Tag: hiking

Three Peaks Challenge, June 2019

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Three Peaks

Next weekend I’ll be taking on the Three Peaks Challenge with a group of thirteen friends. The challenge consists of climbing Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon, the highest mountains in Scotland, England and Wales, in 24 hours. We’re heading up on Friday 21st and returning Monday 24th June.

Five minutes of googling showed us that regardless of fitness and mountaineering experience, everyone seems to find this tough. Occasionally someone posts a link on our group chat to a story detailing how a group of ultramarathoners failed to complete all three summits, or how an experienced hiker recently perished on Ben Nevis.

There are several factors entirely out of our control which could jeopardise our success. The 24-hour time limit includes travelling time, so we’re subject to traffic conditions and the reliability of our minibus. We can’t choose the weather conditions. Even the most competent hikers get injured. These mountains can get busy – queues to the top of Snowdon are becoming very common. Little, unexpected things can happen – water containers leak, laces snap, someone comes down with food poisoning.

On top of this, we’re pretty fit (we’ve done several “training hikes” together, which I’m yet to post about but had great fun on) but the fact we’re such a big group could go against us. If just one of us gets injured on Ben Nevis or Scafell Pike, we all have to wait as we only have one minibus. Which may resemble a tin of damp, twitchy*, achy sardines as we attempt to sleep between summits, cuddling our gear and buzzing with adrenaline.

Adversity aside, I feel good about this. Maybe I’m naïve, optimistic and overenthusiastic about mountains, because I think it’ll be a lot of fun.

But that’s not the point. We’re taking on this silly, painfully difficult, potentially self-destructive challenge to raise money for an incredible cause – Friends of PICU, a charity which supports the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit at Southampton University Hospital.

*because of the adrenaline, not because Bertie has tourettes…

From a training hike up Snowdon, March ’19
Box Hill, Surrey, January ’19

Nora’s Story and Our Cause

This whole crazy thing has been organised by my lovely friends Charley and David. In August last year, their baby daughter Eleanor was diagnosed suddenly with bronchiolitis. Her little lungs couldn’t cope and she was rushed to hospital. She was put on oxygen, but her condition deteriorated and she stopped breathing, turning blue and lifeless as Charley watched helplessly.

In Charley’s words, “the room filled with people and she was taken from me immediately receiving CPR and masked oxygen. They let me hold her tiny hand, then we’re on the move to theatre 2 floors up. I was allowed to stay with her whilst they worked on keeping her alive. They managed to keep her going long enough to put her onto a ventilator to breathe for her, this is how they would keep her until her lungs became strong enough to work on their own.”64222665_1207279716120758_2821219001466617856_n

“I remember every detail, every face and it seemed to last a lifetime. I then got the news that we would need to transfer her to the PICU in Southampton. I was terrified, I didn’t want to move her in case something happened. I didn’t want to leave her anywhere.”

The Paediatric Intensive Care Unit provides first class care and treatment to over 900 critically ill children from the South of England and Channel Islands every year.

Here’s Charley’s account of Eleanor’s experience at the unit:

 “PICU have their own ambulances and arrived so quickly. They introduced themselves, always talking to us and Eleanor and assured me I could be with her at all times. They transferred her onto a portable ventilator and we arrived in PICU that night. The staff were amazing and she had a nurse with her 24/7 who never left her side and allowed me to do the same. They provided a room across the corridor to stay in and encouraged us to go and rest but equally were happy for me to stay by her side, I couldn’t bear taking my eyes off her on the machines.”

“During our stay the nurses and doctors were exceptional, dedicated and kept us informed at all stages, they let me stay for everything including changing her tubes and letting me clean her. They took footprints and made birthday catds for family whose birthdays came and went. They made the hardest time in our lives that bit easier. Each baby and child admitted got their own handmade blanket and a Friends of PICU “Ellie” elephant to keep, which we still have to remember how lucky we are.”

“We were one of the lucky families that got to take our little girl home, many families whilst we were there did not get that chance but they were very respectful to those families and others by ensuring their privacy at all times. Eleanor had a gruelling few weeks ahead of her once awake, enduring feeding tubes and relearning how to drink again but finally her battle was over and we got to go home!”

“Without this service, of which we knew nothing about before this, we wouldn’t be telling the same story.”

Friends of PICU is the charity whose support keeps this unit running. It pays for vital equipment and services which are not otherwise funded, including specialist ambulances, beds, family accommodation, medical equipment, furniture and toys. Every child admitted will benefit from the work of this charity, and without its support many children would have missed out on lifesaving treatment.

So that’s why we’re doing the Three Peaks Challenge – to raise money for Friends of PICU. We are eternally grateful for every little donation, no matter how small, to this incredible cause.

If you’ve ever a) had children, b) known a child or c) been a child, please support Friends of PICU by clicking the link below and donating what you can. The benefits are twofold: it’ll help very sick children and their families, and alleviate our pain and suffering as we force our weary legs onwards and upwards (then back downwards).

