning Willy said that from across the other side of the loch he had heard a rutting stag. Now a rutting stag has a distinctive sound something like a cow with a sore throat. Mike said "are you sure it was not a cow Willy?" The reply was a classic Willy line: "I suppose if it bounded across a mountain, forded streams climbed near vertical slopes, made its way along the shore of a loch and shagged three deer then yes it could have been a cow."
Bothies are extremely basic accommodation. They are normally little more than re-roofed ruined cottages. The floors and walls are bare, they have no electricity, water or toilet. There is no charge for staying in them, the idea being that you can just turn up for a night of shelter. Any improvement in facilities could be a mistake, as then people would start to use them as alternative holiday accommodation, which is not what they are intended for.
On waking at Sourlies I laid in my sleeping bag and looked around the grim looking single roomed bothy. I started to reflect on what life might have been like here when it was actually a family home. It must have been tough, especially in the cruel Scottish winters. Trying to imagine it with the modern world in mind is hard to conceive. I imagined having a family there with the trappings of modern day life just twenty miles away: Television, electricity, central heating and opportunity. It would just not work, as the grass would appear to be greener on the other side of the loch. Life back then must have been tough but perhaps less stressful than it is today. If you had nothing and nor did any of your neighbours then you would not suffer envy and jealousy, you would not yearn for more as more was just not an option.
I carried these thoughts with me as I got up and walked out of the door and looked up to the head of the loch where there were many other ruins that could only hint at the community that once lived there. I then remembered a conversation that I had with my grandparents some six years before in which they were describing life to me just after the war. They were living in a rented house and things were very tight. My Gramp was saying all the things they did not have, what they had to go without. My Gran then turned to him and said, "But we did not know that we were missing out, nobody else had anything either, we did not suffer stress like the youngsters do today." Sadly the people who once occupied these homes, now sad shells of hopes and dreams, probably did suffer extreme stress on the day of their departure. The depopulation of the Highlands was driven by the clearances where land owners, wishing to convert their land to more profitable pursuits, evicted the communities of crofters in a genocidal act of violence in which houses were burnt to the ground and the peoples left to fend for themselves. Many moved to Canada, where, in a complete irony, they built a better country not based on class.
We set off for Squrr na Ciche at 0800 on Monday September the 9th and I lost sight of Willy and Mike within forty five minutes. They reached the summit at 1100, I arrived at 1335 having abandoned my rucksack in the heat. They said it was the best day that they had ever had on the hills - the bastards. For most of the way I could barely put one foot in front of the other, the combination of the weight of my pack, the gradient, my asthma and the temperature rendered me virtually stationary. I had found my five and a half hour ascent very frustrating and extremely exhausting. From the summit we walked back to the saddle between Squrr na Ciche and Garbh Chioch Mhor where Willy kindly shot off and collected my rucksack for me. I left the rucksack between the two Munros whilst we scaled Garbh Chioch Mhor getting there at about 1530. The original plan was to have also done Squrr nan Coireachan and Squrr Mor and stay at Kinbreack bothy. I was clearly not up to it and offered to bivi the night in the hills whilst Mike and Willy went on. They would hear nothing of it and insisted that they stayed with me so we made an alternative plan of heading to A' Chuil bothy which is about half way between where we parked the cars and Sourlies bothy. Once this plan was made, such that we could remain together, we set off and in no time I lost sight of Mike and Willy as I again struggled with my rucksack!
The walk to A' Chuil was another four and a half hours so we did not arrive until about 2000 and I was very tired, for the last hour Mike dropped back and walked with me. Willy had gone ahead and we saw him collecting wood in the distance. I was still struggling and the last few miles were very difficult as we had the bothy in site but the ground was very peaty and difficult to cross. Many times we had to back track as we painted ourselves into a corner. As we approached the final few hundred meters Mike said, "You know they say that after a tough day of travelling whatever standard the accommodation is it looks appealing." I was poised to say yes in agreement about the run down ramshackle bothy we were approaching when Mike followed it up with, "fuck that little theory." I could see what he meant as it did look grim, but once inside the relief of being able to rest and to know that I did not have to wrestle with my rucksack again that day dispelled any disappointment with the bothy.
Mike and Willy had been suffering from midges most of the weekend. Thankfully they always declined my body's invitation to lunch. Even in the bothy Mike was suffering and pulling them off one by one whilst saying "Look mate I'm a vegetarian, don't eat me."
