An Appetite for Lochaber

itsmosblog has decided to go independent with a .scot domain (of course.)

It’s been a long silence, but I think I’m ready to get back out there......

When your mother says either “don’t do it!” or “You could NEVER do that”, it often triggers a defiant response.  Never much of a rebel, my response was “Aye, yer bloody right I wouldn’t!”

With a heavy heart I’d handed back my Ben Race entry in mid July, giving my precious place to someone willing to work a bit harder than me. I’d missed the final cut off last year by 2.57 minutes (3hrs 15mins is the target) which generated the dreaded letter that fires a warning shot across the bows - “miss the cut-off next time and yer oot for ever!”  I wasn’t willing to be told I couldn’t ever do the race again, so ruled myself out for this one.  But how to make one of my most exciting days still exciting without the pain and triumph of the big race? 

Most of us know that the dedicated Lochaber Mountain Rescue team which looks after us up the hill on the day, manage to have quite a bit of fun whilst doing so.  Traditionally, Spooks father - a member of the team for 40 odd years - never made it home on Race Day. I wondered if they could do with my help?

I arrived at the Base for 9am helicopter training.  That sounded exciting and was something I could talk up to others whilst knowing I was never going to get on the chopper cos they’ve got loads of rules about that kind of stuff. I don’t like flying at the best of times so talking about it was enough.  Spook even gave me a helmet and safety glasses so I could pretend.

I drank coffee and tried to look important - like I was one of the team.  John McRae marched into the base, pointed straight at me and said “right Mo - Tower Ridge - let’s go.” 

 Eh????? 

 Callum Anderson walked in “right Mo - Tower Ridge the day, ok?”

  Eh?????? 

Suddenly the Chopper was sounding like a great idea. Pity they’d cancelled it. 

A Doctor from the Belford - Anna - had come along to help out with the Marshalling.  She’d only been here for 3 weeks and it was a great way to meet folk and spend a day off.  The sun was shining.  She was smiling.  She said she’d quite like to go up to the summit via Tower Ridge.  Before I knew it I was saying I would go up Tower Ridge (without actually saying I’d LIKE to go up - but I secretly thought she might need my help.) 

Gorgeous Kev was going up. So was Martin.  And Matt.  And me...............

Unfortunately no one can see how gorgeous Kev is as his head appears to be stuck inside an orange bag.

There was a lot of gear for something they told me was basically a walk.  Anna didn’t look like she needed my help and had to show me how to get into my harness. 

All very inspiring.....

Before we headed up, Gorgeous Kev’s last words to me (he, Martin ‘Ledge-route’ MacDermot and Matt were going a slightly different way) were “Don’t look down”  So I didn’t - ever.

And looking up or at the rocks, or John’s feet or back side or whatever the hell was in front of me, worked very very well.  The grips were plentiful and reassuring - doesn’t seem to matter what your feet are doing as long as there is something to grip on to.  At one point it was all smooth rock and John must have seen the classic boose coming on (Scottish word meaning “Mouth, not quite a dignified term to apply to the human mouth; very often = a pursed mouth and also = a sulky expression of face”).  He told me to keep reaching forward, forward, forward until I would find the grip.  And there it was!  The sweetest feeling - they could hear it in my gasped relief.  If I was taking too long and they got bored, there was always the family photo’s to look at while they waited......

“That’s the boys, and that’s my wee lassie.......and that’s my beautiful Corrina...”

Callum had time to check his mail and update his social media.......

And I managed one close-up Selfie as that’s as far as I could stretch my arm without falling off the mountain.....

Anna was worried that no one would believe I’d been up there as all she could see was a red helmet so every now and then she asked me to look up and smile...

This is not a real smile.

There was always the reassurance that Anna wasn’t scared.

Callum wasn’t scared.

And John wasn’t scared. 

 So there can’t have been anything to be scared of, as they all knew where they were going....

And the sun was shining out of my proverbial.

There was a strolly bit and a climby bit and a tricky bit, but all looking upwards.  There was taught rope and loose rope and haul me up rope.  And then......there was.......the......gap.  Jeeeeeezzzz.  Everyone’s heard of the gap.  There is a photo, lost somewhere, of my mother clinging to the gap with her eyes closed, hair stuck to her brow and a definite sweary word on her pursed lips.  But that’s all I saw.  There was no photo of the actual gap.  And no photo could do justice to this small space into which you must descend alone and reach across and climb out of.  And alone is the operative word no matter how much friction they tell me they have on the rope.  You are alone in that gap. This is what my mother meant!  And she was right. The approach to it looked bad enough - quite different from anything we’d encountered so far.  But Anna - whom I had gone up there to protect - had gone ahead and set up the sling to cling to, nipped over the gap and climbed high to set up the belay that would keep us all safe.  She looked so relaxed.  Like it was nothing.  She was still smiling.  And chatting.  Not a quiver in her voice.  John descended into the gap while Anna discussed with him how great it was that wherever you put your foot there was a place for it.  Callum was to keep the rope taught for me on one side, John on the other, and Anna looking after all of us up top.  As I pondered my life and the knowledge that there was simply no way out of this, Kev, Martin and Matt appeared with a chorus of “Mo Mo Super Mo” making wee heart shape hands on their helmets.  I appeared to be the only one clinging to the rocks.  Was no-one taking this seriously???

Actually - although this is not a clear photo, I appear to be making the helmet sign myself.  What the hell was I thinking of???? Get a grip, girl!!

Again - not a clear picture, but colour me gripped.

As I began the death descent, Anna continued to utter the calm and reassuring words that those foot holds were there in all the right places - I’d find them naturally.  I was obeying Kev’s earlier words.  There is no way I was looking down.  There was very little below my feet except for these foot holds that were in all the right places.  And then you’re in the gap but you have to climb straight up out of it.  Don’t look down.John said  “Oh - here, Mo! - you better reach up and unclip that rope from the carabiner - that’s meant to be unclipped.”  (silence from me but mary hell going on inside - Jeeez - it’s away up above me and if I look up I’ll fall off and die.  But he says it needs to be unclipped.  Will I pull Callum off?  Are we all going to fall?  I need to unclip it.)

My hand crept up to the carabiner and I unfurled the metal clip in slow motion, barely breathing as I eased the rope out of it’s grasp - any wrong move and it was all over.  Did this mean I was unsecured?  No time to think.  Just turn back to the left, get both hands onto the wall and climb like my life depended on it. 

I’m over the gap.  I’m alive.  And I’m close to tears......

I couldn’t believe I’d done it, that I’d lulled myself into the belief that I do this kind of thing only to discover that I truly don’t but I now I had to, as there is no going back.  It had been so much fun up until that moment.  The loveliest and in some ways easiest way to access the summit of The Ben.  Except for that bloody gap.  Tiny, yet immense. Relief was palpable but we were not yet at the top and I now knew that nothing was stopping me - even when I had to crawl a ledge that was an obvious stroll to those not afflicted with the ‘fear’.