Click here – Three Peaks Fundraising Page

More Three Peaks related posts to follow…

Thank you.

Naomi xxx

PS. Special thanks to Charley and Dave for organising, Riyad for offering to be our designated driver, and everyone else for the (anticipated) wonderful company!

 

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Charley leading the team up Snowdon on a training hike

Great Gable, Lake District

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I had one three-quarter day left in the Lakes and wanted to climb Great Gable or Bowfell. I decided on Great Gable as I could start at Seathwaite; I’d never approached these fells from the north, and as lovely as Wasdale is I wanted to see somewhere new.

I drove from Coniston and parked along the road just down from Seathwaite. I fell in love with the little cottages and farmyard feel of the hamlet, with its roaming chickens, stone walls and sleepy dogs. It sits nestled quietly in a valley carpeted by lush, green fields beneath wild, rocky ridges, alive with the sound of whispering rivers and rushing waterfalls, and feels a bit “F-you society”. Perfect.

I took the Gillercomb route as I’d read something that recommended it. I climbed the steep path which goes up the east side of the valley, through fields, over rocks and past a waterfall, and found myself on a gently ascending moorland plateau covered in the sandy-yellow grass that only grows in wild places. It rained but I didn’t mind; it meant I had the mountain (almost) to myself.

It got steeper and at the top of a ridge I made the mistake that I’ve made too many times before – to assume. This time I decided that the thick, green footpath on the map must be the obvious, well-trodden footpath on the ground at the top of the slope I’d just climbed, and that I was at spot x. I turned left, and it turns out I’d been a short distance from spot x at spot y, as I found myself inadvertently summiting a different hill – Base Brown.

Exasperated, I backtracked along the ridge and tramped up Great Gable’s little sister, Green Gable. After a quick detour to the fog-shrouded summit cairn, I descended the path south west and reached “windy gap”, a narrow gulley between the steep shoulders of the two Gables. It couldn’t be more aptly named – it was like all the wind in Cumbria was concentrated into that little gap, where it rushed and howled relentlessly as if it were trying to turn me into a squawking little human kite.

I escaped the noise and wind-beating by scrabbling round the side of Great Gable, which loomed ominously over me like a steep, rocky monster, shrouded in thick cloud. Then the all-too-common near-summit occurrence reared its smug, ugly head: the path became indistinguishable from the rock-strewn, scrambley mountainside. Footing was quite poor; steep, wet and loose, and I narrowly avoided a rockfall which, although small, would have knocked me a long, bone-breakingly hard way down the near-sheer edge.

I decided to stop searching for the path and climb directly upwards. Perilous but the right decision, as I realised when a tall cairn suddenly appeared through the fog. Relieved, I followed a series of just-visible cairns to the summit, which is marked only by a mountaineers’ memorial.

I descended back to windy gap via the proper path, then turned right to head back down Stye Head. I love a circular hike. This path is more well-trodden than Gillercomb, passes an attractive tarn and runs parallel to a crystal clear river down a long, gentle valley into Seathwaite. I arrived back at the van wet, triumphant and sad that I had to leave the Lakes.

Then I drove to Manchester for work the following day, which is not worth writing about in itself… But after a few days in the mountains a hotel shower felt indulgent!

The Old Man of Coniston (Lake District)

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This was possibly the most heroic day of my life. It was an emotional rollercoaster that took me from 4am surrounded by wedding-drunk friends in a Blackpool kebab shop to three hours’ sleep in a hotel car park to 4pm alone at the top of a mountain.

Given the previous night’s antics, I never really expected to bag any summits that day. I left the wedding place around midday and headed to the Lakes, lonely and a little worse for wear. I had half-formed ideas about climbing the Old Man of Coniston and/or Great Gable before heading up to Scotland, so I found a quiet parking spot in Coniston and submitted to the pull of the mountain. Despite the dwindling day, hangover and rain, I couldn’t resist.

I chose a straightforward up-and-down route along the old miner’s track from Coniston, recommended by the internet. It started in an incredibly scenic valley; on my left was a hillside covered by a sea of bluebells which led steeply down to a stream flanked by bright, almost luminescent green oaks and birches. The water ran between rushing, white waterfalls and clear blue pools, and on another day I’d have jumped in like a graceful nymph gollum.

I crossed a bridge and continued along the valley, which opened up to form a wide U-shape backed by low, homely-looking ridges. An odd description but it fits – a few whitewashed miner’s cottages are nestled cosily in the low, flat plain in the middle, fronted by a wide, shallow, rocky river, and the peaks aren’t jagged or intimidating like some of the high fells. Because of this and its proximity to Coniston, this place feels wild without being isolated.