I mentioned earlier about bothies not having a toilet. This is not strictly true as each bothy does come fully equipped with its own latrine. A spade. I was hoping to hang on until civilisation but on waking the following morning I knew that nature was in no mood for any further delay. I pulled on some clothes and picked up the spade and headed for some nearby trees. This is where I learnt one of the hottest bothy tips, which is: DO NOT, I REPEAT DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES DIG IN SOFT GROUND. The reason being that if it is soft ground somebody else has been there before you. Hire a pneumatic drill take a pickaxe but whatever you do not dig is soft ground. This experience put me off and I was left to carry my thirty pound sack along with the problem back to civilisation. Civilisation was a grubby pub toilet but it was heaven.
The other thing that Bothies contain is "The Bothy Book." This is a visitors book where people can write in their thoughts and comments and funny stories. The one in Sourlies where somebody had written "English Bastards Out" upset me. The Scottish have a problem with the English brought about by incidents from the past. I can see the wrong in the past events but get upset with the fact that the English people of today appear to be being held accountable. It smacks of prejudice to me. This attitude appears common across Scotland, if you get into a conversation with a Scot on this issue they say that it is still going on in that there is under investment and that Scottish achievements are ignored by the media. Many Scots claim that if a Scottish person does well he or she is called British but if an English person does well then they are referred to as English. Conversely they claim that if a Scottish person fails then they are called Scottish and if an English person fails they are called British. I have listened out for this carefully in the media and believe that it is a case of selective hearing. I have heard examples of failed English people being called English and successful English people being called British. Possibly the root of this is media ignorance in the past and the image is now difficult to shake off. With regards to investment there are many places in England that are under invested and indeed the poorest British parliamentary constituency lies in London and the poorest county is thought to be Cornwall. I think because Scotland has such a strong sense of national pride and identity any example of being placed second to England rankles.
Whilst travelling extensively in Scotland I have seen graffiti telling the English to go home and stop ruining their communities and putting up the property prices. I can see the point but coming from the South of England I can see that our communities have been broken down and property prices have soared because of the influx of a migrant work force, some of which are Scots. I find the entire issue difficult to fully comprehend. It appears to me that the English of today are held accountable for the atrocities of the past British ruling classes, which I readily accept were predominately English. I'm all for Scottish independence and being an independent country within Europe, not because I want to see the back of them, far from it but it is because they are not happy seemingly playing second fiddle to England. On occasions Scots who want to say their piece when they realise that I am English have approached me in Highland bars. I always find myself agreeing with some points and disagreeing with others, then I always ask "So do you hate me because I am English?" to which they always say no and have been known to buy me a drink to compensate. So I find that the Scots normally accept me, warmly, on an individual basis whilst still maintaining that they don't like the English. I now try and avoid getting into discussions about it as many of the arguments are raking over the past and although we must learn from history it is important to not allow it to form the seeds of hatred. Therefore I added a footnote to the "English Bastards out" entry in the Sourlies bothy book along the lines of "Stop moving down to the South of England pushing up our house prices and nicking our jobs" and thus restored the status quo between our two adorable nations.
I discussed this incident with Willy, always game to talk humorously about the issue, and we recalled that the first day I arrived in Scotland to work on the Strathclyde Police Command and Control Project was the day of the England versus West Germany semi-final of the 1990 World Cup. I made it back to the hotel on time and watched it on the TV in my room. For me it was heart breaking to see England go out on penalties, and the look on Gary Lineker's face when he could not console Gazza's tears has always stuck in my mind. On getting into work the next day I was describing my disappointment to Willy when he burst out laughing - "You expect us to have sympathy for England getting knocked out." This shocked me as I had never before appreciated how much it meant to the Scots seeing England lose. I always thought that because we were all British he would naturally have supported the England team, especially against the Germans. I guess that I should have read the warning signs when I watched the earlier round of the England versus Cameroon game. This was sitting in my house, down south, in the company of two other English chaps and my housemate Graham, a Scot. Graham is a quiet mild mannered man but when Cameroon went 2-1 up he leapt across the room and with clenched fist he was yelling "yes, yes YES!!" The three of us turned and looked at him in stunned silence as he sank back into his chair. I think the defeat of the English was his driving force more than any similarity between the Scottish male name of "Cameron" and the nation of Cameroon!