I don’t even remember this bit but it’s very similar to what I had to crawl up.

 I regained a wee bit equilibrium as from the gap to the summit is but a short scramble.  The beauty and fresh air of that solid surface has to be the best feeling (at least compared to how you feel when you’ve tramped up the tourist path)

Which is what Running Girls daughter Maisie and her friend Rosie had just done, and whom we met when we came over the Ridge.  They were feeling less than exhilarated at this point, but it was their first ever ascent of the country’s biggest hill and all in honour of RG’s 21st Ben Nevis Race.

For me - I don’t know how much was exhilaration and how much was pure relief...

The best dram I ever tasted.

And now it was time to do the job we had come to do.  

The boys had Gardyloo Gully to guard against any runners tripping into and Anna and I were to go down to 4000ft.  The day was only beginning.........

Our powerhouse Running Girl on her 21st Ben Race.  This is the painful style that gets you up the hill fastest.

Callum’s sister Julie, on her 21st Ben Race - injured and rocking it.

Donald, sporting the number 21 on his 21st Ben Race.

Foss, on his 21st Ben Race.

And hat’s off to Johnny Banks who chased that 21st prize through injury and pain - you did it!!  

Amanda - beating her boys to the bottom in 2hrs 14 mins.  

Spook has decided to get a hair cut and shave for next year, to cut off a few minutes.

Raymond - fought his way back onto the mountain after illness.

And this man - Stephen Symons who stopped to chat on his way down and to take a photo at 4000ft as he’d recovered from a brain hemorrhage and was not going to miss a pic of the view.

Finlay Wilde on his way to his 8th consecutive win.

The hill was alive with heros.  No one should ever underestimate how tough this race is.

(thanks to John O’Neill for the Ben Race photos.)

 As I left Anna at the Team Base after a great day out, I worried about leaving my lovely new climbing partner behind so I called in later to check she was ok.  I found her to be in safe hands...

her own.

She is Anna Wells - UK Drytool Climbing champ, runner of mountain marathons. record holder of the quickest woman over the Skye Ridge.  KIndest lady support up the Tower Ridge. Who knew? (Well actually, somebody told me and then I told everyone else - so by the end of the night, everyone knew.)

http://dmmclimbing.com/blog/anna-wells-looks-back-2014/

Since encountering The Gap, I have heard that many a relationship has almost foundered there.  Tordis was very rude to her husband Ian when she discovered the true path to the top.  Climbing Kev was very rude to Running Girl as he sat looking at his watch while she spent quiet some time wondering what the hell she was doing there.

  I would recommend the low key, easy companionship of John and Callum any day, which did not disguise the experience and knowledge they brought with them.  I never doubted for a minute that I wasn’t in the safest of hands or I would never ever have gone, as despite appearing a little blase at first, I don’t do this.  I really don’t. I am so grateful that they didn’t leave me to walk up that tourist path.

On a rare warm and sunny day, the Running Police called to suggest taking advantage of the good weather.  I was still licking wounds from Curly’s 12 mile ‘light’ exercise but didn’t like to mess with the RP - aka Running Girl.  However I was working and asked if we could make it later in the day. (I’ve given up hope that later might mean easier.)  

When I called back to say that tea time was looking good, the Running Police had diversified into the Canny be Bothered.  I was fairly sure I could turn that attitude around as she’s worked the magic on me plenty of times.  Spook decided to come too as I’d chosen Sgurr an Utha which is a Corbett (under 2000ft therefore not a Munro, but bigger than a Donald and a Marilyn!!!!) and he’d never been into that area of hills before.  Running Girl and I had done it about 4 years ago having seen it written up as an ‘easy’ run in the Stephen Fallon book of hills to run and race. None of us were interested in a run - easy or not - so a pleasant evening stroll was anticipated.  

 https://www.google.co.uk/imgres?imgurl=http://t1.gstatic.com/images%3Fq%3Dtbn:ANd9GcTEXT78gv0CbDva1YnRKF-y2ahaqvBTiymlyBKKyVbHq_ZWA-rM&imgrefurl=https://books.google.com/books/about/Classic_Hill_Runs_and_Races_in_Scotland.html%3Fid%3DeUT7QQAACAAJ%26source%3Dkp_cover&h=400&w=283&tbnid=MQ8M8NJe0E8-7M:&tbnh=160&tbnw=113&usg=__daMrUUUpCpW1_TfrzyZVRw1I1qA=&vet=10ahUKEwiq_L_t6oHVAhXMhrQKHT--AlIQ_B0IbDAK..i&docid=CIguPsgnE7j8KM&itg=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiq_L_t6oHVAhXMhrQKHT--AlIQ_B0IbDAK

A very long link for a small book!!!

We headed out past Glenfinnan and without need of a map I’d remembered where to park and insisted that I would know exactly where to go.  RG and Spook paid no attention to me and took a map.

Which was just as well as they’ve since put in a hydro scheme, a new road, and I hadn’t a clue where I was.

At least they picked out a far better way to ascend than the way we’d gone before. There’s no hill that doesn’t involve a bit of an effort, but this one reaped reward after reward.....

We were really needing Noel Williams on this trek.  Even Running Girl stopped to look and she’s not known for exclaiming over wee photo opportunities like wot I do.  In fact she’s more likely to be trying hard to stay patient with all the stop start....

If she gets too bored she starts checking skin blemishes.  If she puts a hat on when it’s warm, you’re in real trouble, but one out of two ain’t bad...

With Spook it’s about helping him to remember that the childhood desire to push rocks over the edge is best kept as an unfulfilled desire.  He knows this, of course, but he always spots them from below and always has to have a wee test of the possibilities if he happens to be passing. 

Was this enough to turn RG’s Canny be Bothered attitude around?  Hmmm - not quite sure yet....

Ben Nevis not looking very big in the distant centre.

I could see she was getting a bit more chatty as we finally walked off the hill. Back in the van I remembered an article I’d read in the paper about the responsibility of the Selfie and that instead of taking 5 photo’s and selecting the best at a time when our hair is perfect and the light is kind, we should take more honest Selfies.  I suggested we try this.  She suggested that no Selfie was better than an honest Selfie but agreed to an honest one.....

Casual Curly suggested a wee run after tea the other week.  I couldn’t make it til later so she said 7pm at Spean Bridge would be plenty time for a simple, evening adventure.  A run to the Laraig Bothy and perhaps nip up the wee Stobhan.  It sounded simple indeed.  