The track continued along the left bank of the valley, then got steeper, rockier and twistier as it curved around the side of a hill. Old machinery has been abandoned along the route, and the stone ruins of mining buildings remain overlooking the scrubby, heathery, rocky landscape in front of Coniston. It didn’t really feel like a proper mountain until I got to the tarn north of the summit, which the steep, long ridge loomed ominously over. From there the path got a bit more serious and it finally felt like I was climbing a mountain.

After a brief half-scramble I reached the plateau at the top and headed for a stone igloo-shaped thing. Then the Lake District repeated what it did when I summitted Helvellyn last year – caught me off guard and took my breath away. Layers of hazy blue mountains emerged from the horizon,  basking in the sultry glow coming from the moody, grey-gold sky. The view was panoramic, from the flat, glassy sea beyond wide salt plains to the west, through the rich, green pastures to the south to the mysterious, inviting mountains to the north east. The sheep were my only company and in that moment I was in heaven. The hangover was a distant memory.

After enjoying the lonely summit long enough to feel the cold, I defaulted to the Black Bull at Coniston. I flew back down the mountain, exhilarated to have defied the odds and made it up there, got the bed ready and wandered round the town before treating myself to a drink in the pub. I got funny looks from the locals but I’m used to that, and I set about planning the next day’s hike up Great Gable… Next post coming soon!

Endnote – I love all mountains but for some reason I particularly enjoyed this one. It could have been the fact that I had no expectations as I hadn’t expected to hike that day, the interesting and visible mining history, the variety of scenery, the fact I didn’t beast myself (for once) or the solitude, but I’d recommend this route to anyone and everyone – it’s beautiful, good fun and very do-able.

Ingleborough and Malham Tarn (Yorkshire Dales)

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Monday 6th May 2019

Ingleborough

Blencathra and Skiddaw had whetted my appetite for mountains (not that it ever needs whetting), so we were up earlyish to climb Ingleborough in the Yorkshire Dales. We’d done the highest Dales summit, Whernside, a few years ago but I subsequently read that Ingleborough is more of a “must-do”. I didn’t do much research and we had a wedding near Blackpool to attend that evening, so we settled for what I’d call the “donkey track” that starts near the Old Hill Inn north of the mountain.

It was a very straightforward path that took us through sheep fields strewn with odd, low limestone walls, then over tufty, heathery ground to the base of the hill. Ingleborough is a long, steep-sided, yellow-green-grey lump whose distinctive lion’s back/loaf of bread shape dominates the valley. The climb up the steep north side was short and sharp; a few minutes of thigh-burning rocky ascent showed me that my legs had registered the previous day’s exploits, and I was puffing like a magic dragon towards the top.

From there, the summit was just a short walk west along the gently inclining plateau. We sat in the shelter thing at the top so I could marvel once again at the speed at which my jetboil makes me a cup of tea, took an obligatory trig point photo and headed back down a grassy path that runs parallel to the one we came up, taking in the rolling, yellow-green dales and quiet valleys. At the bottom of the steep bit we guessed our way back through fields of sheep and rocks and got back to the van early afternoon.

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Malham Tarn

I wanted to see Malham Tarn for no better reason than I’d heard of it. We drove across the dales past rolling hills, drystone walls and escaped sheep, parked up and wandered over to the tarn. It was a pretty spot and fairly busy, but I’m not sure why I’d heard of it before as I wouldn’t call it spectacular. However, I did spot a climbable-looking rock face and plenty of camping spots so it may be worth more consideration.

We walked around the tufty moorland before hurrying back to get to the wedding reception, via a shop and a friend’s hotel shower. It was great fun (feat. tequila, spacehoppers, a caricaturist and an inflatable kangaroo), and that day (night) ended majestically at 4am in a Blackpool kebab shop. I’ll spare any more detail.

2 Mountains, 1 Day: Blencathra and Skiddaw (Lake District)

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Sunday 5th May 2019

Woke up in the Lake District expecting to do one mountain, fell asleep after two and a pint (or two). *Borat voice* Great success!

Blencathra circuit via Sharp Edge

We parked at the White Horse Inn at Scales and set off up Blencathra. The start was quite steep and we had de-layered in a few minutes, laughing about our frailty. The gradient eased and we followed the curve of the hill round to Sharp Edge, a rocky arête that flanks the north side of the smooth, black Scales Tarn. The scramble was quite easy, apart from the odd bit of slippery rock, and we were soon on the “spine” of Blencathra which we followed round to the summit.

There’s an Ordnance Survey Trigonometrical Station at the top, a big concrete doughnut which – according to some fell runners – replaced the previous doughnut, which got stolen. Annoying but a solid beer trophy. The summit overlooks a lush, cultivated valley to the south and a sandy-yellow moor to the north. Rolling hills spread to the horizon in the east and layers of jagged, hazy blue mountains loom over Derwentwater to the west. It’s pretty.59885520_412628992908174_6610435511607623680_n

We walked along the saddleback and descended down the steep path to the flat farmland at the base of the ridge. The walk back was very tranquil; we stopped for a picnic on a rock, petted a couple of curious cows, scrambled over Blease Gill, Gate Gill, Doddick Gill and Scaley Beck and enjoyed the sound of nothing but running water, birds  and silence.