Euro 96 had taken place this summer and I was more prepared for the England Scotland rivalry. Graham, a fellow Scottish friend of his and I were lucky enough to get tickets for the England versus Scotland game. It was for the best that I went in with the English fans and they went with the Scots. What amazed me was how the Scots know how to enjoy themselves, many were kilted and at half time as the English fans stood around the Scots put us all to shame by their singing and dancing to the music. The final score line was 2-0 in England's favour, I enjoyed the moment immensely, waving my flag and soaking in the atmosphere. When I left the stadium that was that, I had enjoyed myself but that was all it meant, simply seeing England win. As I left I decided to roll my flag up as I had arranged to meet Graham and his pal outside of the ground. Never had I seen such two dejected souls, I could hardly get a word out of them, their heads were hung low and I could not console them. Bloody hell I thought, it's just a game. Not with the Scots their national pride is so great losing to England is unbearable for them. That evening we went out together along with Frances, Graham's girlfriend. On route to the pub Frances mentioned that she had watched the match on the television and bemoaned that when England scored the commentators, who were desperately trying to show no bias, cheered the goal.
"Frances," I said after a few moments "that match was shown in Scotland too and would that have been covered by Scotland's own commentators?"
"Yes," she replied.
"And would they be have been unbiased or totally supporting Scotland?"
"Totally supporting Scotland of course," she replied with no hint of any recognition of contradiction. I rest my case.
Fortunately the Bothy book at A'Chuil was much nicer with no nationalistic comments. One thing that did catch my eye was a limerick that somebody had put in it:
Said Queen Isabella of Spain
I like it now and again
But let me explain
By now and again
I mean now and again and again
Mike, Willy and I parted company at Spean Bridge. We knew it had been a good one and were all sorry that the trip was over. Seeing Willy again after three years was really good and the introduction to Bothy life was a good experience and to become useful in my approach to other Munros.
After saying the goodbyes I intended to go off and find a place to camp for the night. I tried a couple of places that I thought would be quiet and where I would not be disturbed. Unfortunately each place had human beings in close vicinity and I began to doubt the idea. I have a general mistrust of people and would not sleep easy if I thought that my tent would be visible to others. After giving up on the idea I thought I would go for the opposite and find myself a hotel with en-suite. I soon spotted a sign for a hotel with vacancies at a price that suited. I went into the deserted, spacious, reception hall and rang the bell for attention. A neat lady appeared who on casting an eye over my unshaven, grubby, having slept rough for two days appearance informed me that they were full. I just about stopped myself from saying "would you like me to take your vacancy sign down on the way out?" To be fair I probably smelt a bit too.
I drove onto Newtonmore and found a good looking hotel called the Balavil Sports Hotel, what a splendid name I thought but decided against enquiring about the type of sports that leant it the name as I was sure that it would be disagreeable. The hotel proprietor was obviously going through a rough trading patch as I was immediately made to feel very welcome. After a shower a shave and a fresh set of clothes I felt, and looked, human again.
On this trip I tried out a new device to aid nasal breathing. I got the idea from watching Formula 1 motor racing where the drivers had all taken to wearing these strips of plaster across the bridges of their nose and Gisella kindly tracked some down for me. The idea being the gentle pressure opens the airways. I had some reasonable success with them in that for the first time that I could remember I could breathe through both nostrils. Normally I am fairly congested in the nasal region and take steroids daily to try and keep the airways open. The little strips of plaster did have a side effect in that when I removed them I had an interesting sun tan!
Over To The A9
In all I spent four nights staying in Newtonmore, needing the rest I bagged just three Munros. On September the 11th I took in Meall Chuaich which I started at 1030 from a lay by on the A9 and took three hours on the ascent. It was quite cloudy on top which did not add to the fact that the Munros in this area are quite boring rounded humps, most Munroists viewing them as mere necessities rather than classic walks. I added to the tedium of the day by failing to take enough food with me and was consequently starving on the descent, ruing the fact that I knew my car was also devoid of spare food. Slumped in the driver's seat I was about to forego the ritual of writing down the walk times and a few brief diary notes in return for a prompt drive back to Newtonmore to eat. With my foot on the clutch pedal, my stomach rattling with hunger and my trembling hand about to turn the ignition key I remembered that Mike was eating a tube of Pringles during our drive up from England. I felt under the seat and located the tube amongst the debris of sandwich wrappers and drinks bottles. The joy I felt as I found that there was a full three inches of pure Pringles left was ridiculously high. I threw them down my throat whilst making my custom notes of the days walk. Thank you Mike, you were my hero at that moment.
On the following day, Thursday the 12th, I bagged Carn na Caim and A'Bhuidheanach Bheag, starting from a lay by on the A9. Again these were fairly tedious Munros, unlike the peaks around Sourlies that I had just been treated to. It took two and a half hours to reach the first peak then a two hour jaunt across barren ground to A'Bhuidheanach Bheag which was a lot longer than I thought it would take. A further two hours to the car did not help the tedium of the day.