Unfortunately she decreed that her wee yellow car couldn’t make it further than the bridge over the Courr Burn so we were to start from there.  If I’d known that I’d have borrowed a 4WD!  (And taken it all the way to the Laraig.)  But it is myself who keeps telling people that I need to improve my endurance.  I hadn’t run anywhere since chasing pigs around the croft and my last planned run had been the 19th of June.  Training has not been going well, so I wasn’t in a position to make a fuss (though that doesn’t usually stop me.)

Meeting Hugh, who was waiting for a contingent of sheared sheep needing herded, was a pleasant distraction but only about 5 minutes into the run so perhaps a little earlier than required.  The Wee Minister was our next option for a chat.....

It makes no difference that I now know he is there lying in wait for all who pass, but he still gie’s me the heebiejeebies.  Curly reassured him that I meant no harm.

In what is essentially an uphill effort for 6 miles, the endorphins took a while to kick in through the discomfort.  The photograph does not do justice to the immense space and green tranquillity of the place that took us quickly away from the rest of the world.

There’s always that niggling worry though, that someone may be lurking in that lonely bothy.............

A discreet knock from Curly followed by a furtive look around inside to make sure nothing was amiss, and we could drop the irrational thoughts.  Not before I had noted that the ‘wee Stobhan - just to the right of the bothy chimney - didn’t look wee enough. I just hoped I could persuade Curly from THAT irrational thought.

“Is graffiti ever acceptable?” pondered Curly

It may not be for everyone, but these markings are part of the bothies history.

Thankfully Curly agreed that the hill looked a bit bigger than she’s remembered and that it was getting a bit late, so we turned for home.  Of course a 6 mile run one way equals a 12 mile run in total so I can’t complain about lack of endurance training.  

After a difficult week of pig herding which had put a bit of a strain on our relationship, I asked Spook if he’d like to join me on a gastronomic tour out on the Morvern Peninsula, Strontian and the shores of Loch Sunart.  It seemed the least I could offer after all he’d been through and I’d just been invited to take part in a short video being made to promote an adventure in Lochaber for a project called SAINT - Slow Adventures in the Northern Territories.

http://saintproject.eu/

http://www.ardnamurchan.com/about-ardnamurchan/area/lochaline-and-morvern/

 A companion was required to join me and I couldn’t think of anyone better suited - especially as his body was so sore from recent events, that slow was all he was capable off.  I just crossed my fingers that it wouldn’t push the boundaries of his reserved nature.  Sara of SAINT had assured me we would take part in some light exercise and lot’s of eating.  Jodie of the OCUK would manage the day for us and Cameraman John would demand very little of Spook regarding acting skills and only use footage of his best side. Never mind slow adventure - I was looking at this as The Outdoor Capital of the UK’s Relationship Repair Service (OCURRS).

We started our day on the Ardtornish Estate near Lochaline. I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend staying here as Spook and I had a fantastic week in this house back in 2014 for my best friends 50th birthday.  It’s a big house, with loads of space and character and was very affordable for a big group. I wrote a blog about it....... 

http://itsmosblog.tumblr.com/post/93861150932/as-spook-and-i-settle-into-life-as-part-of-a-house

http://www.ardtornish.co.uk/achranich/

On this trip we hired bikes from the estate and set off to explore the immediate area.  

The Ardtornish Kitchen Garden was amazing.  Richard has spent 2 years taking it from a ruin to a bountiful and inspiring display of tasty produce.  He invited us to pick veg to take away for lunch, and opened the first pea pod of the season for us to sample the sweetest pea that you wouldn’t want to put anywhere near boiling water.  Unfortunately the OCURRS faltered a little at this point as apparently I went on a bit too much about how tall Richard was, and how much I admired his dungarees (I have some myself) and that I thought his neck tie was lovely......and wasn’t it fantastic that he’d grown all that stuff himself blah blah blah. Not to be outdone, Spook showed how earthy he could be himself, by insisting on carrying the basket.....

The garden is open to the public from 9-5 Mon/Tues/Thurs/Fri.  It is well worth a visit. http://www.ardtornish.co.uk/ardtornish-kitchen-garden/

There is so much to explore on this peninsula and keeping Spook to an eating agenda was quite difficult.  He knows there are coastal nooks and crannies aplenty, but he allowed himself to be woo’d by lunch at The White House Restaurant in Lochaline.

Mackerel and potato pie doesn’t look like this when I make it.  Art on a plate and absolutely delicious.  It was painful to see Jodie, John and Noah (The Runner) salivating, so we shared our treacle soda bread and caboc cheese - grudgingly - but there was no chance we were letting them get their fingers into these plates

(my gazpacho soup photo - how can cold soup taste so wonderful?  I’d stick this in a flask and use it to sustain me all day without need of anything else.  A big flask.)

.The restaurant has it’s own kitchen garden so we added stuff to Spooks basket...

http://www.thewhitehouserestaurant.co.uk/

We took a cycle down to the shore for a wee gaze across to Mull and to let our lunch go down. This is a wonderful place and back in 2014 I was determined to come back and spend more time here and now I have renewed that pledge.

It was off to Strontian which is about  20 mile of slow uphill (it’s a slow adventure after all) with great views and an exciting decent to Loch Sunart.  We had an afternoon picnic date with Kate Campbell at The Ariundle Centre where she had prepared us a hamper.  Our next adventure was Canoeing and with more time we would have been taking our hamper on the canoe to a remote beach, but time was short - so we just had to eat it.........I’m more of a ‘throw a sandwich into a rucksack’ kind of adventurer, but THIS is the way to picnic.

https://www.facebook.com/Ariundle/

Kate lit up when we asked to see her spinning wheel - this is a slow adventure - no nipping out to buy a ball of wool for Kate.  It is an earthy and absorbing past-time.......

But we had to be a bit more energetic to work off some of the calories, so we cycled off to Otter Adventures, just outside Strontian.  Karl was a friendly and relaxed guide with a clear passion for what he does, who talked us through getting our canoe to the water and how to paddle if in the front or at the back.  This is another opportunity for making or breaking a relationship and I wasn’t risking things breaking down, so took the easier position in the front of the boat.  I did exactly what Karl told me to do and Spook, glad to be in safer, non-gardening territory, was masterful with the steering.  It requires a bit of skill to get where you want to go and not where the tide and boat takes you.  We took a wee tour around an island and were quickly surrounded by curious seals, bobbing and diving close by.  Karl understood the concept of the comfort part of a slow adventure, and recognized that for some fok, it’s just a short paddle to a beach that would be hard to walk to, perhaps our picnic hamper to consume, or his outdoor coffee maker and cake, and a paddle home.  If you’re not used to the efforts of paddling, you don’t want to have gone too far.  But the potential for bigger explorations are all available in the expert hands of Karl. 

https://otter-adventures.co.uk/

Had we been staying the night, we might have taken the comfortable and good value option of a cabin at Sunart Campsite.  We checked them out and this is my way of camping.  Cosy and comfy with no tent to wrestle with....

http://www.sunartcamping.co.uk/cabins.html

But whilst we were not staying over, we did have dinner to find and were  getting used to fine dining, so we took advantage of the non-resident option at Kilcamb Lodge.  If Spook had any stress and strain left from life in the piggy fast lane, it began to ebb away as soon as the wonderful staff made every effort to make us feel welcome....