We popped into the White Horse for an early afternoon drink while I persuaded Bertie that we should do Skiddaw via Longside Edge/Ullock Pike, supposedly the “best” approach. Persuasion successful, we drove the short distance and parked by the Ravenstone Manor Hotel, near Bassenthwaite Lake.

Skiddaw via Longside Edge

The first half hour or so was a killer. A relentless, steep incline, first through woods then over heathery moor. It eased a little as we made our way along the long, undulating Longside Edge, covered in rocks and heather, and I could see why Wainwright recommended this way.

The landscape opened up ahead and on our right hand side, stretching from dark Bassenthwaite Lake and Derwentwater out over open, green fields to the great blue fells towering over each other on the horizon. On our left was Skiddaw, a great, grey lump that looked intimidatingly steep and distant as it loomed over the coarse, scrubby valley cradled by Longside Edge. Behind us the ridge sloped down to a flat, open expanse of farmland that stretched out to the calm shores of the north west coast, and it must have been the south west tip of Scotland that emerged invitingly through the sea haze.

We followed the curve of the Edge round and eventually reached Skiddaw. The climb was long, steep and loose, untouched by vegetation and surfaced by loose plates of slatey mudstone that made it feel like some desolate, alien planet. We pushed on up (Bert managed despite bad hips, knees, ankles etc, poor old thing), basked in the glorious air that surrounds every trig point, and half walked, half skidded down the steep slope and back the same way we came.

Unusually (but perhaps unsurprisingly, given the distance/altitude covered and hunger/thirst worked up) Longside Edge seemed longer on the way back. Fortunately it was still stunning. Eventually we made it back to the van, somehow without killing each other, peeled off the sweaty layers and made our desperate way to some unknown Keswick pub.

Pub

True to form, classy old me resorted to Wetherspoons for cheap, greasy food and cheap, alcoholey drink. It was so busy that we couldn’t get a table, so we stumbled into the cosy, unpretentious, also-busy Golden Lion on the high street and indulged in the tastiest average pizzas I’ve ever come across. I was drunk after half a cider but I had two anyway, so Bertie drove us across to the Yorkshire Dales in preparation for day two’s mountain – Ingleborough. More to follow…

Snowdonia, Feb ’19: Llangollen, Tryfan and the Glyders

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Sat 2nd Feb – Llangollen56664564_2300276663626783_9008059420726263808_n

I woke in the snow-coated Shropshire Hills and slipped out of the van in time to catch a beautiful sunrise over Shrewsbury. We got to Go Outdoors for when it opened, spent way more money than intended and enjoyed a sunny drive across the Welsh border into Llangollen, where we met our friend Mike.

Llangollen didn’t look anything special as we approached it, but it grew on me after a walk around and a stop in a quirky little coffee shop. My favourite part was the [over-photographed] river Dee seen from Llangollen Bridge; the channel is wide and fast-flowing, and it took half a short conversation with Mike for me to add white water kayaking to my “priorities” list.

Then we went to Mike’s cottage, which is a country mile from phone signal and nestled deep in an ancient woodland whose silence is broken only by the rushing of the stream that runs past the front door. It’s even more idyllic than it sounds. We walked around the wood, which seemed suspended in time with its frost-covered moss, fern, hazel and oak, and breathed in the crisp air of the Llangollen Valley.

It was the first day of the Six Nations, so we reluctantly left Mike’s and not-so-reluctantly went to a Betwys-y-Coed pub in time to see England destroy Ireland. We practically reached across the Irish Sea and capsized the whole country. As a natural consequence I got drunk and friendly (Bertie drove), and by the time I was kicked out I’d befriended (to Bert’s eye-rolling exasperation/bemusement, and to the point of exchanging numbers) a pair of West Midlanders and a group of Bristolians.

Sun 3rd Feb – Tryfan, Glyder Fach, Glyder Fawr

I woke a little “dehydrated” in a car park by Llyn Ogwen. We set off bright and early, all kitted up and super keen to summit Tryfan before seeing the Mordor-like rocks at Glyder Fawr and Glyder Fach.

It was suspiciously clear and dry. We headed east towards Tryfan, and it was obvious from the beginning that the “footpath” was actually more of a “foot, hand, knee and elbow-path”. We hauled our cumbersome selves up the rocks, laden with rucksacks, layers, ice axes (thanks Mike) and cheap crampons.

The path was next to impossible to follow, so as the snow thickened we followed the crampon tracks in roughly the right direction (up). The scrambling got more extreme – we had to de-bag and take it in turns, pulling off some technical-ish climbing moves as we jammed and hauled ourselves up the rock. As the more confident (not necessarily competent) climber I ended up carrying two backpacks, and I pretty much forced Bertie onwards (upwards) when he threatened to turn around; he knew I’d have carried on anyway.