I people watched in the hotel quite a bit, I often find hotels boring and alternated between the TV in my bedroom, walks down the main street in Newtonmore whilst looking forward to the evening bar meal as a treat. A coach load of middle aged and retired people was in, and by chance not too far from my home in Wiltshire. I idly listened to them exchanging stories and felt a sense of sadness about them. They were either all recently retired or in the last few years of their jobs. They spent much time describing their work, mainly blue collar and I felt that they were all looking for something in their lives that was not there, perhaps I was wrong. I caught a few of the men making longing glances at retreating waitresses and felt it was sad. On the final morning I was late down to breakfast and ate my food as the tale enders of the coach party got set to leave the hotel for good. The waitresses were clearing the tables when one of the old guys came back in and dropped a tip in a metal dish set aside for such a purpose. The waitresses did not hear, I watched him pick the coins up again and drop them from a greater height.
"Thanks then were off," he said as one of the waitresses looked up.
"Right you are," she replied and got back to her work.
After this there were no more new Munros for the year. On Friday September the 14th my friend Kate Taylor arrived meeting up with me at Glen Nevis Youth Hostel. On the Saturday we walked Ben Nevis, a repeat Munro for me and a hard slog to the summit with the crowds of people that do this mountain. It was cloudy at the top and I was disappointed that Kate did not get a view as she had travelled to Scotland especially to do it. Just for fun I got my GPS out to see how accurate it could be with the grid reference and the height of the peak. Immediately another walker said, "Your mobile phone won't work up here mate," and nodded at me sagely whilst reflecting on his superior intelligence.
On the Sunday we got a train round to Loch Ossian Youth Hostel with the view of doing Stob Coire Easain and Stob a' Choire Mheadhoin the following day. Loch Ossian is a very remote hostel, only reachable on foot from a railway station and definitely no vehicular access. It is a beautiful setting with the rustic hostel next to the water and the hills surrounding it like a group of familiar friends who can just sit in each others company and not speak a word. Unfortunately the Munros had to be missed as I awoke with a very bad throat so we walked back to Spean Bridge instead.
After the walk Kate and I stopped for a few nights in the accommodation block in Fort Augustus Abbey. Here one of those things in life happened which can only be described as uncanny. Kate's Aunt and Uncle were by pure coincidence in the next room to us, it was a good job that we were not having an affair! It was good to see Kate again, we have always got on well ever since meeting on a canoeing holiday back in 1988. That particular holiday was a near disaster because after only four days tuition we were taken high up into the hills of the lakes to canoe down the River Derwent into Derwentwater. On the face of it this sounds fine but the two instructors had failed to take into account that the river had burst its banks and in many places there were white water rapids. We set off in two parties, I was in the front one and the first person that we lost was the instructor! Another chap and I managed to pin his capsized canoe into a tree, which had until recently been quietly minding its own business growing in a field. I'll never forget the instructor as he ran down the other side of the river calling out "Eh, I don't suppose me sandwiches are still in the canoe" - at this stage three of our group were missing.
Off we set again with an instructor bleeding from his head and entertained ourselves with out of control rapids and the odd canoe trip across a field to cut off a bend in the river. I caught up with one guy and we speculated if the second party had actually launched given that they'd had the opportunity to see us set off. As we pondered this a plastic bag of sandwiches floated past followed by a paddle, we looked at each other and said, "they're in." When I finally beached my abiding memory of Kate was her floating past with her arm in her upturned canoe laughing her head off.
When we got to sheltered waters we were ahead of the instructors and assessed that there were three people in total now missing from the amalgamated two groups and numerous canoes and paddles unaccounted for. On arrival of the instructors they assessed the situation, based on our information of people and equipment missing, and came to the staggering conclusion that the missing equipment deserved a rebuke in the form of "you wallies" whereas the missing people deserved not a mention. So a group of us set off on foot, two of the others soon turned up and we rescued a girl who had become entangled in a tree.
Thinking back we should have complained officially, the subcontracted instructors appeared to be governed through fear by a chap who ran the holiday as a subcontract from the Youth Hostel Association. We were too polite and worried that the instructors would get into a lot of trouble and did not go further than protests that they had put us all in danger. I regret not making an official complaint because a few years later was the Lyme Bay canoeing tragedy which resulted in multiple deaths and brought a tightening up of procedures. However I believe that had we complained nothing would have come of it despite the danger we were put in, it always appears to me that the official bodies only ever winch themselves into action when there has been fatalities.
So after a wind down from Munro bagging I drove home on September the 19th for a flight out to Portugal with my friend Nick Green to watch the Portuguese Grand prix. We were hoping to witness Damon Hill winning the Formula 1 World Championship but alas he could only manage second place in this race and did not secure the championship until the next, and final, race of the season.
Munro Count: 65 out of 277