This was the final glue in sticking us back together....

The First Class treatment from staff, the fantastically tasty and beautifully presented food, the comfort and wine..........the welcome of non residents for breakfast, morning coffee, lunch, afternoon tea and dinner - at prices which you would happily spend for a treat without hesitation (and I know that Spook will surely be working out how to treat me to a stay in the Lodge itself) make this probably our biggest surprise of the day.  You could have all sorts of adventures out on these western peninsula’s, but topping it off with a visit to Kilcamb Lodge would be the icing on the.......well..... the ice in the bucket of wine.

crudities of the loveliest kind

The best melt in the mouth beef Spook has ever tasted.

https://www.kilcamblodge.co.uk/

Spook and I had a brilliant day out.  When we got home, we got the map out and plotted all the adventures we are going to have way out west.  And the food we are going to eat - not sandwiches.

Thanks to Jodie of OCUK for managing the day so calmly and not making us feel guilty about all the food we ate which they didn’t.  To John for his One Shot Wonders which kept Spook on the right side of happy and to Noah who fulfilled his role as Runner beautifully by checking that the Caviar really doesn’t taste at all fishy. And to Sara of SAINT for asking us to be Luvvies for the day.

And to all those on this Slow Adventure who allowed us to try their wares.

After securing the darling little piglets, we headed off to Edinburgh to pick up Granny and Papa Munro who had been living the dream in their camper van in Europe, but had broken down 200 miles from the ferry in Amsterdam.  Papa Munro is not beyond taking an engine out at the side of the road, but there was just a handy wee bit missing and so AA equivalent rescue services had to be called.  They relayed them to the nearest campsite and then set about a rather inefficient, 5 day rescue package which involved considerations of 15 days to fix the vehicle (with the handy wee bit, Papa could do it himself in half a day), problems with relaying it across different countries within Europe as they were bordering Luxembourg and Germany and needing to be in Holland and this was causing the insurance company some issues.  Eventually they booked them onto a flight out of Frankfurt bound for Edinburgh with a plan for the campervan to follow, and despite omitting to send a hired car or a taxi to get them to the airport, they insisted to Spook that the issue was settled as they were definitely on a plane.  When Spook had phoned his parents they were enjoying a nice breakfast in the lovely campsite and no where near an aeroplane.  Spook demanded of the company that this be resolved immediately as his parents were very old and vulnerable.....  

What we picked up at the airport could never be described as old and vulnerable, but more Hippy, straight off the Silk Route and likely to be drug searched at any minute. They were the healthiest looking individuals, brown as nuts, open toed sandals, sunkissed hair and a tiny rucksack between them.  Spook and I looked ancient by comparison having spent the last 2 days fighting piglets.

We got home at 2am, checked the escapees were not escapees,and were  reassured by a gentle grunt.  Happily, we went to bed and had a long lie.

Something not right, Spook??  You did a good job of creating the Semi-Cooler.  

Aaaaaaahhhh.  So that’s what’s going on with your face!

This was a little disappointing to say the very very least.  We trudged back to the kitchen to make coffee and try to bolster our spirits.  The Great Escape is one of Spooks favourite films.  Steve McQueen, as The Cooler King, had made 17 escape attempts before the film began and made 4 within the film.  Now that Spook was faced with piglets working together he would have to consult his experience of the film.  Wilbur just didn’t seem like the right name, now.  Not that we had any piglets to name - they had flown the coup.  Danny The Tunnel King, played by Charles Bronson, could have broken down to the McQueen equivalent of Bronson.  That’s a good, sturdy boy pig kind of name.  

Anyway, I had work to do and didn’t know where to start with the pig hunting.  We’d just have to wait until someone spotted them trying to board a bus, or something. 

 And sure enough, the answer came with the mail.  The Postie Woman had seen a couple of real cutie piglets up at the neighbours. Lovely and chatty they were, she said.  So off I ran with a bucket of feed and Spook went to secure the Cooler - again - and from all angles.  But not a pig to be seen next door.  There was a light gathering of interested and supportive neighbours, one of whom was getting the boy’s sisters next week.  (right - good luck with THAT!)  I gave up and went to start work while Spook, having googled how to catch a pig (try a familiar bucket of feed (nope), try speaking in a high pitched and friendly voice (nope), and if desperate, try to grab it’s hind leg (if only one could find a pig, let alone get close enough - so that’s another nope,))) took up the final piece of advice which was to check fence-lines as they do have a liking for them. It wasn’t long before I got the call.  One inside the neighbours fence-line and one on the hill-side of it.  I could hear the frantic squealing from Bronson/Tunnel King who wanted to be on the hill-side with his brother.  I joined Spook and began to work them back towards our own croft.  But there was a deeply gouged burn that ran through the hill-side and under the fence, at which point Bronson shot under and Spook howled in despair as we now had the whole of Banavie Hill to try and out-run 2 determined piglets.  I knew now for sure that he hated me - it was written all over his face.  Venom!  But as  McQueen and Bronson tried to go uphill in the gorge-like burn (which was only knee deep for us,) they got stuck with Bronson nearest Spook and facing me and MacQueen the opposite.  Yet again, I reached down and grabbed his leg.  With a flash, Spook dived through the gorse, into the burn and landed on Bronson who was far more Charles Bronson, than Danny The Tunnel King.  A fight ensued between Spook and Burly Bronson, while my little piglet knew the game was up with 2 legs off the ground. We’d moved into new movie territory here. More  Death Wish - (https://reelrundown.com/movies/The-Death-Wish-Series-Bronson-at-His-Best)

Once Spook got control of the situation, we just looked at each other.....we were stuck in a burn up on the hill-side with 2 truculent, erstwhile piggy movie stars and not a hope of getting them out of the burn by ourselves.  This was clearly a crofting issue so he decided to call Calum The Crofter.  He didn’t answer his phone.  We sweated a bit.  Maybe if he could persuade The Boss that the frogs had vacated the hill he might come back out and help.  He called him and bless his sports sandals he said he’d be up straight away.  Then Calum The Croft called back and said he was cutting down trees and would be up in 15 minutes.  