We finally got to Adam and Eve, the two rocks that stand at the summit. It was windy, foggy and sub-freezing by this point, and we indulged in a (butterless, stale, sad) jam sandwich before half scrambling, half sliding down the south side of the mountain towards the Glyders.

We argued about which way to go and ended up tramping grumpily down, along and up a snowy, wet valley. There were hikers dotted about for a while, then – as we got higher – there weren’t hikers. We followed the curving ridge up to the right as visibility worsened, until the gradient (eventually) became slightly less steep. Which was still quite steep.

As the ground levelled out a little more we knew we were on the right track – the Glyder ridge. That felt like possibly the longest stretch of my life, save for the ultramarathon and maybe Lochnagar. My trousers and boots were soaked through but luckily my top half only reached “damp” status thanks to my lovely [men’s] Mammut Kento waterproof.

This ridge took more mental strength than physical. It was a very lonely place; the wind whipped every inch of bare skin and made it impossible to talk, and all I could see for a long, long time was thick cloud, jagged rock and my own eyelashes as I squinted against the cold, hard sleet. I remember thinking about how people sometimes say “I don’t know how you can do things like that” [eg. scrambling/hiking for miles in horrible mountain conditions]. To answer – I throw myself into various silly/uncomfortable/dangerous situations, which is easy to do, then realise that my only choice is to push through and finish the job or curl up in a ball and die there. It’s literally that simple. I also remember thinking “why am I like this”, “do I even like doing this”, “is there something wrong with me”… etc.

Glyder Fawr and Glyder Fach were ominously, toweringly impressive as they loomed jaggedly out of the fog – I could have been in Mordor. Usually I’d get super excited about the cool rock formations, but I was busy thinking of pubs and warm fires; I’d love to go back in better weather.

Eventually we “completed” the ridge and headed down. Even with crampons on I managed to end up off my feet and accelerating down the mega steep, icy slope – imagine a seal on a waterslide – before somehow executing an ice axe arrest and coming to an undignified stop.

The next problem was the unpredictable terrain. One step would be on solid ice, the next into ankle-deep mud concealed by knee-deep snow. Wet, grumpy and tired (but secretly kind of exhilarated), we were relieved to see the curved sides and rugged terrain of the beautiful Ogwen valley emerge from under the cloud, and we lumbered eagerly down towards the still, black waters of Llyn Idwal.

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The snow cleared, crampons came off and we were suddenly on the clear, slabby path along the east bank of Llyn Idwal. Wellie-wearing, handbag-clutching humans appeared, and the thought of turning round and heading back up the ridge crossed my mind. But I didn’t, and we made it back to the van after a long, squelchy plod. Most of the gear we took stayed at least damp for the rest of the trip, and it took a long time to thaw our saturated bodies. I still don’t think I’ve dried properly.

Anyone who knows me knows what happened next. Ty Gwyn just outside Betws-y-Coed is a lovely firelit, wood-beamed, wonky-floored pub. I was drunk as soon as I breathed in the air.

Scotland, Day 4: The Cairngorms – Lochnagar

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Lord Byron eulogised this mountain in 1807:

England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved o’er the  mountains afar:

Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic,

The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.

In contrast, Queen Victoria wrote of Lochnagar in September 1848:

“But alas! Nothing whatever to be seen; and it was cold, and wet, and cheerless. At about twenty minutes after two we set off on our way downwards, the wind blowing a hurricane, and the mist being like rain, and everything quite dark with it”.

After experiencing Lochnagar on a bleak day in December, I agree with the poet’s “wild”, “steep” and “dark” but otherwise I’m with Queen Vic. We woke bright and early in the Spittal of Glenmuick and met our friend Mike at the Lochnagar car park before sunrise. We set off on the 10ish-mile hike in a mix of fog, drizzle and gloom, disappointed with the weather but glad for the company.

The first section took us across a flat, heather-covered plain, with Loch Muick away to the south and a dark line of trees to the north. We couldn’t see much through the fog, but I knew that Loch Muick was cradled on three sides by steep ridges; I expect it’s stunning on a clear day. Lochnagar is within a few miles of the Balmoral estate, and I could just imagine the Queen (maybe a few years ago) tearing round the track in a Landrover, or a shotgun-wielding Philip bumbling after some grouse.

It was an easygoing route  for about three miles, along a wide, stony track up a gradual incline. We branched off left about a mile east of Meikle Pap, where the track turned into a slabbed stone path. I got overexcited at catching a glimpse of a few startled red grouse, then we hit the snow and the hike got a bit more complicated.

Just as the path started getting scrambley, patches of snow appeared. Snow does a great job of concealing paths, especially when the landscape is strewn with rocks, covered in wild, tufty vegetation and bereft of other summit-seeking humans. We followed it as best we could but did a lot of guessing, aiming in the direction of “up” and “west-ish”.