We sat and chatted.  I ventured to ask if this could be counted as quality time together, but Spook wasn’t ready to think of this as a romantic encounter.  He was too busy pondering his options.  He’d asked The Boss and Calum to bring rope.  The expression “hog-tied” was beginning to make sense.  After what seemed about 2 hours but was probably 25 minutes, help appeared in the shape of Calum and his father who could not keep the grin off his face.......The Boss had gone further up the hill by mistake, but may have seen a frog and diverted course. (He only told us about the previous frog issue once it was all over - perhaps he’d worried that his screams would have scared the pig, or that Spook and I might have become delusional with exhaustion and tackled him to the ground instead of the pig.)

Calum got on with the hog-tying whilst his Dad issued advice from a safe distance.  Once both piggies were secured, Calum got Bronson in a bear hug..

whilst Spook got the other into a vice-like grip.  The Boss took the anchor........

That way, he could protect Calum from any hoppity dangers.

But with a broken Spook beginning to toil, he took over McQueen and it was The Boss  and Calum who got the boys back in the Cooler.  ALL the boys were sweating like pigs after the effort.  Calum asked Spook how long the pigs would be ‘resting’ on the croft.  Spook said “October.”

The warning signs were everywhere if only one had paid attention.  

Meg (and I) had thought it was a good time to have pigs again.  There was a time when every croft had a pig - they turned over the ground, ate the scraps, fertilized the soil and fed the family. 

 First warning.  Every croft no longer has a pig. 

 We wanted pigs that hadn’t travelled far so we booked a couple of piglets from Farmer Giles along the road who had more piglets than you could shake a stick at (shake a stick - hold that thought.)  Unfortunately I hadn’t specified that I wanted wee girlie pigs as I hadn’t heard a lot of positive stories about wee boy pigs - even though I’d met the father - Steve Ham - who’s a real sweetheart, just like his original namesake who is a good pal of Spooks.....

And of course, the other folk wanting piglets had specified no boys, so we got 2 boys.  2nd warning.

3rd warning came in the efforts it took Farmer Giles to get the wee darlings into the roomy container we had brought.  I was a little alarmed to say the least and when one of them made a very good attempt to escape even when I was sitting on the lid - well, I’ll just include that in warning number 3.

I suppose the 4th was the look of sheer delight as we drove off with the boys with  Farmer Giles’s good lady saying ominously “I can’t wait to read the blog...........”

I wasn’t risking another escape attempt until we were ready.  We had the electric fence all fired up with plenty of space for them to roam and turn over a future tattie patch for us........22 seconds after releasing them, they were through the fence and away up the croft.  That’s not really a warning - that’s just exactly why Spook didn’t want any more pigs and that was the gist of the lecture Meg and I had to endure along with how much pork you could buy in Lidls for the price of 2 pesky piglets.  We hung our heads in shame and despair and knew there was nothing for it but to chase them around the hill field part of the croft.  We knew from experience that new piggies don’t recognise us as their saviours and no amount of feed bucket rattling will bring them back.  Unfortunately, the cows knew exactly what a rattly feed bucket was and as I ran around after the piglet, the 7 young cows ran after me.  They were also very curious about the pig and were helpful in locating it amongst the bracken and gorse and after about an hour they managed to scare one of them back into the pig area - let’s call him Wilbur - whereupon Spook rugby tackled it and managed to get it into the pig hut where it was unceremoniously penned in. We felt encouraged by the piglets instinct for it’s new home but unfortunately piglet number 2 had no such instinct.  Indeed his instinct was for hiding in the undergrowth.  We flushed him out, ran him up and down the croft (in our welly boots) until even the cows got bored.  Meg held the fort back at base in case he came home and got eaten by midges while we got soaked in the undergrowth.  The piglet got slower and slower but even then, our sprints weren’t fast enough and he was getting better at hiding in the growing gloom of the night.  After almost 3 hrs we had to give up.  Too dark, too tired and hopeful that with a little less chasing, he might come home himself and be conveniently waiting  for us in the morning.  

There’s nothing pretty about pig hunting.......(unless you are a Kiwi girl or an Aussie girl, but I was wanting this piggy alive - not dead.)

We had a large dram and went to bed.

A fresh approach was required in the morning when there was no pig to greet us other than a very sad and lonely one sat in a hut, and so a coordinated effort was planned with walkie-talkies, Meg and her sore leg on the quad bike, shorts and hill running shoes.  Spook fashioned a net with weights on it that would be further reaching than his dive bombing abilities.  The target just had to be located. 

 I got a call on the radio stating that the quarry had been spotted.  I thought it was actually AT the quarry along the road so it was a relief to know that it was still in the hill field.  I made some final preparations......

I’d heard you had to flush it out and stick it, so I also managed to find a couple of sticks and ran around the croft waving them in a fairly ineffective manner.

It’s quite a small pig and quite a big field......

Quad Girl turned out to be remarkably adept on the bike.

The Boss turned up to put heat on the pig whom he thought should be named after his father - Steve.........MacQueen.  

On and on and on and in and out of bushes we went, until suddenly, an exhausted wee pig surrounded on 3 sides found itself floored by a magnificent tackle from Spook.  Meg and I were despatched for the container while The Boss and he pinned the wee begger down.  I had an inspired thought that Granny’s hen catcher crate would be of use so we brought that too.  We lined it up in front of MacQueen and just as I was wondering if maybe we should have the other container involved as well, Spook let go of the pig which shot into the crate and straight through the webbing (which I had thought was wire caging but was in fact very soft plastic) and out the other side.  The look on Spook and The Boss’s faces said ‘divorce - with immediate effect’.  I couldn’t really think what to say...........”sorry?”

We just had to soldier on   Shoulders were slumped, MacQueen was exhausted but had mastered the act of disappearing into the thickest gorse bush and had learnt to restrain from grunting.  We all took turns at crawling into the gorse. Emotions were becoming strained.  Spook was no longer affectionately calling me ‘Honey’.  The Boss had a desparate moment when a piece of bracken got caught in his ‘sports’ sandal and he thought it was a frog.  He was on the brink of screaming and tossing the sandal into the gorse but managed to pull himself together in time to see it for what it was.  Finally he could commit no more time to the matter and had to bid us farewell.  

Backwards and forwards across the hill field we went as MacQueen struggled to run up a hill by now.  I was aware that we were playing the nasty Nazi role here but truly we were feeling very sorry for MacQueen and wishing he would submit so we could reunite him with his brother, feed and water him - this was (not yet) to be the sad ending of The Great Escape.  (I hear you Vegetarians - I hear you.)