The vegetation disappeared, and after scrambling up a formless sea of steep, slippery rocks, keeping close to avoid losing each other, we hit real trouble – just as I got excited at a flock of winter-white ptarmigans. Mulling over why on earth anything would choose to live up there, we struggled through an annoying mix of soft, calf-deep snow and hard, unyielding ice. As we reached a kind of plateau, the rocks grew sparse, the climb became less steep, and the already hurricane-like conditions worsened.

Lochnagar stands at a lofty 1,156m above sea level and curves around a beautiful northern corrie (I know it’s pretty thanks to Google images). The path follows the ridge along the top edge of the corrie, so the exposure is huge and complacency could result in a massive fall. This was problematic as by this time visibility was non-existent, we were ill-equipped (no crampons or axes – terrible foresight) and we didn’t know exactly where the summit was. Or where we were.

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White-out

As we pushed on, I truly understood the term “white-out” for the first time. The only way to distinguish “up” and “down” was by looking at the other two and seeing where their feet were in relation to their heads. Ice, snow, cloud and sky all merged into one disorienting, blinding, infinite nothingness, like in a dream in a film, until little dark specks appeared and I tried to blink them away. Communication was limited to shouting in each others’ ears, and any exposed inch of skin was beaten raw by the strong, bitterly icy winds.

Just when it couldn’t get any worse, it did. We reached a false summit and the ground became sheet ice. Literally like an ice rink, only harder and less flat. I’m sure we went round in circles for a bit, slipping over constantly, resorting to bum-shuffling and actually laughing at our own ridiculousness while remaining acutely aware of our proximity to the deadly edge of the ridge. Still determined to reach the summit, we paused for a painfully cold moment to check the map and decided simply to follow the compass north to where we thought it was.

This decisiveness saved the day, and as the towering pile of rocks loomed through the whiteness I almost collapsed with relief – I’ve never been so delighted to reach a trigpoint. I slipped onto my trusty old compass and snapped it, fortunately without stabbing myself, but it had done what it needed to do. We fumbled about for a quick photo, then practically flew back down the mountain, eyebrows, eyelashes and beards (even mine) heavy with ice.

I would have liked to make it a circular route and gone back along the north side of Loch Muick, but given the conditions we decided the way we came was the quickest and most certain way to the pub, and it’d look the same anyway. The fog had cleared slightly once we were back on the wide, stony track, revealing a rugged, heathery landscape. From there, the walk back was made a drag by our cold, wet-through clothes and desperation for a drink, but we reached the car park eventually. Lochnagar is definitely one to come back to on a better day, but I was glad for the adventure we had.

Semi-thawed, we drove to find a pub before heading to Perth for the night. We ended up collapsing on the sofas in the Deeside Inn at Ballater. It couldn’t have stood in starker contrast to the bleakness of a few hours earlier; the lounge was a huge room with deep red walls, thick curtains and dark wood beams, lit softly and warmed by a roaring fire. It had tartan sofas with pheasant-patterned cushions, a big Christmas tree, books, boardgames, a piano, complimentary crisps and (most importantly) cider. I think my life peaked at that moment – in there, the world was perfect.

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Scotland, Day 3: The Highlands – Kinlochleven, Fort William

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Admin

We woke later than usual, around 7.30am. I was surprised by how much later the sun rose and how much earlier it set compared to home – about 8-8.30am and 3.30-4pm. Morning admin was a repeat of yesterday; porridge, coffee, tidying and jam sandwich making.

Ice climbing

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After a 10-minute drive from our overnight spot, we arrived at Ice Factor in Kinlochleven – the largest indoor ice climbing centre in the world. It’s an impressive building which houses an indoor rock climbing wall, shop, cosy café and ice climbing area, which is pretty much a giant freezer. We’d booked in for the earliest taster session of the day, keen to have as much exploring time left over as possible. I started to write about ice climbing in this post but I got carried away, so for the fine detail read my separate post – Ice Climbing for Idiots. Basically, it was really fun and I want more.

Hiking

We left the centre with big smiles, grabbed our hiking kit from the van and set off on a route we’d planned the previous evening. We had hoped to climb some munros (Scottish mountains over 3,000ft high) in the Mamores range, which lies between Kinlochleven and Ben Nevis. We actually ended up doing a different route which took us up and west, rather than north, due to a disappearing footpath and some dodgy-looking weather over the mountain tops, so unfortunately we didn’t reach any summits.

Nevertheless, we didn’t mind deviating from the plan because we’d set off late, got some breathtakingly-awesomely-stunningly beautiful views down the length of Loch Leven and had a lovely couple of hours anyway, despite some questionable “footpath” terrain and glute-burningly steep bits. The hike also took us past Grey Mare’s Tail waterfall, which is well worth the short walk from Kinlochleven.

 

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Our alternative route meant that we got back to Björn with enough time spare to get to Fort William for a wander round. It’s an attractive town with plenty of shops and pubs, and seems to be a kind of outdoorsey “hub” with a nice buzz. We managed to do a bit of Christmas shopping before treating ourselves to a meal in a café – I don’t think a jacket potato has ever tasted so good. Fed, warmed and out of daylight, we got in the van and headed east.

The Cairngorms

We’d arranged to meet a friend to climb a munro in the Cairngorms the following day. I chose Lochnagar after reading about it in a “Britain’s greatest mountains” feature of The Great Outdoors magazine (don’t tell my cool friends), so we drove the three hours there from Fort William. It was a shame to drive across so much of the National Park in the dark, but we’d seen it before and were keen to make the most of the daylight hours outside. We arrived at the Spittal of Glenmuick quite late and quite tired, so we parked along the dead-end road, admired the blackness of the sky and the utter, pindrop silence, packed bags ready for an early start and slept.

Scotland, Day 2: The Highlands – Glencoe

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Monday 10th December

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I woke up in heaven. We were nestled at the base of Buachaille Etive Mor, a towering, perfectly triangular snow-topped mountain, with just a small coppice between the van and a wild, open plain surrounded by rugged peaks. The horizon glowed orange, which turned from pink through lilac into the cool blue sky above, and the air was dry and crisp.

Sunrise
Buachaille Etive Mor
Buachaille Etive Mor
Björn at home

Once I’d stopped staring, morning admin commenced. This consists of changing the bedroom into the kitchen/living room (ie. turning the bed into the rear-facing seats and putting the table up), eating porridge, drinking coffee, tidying things away, making packed lunches (jam sandwiches on every trip, without exception – quick, cheap and highly transportable), brushing teeth, attempting to tame hair, packing daysacks and coming up with some kind of plan.

From the moment I decided to go to Scotland, I knew I wouldn’t leave without immersing myself in Glencoe – an area I’d fallen hopelessly in love with the previous year. Our Ben Nevis map doesn’t quite cover this area, so we went to the Glencoe visitor centre (usually well worth a visit, but this time the majority of it was being renovated) to pick up an OS map. We also did a bit of Christmas shopping in the small National Trust for Scotland shop, most notably buying a “wild haggis” toy (now called Hamish) for Nellie, my naughty black lab. Apparently tourists swear by haggis sightings.

Is this the perfect house?
The River Coe
Two of the three sisters

Glencoe hike

From there we headed back to a roadside car park at the base of the three sisters of Glencoe, part of the Bidean nam Bian mountain range of complex peaks, ridges and crags. It’s clearly a popular spot; I was bemused by a coach-full of handbag-clutching, vans-wearing tourists that stopped to admire the view through their iPhone cameras before deciding it was too cold to hang about and scuttling off.

We followed a path between the left and middle “sister” ridges, Beinn Fhada and Gearr Aonach, which saw us scrambling over rocks, squeezing through gaps, peering down at waterfalls over sheer edges and generally being awestruck by the dramatic, serene beauty of the place. The sisters towered over us on both sides, cold, hard rocks stood in front waiting to be scrambled over, and behind was the valley of Glencoe in all its wild, rugged, sandy-yellow winter glory. Oh Scotland.

Halfway up and so happy
He’s happy too
Looking back towards the main valley

Eventually we reached the end of the path, which overlooked a long, bathtub-shaped plateau surrounded on three sides by curving, steep-sided ridges. We sat on a rock enjoying our jam sandwiches, then clambered down. It looked as though there was once a river (or glacier?) running through from the narrow end with the snow-topped ridge, which had carved out the valley and left thousands of loose rocks that were awkward to walk on, and there were huge, house-sized boulders scattered as if giants had thrown and left them there.

I couldn’t resist the lure of nature’s playground, so I had a quick climb on a too-tempting boulder plonked in the middle of the plateau. As the path didn’t seem to go anywhere we headed back along the same route, stumbling down the uneven paths and grinning as we bashed knees and scuffed elbows on sticky-out bits of rock. Fortunately there was barely anyone else on the path, so our ungainliness went unnoticed.

Snug as a bug
Playtime
“The bathtub”… what a hiding spot for a herd of catle

Back at the car park we found a tourist information board, which informed us that we’d walked along the Lost Valley (Coire Gabhail). The “plateau” was where the MacDonald clan hid stolen cattle in the 1600s – I have no idea how they mooved (not even sorry) cows up there – and fled to after some escaped the famous Glen Coe massacre of 1692 (fascinating and heartbreaking bit of history, google it).

Breathtaking
I wish we’d found this before the walk!

Red deer at Glen Etive

We left the car park and drove back to the 12-mile dead-end Glen Etive road where we’d stayed the previous night. Glen Etive is where the Skyfall (James Bond) house was set/CGI’d onto, and I’d read that it’s worth a visit because of its remote beauty. It’s a stunning valley, less well-known than Glencoe, flanked by imposing ridges darkened in places by deep green pine forests.