Spook and I had MacQueen closed into a wee gorse patch whilst Meg snoozed further up the croft in a sunny spot which had nicely heated up the quad seat.  Suddenly I realised a rugby tackle might not be required as I leant down and grabbed a hind leg.  Bingo.  Spook wasn’t taking any risks and threw himself into the gorse patch to much greater detriment of himself than MacQueen.  He wasn’t for moving until Meg and I could assure him that no more mistakes would occur. This had been another 3 hour pig hunt. We competently reunited Wilbur and MacQueen after Spook adjusted The Cooler to ensure no one was getting out until he said so.  Suddenly the mad wee piggy was the gentlest wee cratur as he and Wilbur softly grunted and touched noses and all was well.  I hope he sleeps sound tonight.

It was quite clear who the true hero of the day was (apart from MacQueen who really is the most resourceful and determined of piglets).

Endurance - there’s the thing.  You gotta keep at it.  So in honour of the day before Summer Solstice (because it was the clearer evening and because we could both afford to be knackered on Wednesday morning but not Thursday) I suggested we go up Ben Nevis via the Carn Mor Dearg Arete instead of going to bed.  It has been fairly well documented that I don’t like high places - especially not exposed places - but surely with a bit of determination I could overcome that.  If not now, then when?

Alistair Humphreys of the Microadventure concept asks us what can we do with the 5pm to 9am between a standard days work.  Especially with all that daylight about.  http://www.alastairhumphreys.com/microadventures-3/

Spook and I have felt too old and tired for adventure recently and we sought to turn this around by just making the decision and getting on with it.  He kept asking me “Do you definitely want to do this?”  And I kept saying “Of course I do.” whilst both of us were thinking “oh god - do we really need to?”

We were crossing the stile onto the track up into the Ben Nevis gully by 9.30pm and it wasn’t long before we were trying to outpace the sun as it went down, and the shadow on The Ben went up.  We caught it eventually and already some endorphins had kicked in.

We let the sun go eventually as the going got steeper and the view back to the west was worth it regardless. Further down the path we’d met a fit looking, weather beaten man, carrying a rock in each fist.  He informed us that rain was coming in tomorrow - maybe he could feel it in the rocks.  If I had been on my own, my over-active imagination would have assumed he was going to beat me to death with the rocks.  Later, Spook commented that Noel Williams was probably right about the rain and I asked him when he’d consulted Mr Williams on the weather report.  He said -” back there on the path!”  I have read bits and pieces of Noel Williams writings on the geology of The Ben, but never met him.  It made me giggle that he happened to be walking down the path carrying rocks.  Classic. Does he always take a rock home with him?   He had been one of Spooks favourite teachers at the High School. If you want to meet him, you can - see below. Well, too late this year, but maybe next year (he’s apparently not dangerous at all.)

http://lochabergeopark.org.uk/spring17-local-geology-course/

Happy, “we love adventure and aren’t that old or tired” emotions were still in plentiful supply at 11pm as Spook saw the snow man on The North Face and I tried to be a snow angel.

10 minutes later I added a few more items of clothing....

But there was still the arete to face.  Seeing it from the CMD summit is not the same as seeing it from my kitchen window.  I don’t care how easy they say it is, I still require to have 3 limbs attached to the rocks at all times with the 4th limb only unattached long enough to reach out for the next hold.

Richmountainexperiences charge £180 to guide an individual across this route which they describe as “airy but never difficult”(!!!!!!!!!!) and Spook is now considering invoicing me this amount plus extra for the emotional strain he experienced due to me crossing it on all fours in a crab-like manouevre in the middle of the night.  He has no idea how uncomfortable the gut feels after 1.5hrs of being bent double and hyper ventilating from fear.  It was just as well I had asked for this......determination was reaching bursting point and love was hanging by the balance.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KkbEyaAr-Sg  (a winters view - no worse or better than a Summer Solstice one)

The scramble up the back of the Ben to reach the summit was conducted in mist - the only time we put the head torches on as now that I was not on all fours, I couldn’t see the definition and contours of the rocks so well, and getting a foot stuck between rocks was not to be recommended.  Spooks guidance and confidence at this point was probably worth more the £180 - perhaps an uncomplaining and grateful wife for ever more (though that value fades with daylight and solid ground,)

1.45am, at the summit of Ben Nevis, we shared a sandwich and chocolate as the line of light around the horizon stayed the same.  Spook had thought we might bivvy down and wait for sunrise at 4.27am, but we are no Mary and Alex Gillespie (now in their 80′s but still much more likely to nip up the Ben and Bivvy down for sunrise than we are.) There is a lovely photograph of Mary holding the sun in her hand, but whilst most of us up here in Lochaber want some of the Alex and Mary experience, we’re not willing to put in the effort, so off we headed for home.

Not that heading for home was that much easier, although no longer clinging to rocks on terrifying high ground, we were now well past bed time and even the familiar ground had us sliding awkwardly and going over ankles.  We used head torches for about a further 30 mins and then it was easily light enough without them.  There were quite a few hardy souls heading up for the sunrise, but I was glad to be going in the other direction.

The going got softer as we crossed the bog by which time we didn’t care how wet our feet were.

My worn out guide kept shouting “VELCRO” at me as I got my rucksack stuck on a tree trying to get across the burn and desperately cling to my water bottle as if this was going to save me .  This is what Big Roddy the Gamekeeper tells us the German guests say when they have to hit the ground to hide from the deer.  It’s good that he can still come up with colourful language at this hour.

Whilst I had no language left at all by 4am - nada, rien,  niets,  gar nichts,  chan eil. But still had my water bottle.

But we DID see the sunrise - from our bedroom window.  

When Lochaber has been stuck under the only cloud in the country for a few days, it brings about a fresh enthusiasm for getting out and about.  Running Girl, aka Running Police, recommended a Half Ben training session.  The B’dass’s were leaving home to head for a Half Ben at 6.30pm so she suggested she, Spook and I leave home at 6pm, and that they give me a head start of 10/15mins to keep me on my toes, while Mr and Mrs B’dass would keep THEM on their toes.  All Ben training has to start at Claggan Park which is where the official race starts - 1 mile before the foot of the big hill.  This is a rule set by Running Police.  It’s fair enough as the road can be a psychological and physical barrier at both ends of the race, so she figures we may as well get it firmly into our psyche and our legs. 

I headed off with head bowed and feet trudging on the dreaded mile.  Very soon I heard a vehicle and a wolf whistle.  I have learnt never to turn my head at such sounds at my age as it tends to be a different kind of harrassment these days - mockery probably most aptly describing it.  Sure enough Calum Anderson and John MaCrae cruised by with big grins.  Not long after, another vehicle passed me by with the window wound down and a grinning John Stewart and Robbie Cant asked if I was perhaps not too old to be starting from Claggan Park?  I realised the Lazy Boys were not on the road by coincidence and sure enough I could just see them up ahead on the path as I got to it.  I was determined to keep a sight of them for as long as possible on and off as I pushed up.  Next, there appeared Pamela from the Visitor Centre direction, also heading up for a Half Ben.  I told her we were being chased and pulled in equal measure and to get in on the Time Trial.

The heat was oppressive but one could hardly complain after 15 degrees and rain.  As I came round the blissfully named Windy Corner, I could see the boys leisurely making their way up the Horseshoe, still on the first 3rd.  My aim was  to get onto the Horseshoe before they were off it, so I made use of the cooler air to refresh my efforts.  Success on that front and with a quick glance behind, I couldn’t make out my chasers.  I now crossed my fingers that I would be close to the 1 hour cut off required for the halfway point in the race.  If you are a couple of minutes late but look fresh enough, the marshal will most likely let you pass............. I was 2 minutes over the time!  I made some excuses to myself about an earlier concern over 2 Tups who had horns interlinked and were doing their own version of the 3 Legged Race.  I pondered a Rocky moment of chasing them around the field and could visualise horns pinging off as a result, so was thankfully reassured by the concerned dog walker also watching, that the Shepherd was on his way. (I’m calling that 30 seconds.)  And then I tried to explain to some Americans why I had appeared onto the path from a steep incline that was not the path, whilst lying at their feet in a panting mess.  (That’s at least another 30 secs.) So I’m thinking that’s 1 minute off the pace.  But just in case, I practiced some looks that might convince a Doubting Marshal of my ability to get up and down the whole hill in 3hrs 15mins as required by those nasty people who send you a letter to point out that you have failed.

A winning smile perhaps??

Or the haughty look of a highly trained athlete simply pacing herself for a stonking 2nd half and how dare they question me?

Ah, who cares.  It was a braw nicht and my chasers hadn’t caught me, though the Lazy Boys were long gone and all without looking like they were even trying.

Apparently there had been much discussion amongst all Chasers about their times (none of them having to practice convincing looks) as well as ways back down the hill.  The B’dass’s and Running Girl chose the Road to Nowhere and over Melantee, whilst Spook chose the path, and Pamela knew Jim was coming up the path to join her at some time.

Mr B’dass took a classic tumble having caught the tippy toe on a wee stone - a move which has felled many a runner.  But not He!

As I came down the yuchy last mile of road, an elderly woman who was walking very slowly but became my new Time Trial target, said “oh my goodness Dearie - you must have been all the way to the top.”  

Nope, this is just the demeanour of the less than highly trained athlete who cannot summon up the necessary ‘look’.  

Honest to goodness - I cannot get that Selfie thing working.

Finding normality when life is ever-changing, isn’t easy.  Perhaps that’s because normality is ever changing and this has to to be acknowledged and embraced.  Mamma J passed away on the 7th of May.

(1969)

So - the new normal.  I thought I would have lot’s of energy and drive, but that is proving a little elusive.  However, the Ben Race is just under 12 weeks and there are now no excuses for failing - laziness is apparently not a valid excuse.

Running Girl is doing a good job of policing the situation with regular calls to arms - some rejected with legitimate excuses, some rejected on account of fake excuses and some taken up, though not quite enough.  It’s a big hill and with only 3hrs 15mins to complete the race and a reducing confidence in falling downhill at speed - in what was already a deficit of confidence - I need to get much stronger in getting to the top in well under the allowed 2hrs. 1hr 15mins to get back down (including all, and any, kissing and drams) is just not enough time.

One attempt at running over the Melantee to halfway and down the Ben path was interrupted by the traumatic call that Mamma J was very unwell - more than 2 hours away.  With Running Girl and Spook taking over anything else that needed doing, and one dear sister able to be with MJ within 20 mins, it was as smooth a journey to be by her side as could be achieved. Mamma J loved the blog and loved it even better if she was featured - so this one’s for you, Mum. x

The next attempt was sabotaged by a small glass of wine at the opening of the local art exhibition and a detour to the neighbours on the cycle home which resulted in Spook and I holding each other up as we tried to cover the short distance to our home, which had got longer since we  left it.  The midday run next day saw Spook still a little sozzled, and me with heavy, whisky filled limbs and a slightly sore head in the stifling midday heat, trying to crawl up the Melantee, knowing that Julie and Running Girl were somewhere ahead of us and looking pretty sharp as they topped up their training for their 21st Ben Race.  You get a prize for that.  The Connochie Plaque - and they will be the joint 2nd women to receive it - the first being Mandy Goth 2 years ago, aged 55, who recovered from breast cancer to keep running and was also diagnosed with Tachycardia and told she had to give up running the year before her 21st race. All being well for our Lochaber women they should see their aim achieved by age 45. Huge respect for Mandy Goth.

 By the time we reached the top of the hill, the inebriation had lifted and what I at least recognized as something akin to normality, returned to our head and limbs.  It was a revelation that Melantee turned out to be just what we needed despite serious reservations at the bottom.  (Melantee serves us well in times of need http://itsmosblog.tumblr.com/post/97914190502/melancholy-melantee.)

And the 3rd attempt was on the 10th of June as the country pondered what on earth had happened in the General Election.

A lot of steam can be blown out on this climb........

Julie took the photo on her way back down as this is just a wee jog for her.  But Spook and Running Girl paid the price of persuading me out onto the hill as they sat on a windy Melantee summit waiting for me so that they could push on up to the Halfway Lochan.

You know thon way when you puff your way to the top and flop on your belly at their feet and they’ve got so bored and cold that they run off as soon as they think it’s polite to do so?

The first part of this now regular wee adventure is gloriously quiet.  And then you get to the Ben ‘Tourist’ path, and it all changes.....

All the way to this point of their walk the weather had been fairly warm and breezy.  Just round the corner above them it was a very different climate and only going to get colder.....I loved the diversity, though Spook said he was going home to make sure his kit bag was packed in case there was a Call-out to rescue the Damsels.

With a sunny day and no plans (or people) stretching ahead of me on my 53rd birthday, I was pondering my options when The Boss called to say it was a good day for a run.  I thought he’d had an epiphany and was looking for my company on some new fitness regime.  But it was a gentle reminder that he’d asked me to write a blog on the No Fuss Runduro which I had marshalled for in mid-February.  I’d helped Spook mark it out so was very familiar with all the timed stages of the route.  The Boss kindly suggested that I run the course over a couple of days so as not to tire myself out.  However, I wanted a bit of solidarity with the competitors that I had cheered on as a marshall without actually knowing what it felt like to cover the distance.  I have recently taken the approach of avoiding running by employing any number of excuses and have now run less than in any other year since I started running, aged 38.  This is my Ostrich outlook after failing to make the 3hr15min cutoff time in last years Ben Nevis Race and receiving the warning letter telling me that if I don’t make it the next time, I’m oot for life!!  So with an entry secured for this year, I should have been jolted out onto the hills of Lochaber before now, but this seemed like a good starting point.....