I was desperate to see red deer on this trip and I’d been looking out carefully since we’d got to the Highlands. So a few miles along the road, I could barely contain myself when we came across a couple of people hand-feeding carrots to a young stag. We stopped, and when they left I slipped out the van to try and get some photos.

The rest of the herd were down a bank by a wide, shallow river, guarded watchfully by a majestic stag. I snuck down the bank and moved diagonally through the trees to get a better shot without approaching the deer directly; the stag kept an eye on me as his herd grazed and drank from the river. It was so surreal – I’d have been thrilled to see one red deer at a distance, let alone a whole herd at close range. The light was fading so I had to hold the camera super still; I would have got better photos in better light, but I don’t care – I’m delighted. The deer are even more wildly, gracefully beautiful in person.

My mind was blown
…and my heart stopped

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Eventually I tore myself away and we drove back to Glencoe between towering, silhouetted ridges against a navy blue sky. I loved that drive; I found the mountains bearing over us in the dark simultaneously humbling, ominous and comforting, as if we were both at their mercy and under their protection. We stopped for supplies (notably wine) at the Co-op in Ballachulish, near Glen Coe village, then went to Kinlochleven to book an ice climbing session at the indoor centre for the next day.

That done, we stopped for the night in a layby on the south side of Loch Leven. The blackness of the water merged with the dark silhouette of the huge ridge that lay on its north side, which was interspersed at loch level with the twinkling lights of occasional buildings. We appreciated the twinkly lights while eating sausage casserole and planning for tomorrow.

Another good day.

I miss these roads
Sausage casserole going strong
Hamish the Haggis, back when he was still white (ie. before he became Nellie’s favourite toy)

Scotland, Day 1: Loch Lomond & the Trossachs

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Saturday 8th December

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Practical > Pretty

We left Winchester at about 6pm, aiming to get to Lancaster that night. The drive went smoothly until Björn started making a funny whirring noise near Birmingham; a quick google search and phone call to dad suggested that either a) the power steering fluid needed topping up, or b) there was an issue with a belt and we’d have to cancel the trip. Fortunately we’d stopped for fuel anyway, so we picked up some more oil, faffed about putting it in (as the engine is under the seat) and carried on, immensely relieved that the noise had stopped. We arrived near Lancaster around 1.30am.

Sunday 9th December

We left at about 5.30am and headed into Scotland, stopping for a quick nap near Lockerbie. The drive was lovely; the road (A34(M)) was flanked by undulating, bracken-covered hills, and we were surrounded  by majestic wind turbines. Once we reached Glasgow, a brief trip into Asda (as a porridge lover I was delighted by the extent of the oats section) confirmed that we had no desire to spend much time under a roof or around humans, so we drove on to Loch Lomond and the Trossachs National Park.

Pleased by the harnessing of renewable energy! (And mountains, of course)
And delighted by the porridge aisle…
Having kayaked on Loch Lomond last year, we parked at Arrochar on the northwest bank of Loch Long and headed up a zigzag path through a pine forest towards Ben Ime and the Cobbler, part of the “Arrochar Alps”. The Cobbler is purportedly one of Scotland’s most celebrated mountains, probably because of its distinctive shape – it’s said to resemble a cobbler bending over his work, but I’m not sure I see it. It is impressive though, and I’ve noted for future that it looks great for climbing.

As we broke out of the forest and walked above the treeline, the views were stunning. Despite the winter, there was colour everywhere: the sandy yellow of the rippling grass contrasted with the rich, dark green of the forest, which contrasted with the reddish brown of the mountains, which contrasted with the calm blue-gold sky. The surrounding mountains cast enormous shadows over each other as the setting sun bathed the summits in warm, orange light and glistened on the still surface of Loch Long, and the Cobbler towered dark and dramatic over us. I see why the poets liked Scotland.

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Happiness

Unfortunately we turned round before reaching the Cobbler and Ben Ime’s summit because the light was fading and the car park ticket was running out, but the short (2ish hours) walk was well worthwhile. Back at loch level, we drove north towards Glencoe along the [famously “bonnie, bonnie”] banks of Loch Lomond and through the plains of long valleys shouldered by vast, protective mountains.

We parked for the night in a lay-by at the bottom of Buachaille Etive Mor (although we didn’t realise that until the next morning), apparently the most photographed and one of the most loved mountains in Scotland because of its typical pyramid shape, on the Glen Etive road [photos to follow in my next post].

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Dinner 4 days (literally)

Then I cooked properly in Björn for the first time ever: a big sausage and veg casserole, enough for 3-4 days’ worth of dinners. It was lovely, and we slept like logs under the most beautiful night sky I’ve ever seen – clearer than clear and black as pitch, scattered with what looked like a hundred million-billion-trillion stars. Despite all the driving, a good first day.

The view through the forest on the way up
The Cobbler
Sunset on Ben Lomond
Björn at Loch Long