It was with a wee bit scorn that I put this much money in the parking meter for 4 hrs as there was no way I’d need this long to cover the 22km distance, but it was the nearest monetary/time denomination offered to me that might suit my needs.

There are 8 timed stages with the concept that you jog along with friends, family or yersel’ and then race the stages, which you dib in and out of, before  jogging to the next stage. The start is from Cameron Square in the centre of town.

The jogging start I had intended gave way to reality as I passed this warning sign.

I’m not over fond of slug’s but I do love allotments and the first timed stage starts here and ends at the Mast at the top left of this photo.  I’m happy enough on a hill climb as most folk don’t run it anyway - just a relentless climb without stopping to look at the view until the top.

14.3 minutes.  Not sure that this qualifies as a racing pace, but it was wonderful to stop and be able to enjoy the vista.

Already the concept of this style of racing was becoming apparent.  Groups can wait for their friends and in good weather, it’s not a bad place to hang about for a wee while.

This is the Cow Hill, so the jog over to the next stage is an opportunity to meet the residents....

I hope to come back as a Highland Cow in my next life.

The 2nd stage was a gentle downhill start ending on a steep, but non-technical descent into Glen Nevis - enough to make me think that I didn’t hate running.

12.53mins.  However, I was already thinking that jogging between stages was an unreasonable expectation as my racing was not amounting to anything more than a jog, so a pleasant walking pace was employed.  I met Ian and Tordis at the start of stage 3 and as this style of racing allows time to chat, I had a wee catch-up and established that they’d had a lovely walk up to the Vitrified Fort and were heading to the Ben Nevis Inn for coffee. They wished me well on what sounded like a bit of an endeavour but I shrugged that off as the pace was gentle and I had plenty of time....

Stage 3 was up a forest road that required the appearance of running to any passersby, and it was a relief when the more technical downhill end appeared through the trees.

16mins.  I was taken aback by how tired I was becoming, with a longer walk to the next stage which was at the foot of Heart Attack Brae - one of the access routes onto the Ben Path. But it was a beautiful day and I was determined to enjoy the flora and fauna.

I tried not to focus on stage 4.  It is well named and I was not even half way through the stages.

 As I puffed a slow and laboured ascent, I began to hope that Ian and Tordis would still be at the Inn when I finished the stage at the foot of The Ben, close to the Inn.  I had marshalled the food stop at the start of stage 5, and I knew I wasn’t there to welcome me, and besides, had not brought anything to eat.  Whimpering would have been the sound emanating from my lips if I could have mustered the strength.  A wee panic was starting that I had a good way to go and was hungry.  What if they weren’t at the Inn?  As I was nearing the end of the stage, I spied a couple coming up the path and the woman was carrying a handbag.  That’s unusual on the Ben and seemed to indicate money - begging was not beyond me in order to ensure my survival.  Happily I recognised them - it was Jane and Wullie and she was happy to part with £2 without any coercion. 

21mins.  Not winning any prizes here, but felt resourceful as if I was on some kind of adventure race that required wits as well as braun.

Only halfway, but with a lengthy diversion ahead of me (which the competitors in February had to take), and not really sure how far 2 bags of crisps would take me, I chose a charm offensive on the workmen building the new path and bridge which are not to open until the 14th of April. This was a risk as if they rejected my efforts, I had an extra hill to go back up before tackling the diversion.  That would reduce my charm to tears.

Bingo! I’m not a rule breaker by nature and I hate rows, but good natured, easy going men who laughed at the state of me, let me cross without a 2nd thought.

Stage 5.  Oh helpmaboab. 25 dis-heartened minutes of practically crawling back up above the Glen.  It’s not that it’s steep, it’s just that it’s UP.  And to think how cheerfully I encouraged folk on, thoughtlessly reassuring them they were nearly there.   Sniff.  This was torture.  Happy Birthday to me.  Sniff.

I walked to the start of stage 6 and just hung there for a wee while.....

Even though I was facing a short downhill stage, I was hingin’.

6mins of pain.

There followed what should have been a lovely walk along the track above the town. But there was nothing lovely about it and for the first time I considered the actual time that this was taking, rather than just the toll on me. My 53 year old eyes, extra fuzzied by my efforts, couldn’t quite see the time on my phone, but my shadow was looking quite long, indicating late afternoon.  I’d started at midday.  

Stage 7.  A really short stage to the Saltire Rock, but hirpling was my gait.

5.5mins.

Now to come down off the path, and walk through the town.  The final stage was a public, ‘sprint’ finish.  The only thing keeping me upright for those 4.17mins, was pride. All the way along the Fort William bypass - so cruel.

The true sting in the tail was that it was after 4pm and I was facing a £60 parking fine.  If only I could have recorded a 9th stage along the High street, I’d probably have won it. 16.09 hrs and the prize was to beat the Parking Attendant and avoid a ticket. Yipee.

Never again will I underestimate the efforts of my fellow man/woman.  That was a half marathon distance of epic proportions with the feel of an adventure race. Highly recommended - as is a wee bit of training before hand!! 

Here are the results from this years event.  My times fit within those taking part, proving that this is an inclusive event - not just for super athletes.  It is unlikely that any of them were totally gubbed afterwards - as I was.

For the last 10 years, the Gentlemen of Kingussie have offered hospitality for a period of about 24hrs somewhere between Christmas and New Year, to a motley crew of sometime gentlemen from near and far.  Up until this year, my role in this event has been to take reception of the remnants of that hospitality in the shape of a messy Spook the next day.  Tales of fun, laughter, wee stashes of  alcoholic treasure to be found around the cycle route (because it’s just a bike ride, really) - a route carefully chosen to take in at least a couple of watering holes so that the boys don’t become too dehydrated, and a tasty meal at the end of the day in very understanding establishments that recognise the value of Highland Hospitality. 

Last year I received an invite from an eminent Lady of Kingussie to transport Spook to the event and then stay on to help create one of our own, along with some other gentlewomen.  However, I couldn’t make it, so she suggested I put it in my diary for this year - which I did.  .

The day began by transporting 5 erstwhile gents from Lochaber to Kingussie whom I dropped off at the Silverfjord Hotel for their bacon rolls before I headed up to Lindy-Lou, The Lady of Kingussie.

http://www.kingussieaccommodation.co.uk/silverfjordhotelaccommodationkingussieaccommodationhotels.html.html

  We had a relaxed coffee and a great catch-up blether while waiting for her sister, PeeCeeFee.  The other gentlewoman expected couldn’t make it as she had picked up Man Flu from her husband. It must have been a ferocious dose as normally that kind of thing doesn’t floor a woman.  At a leisurely pace, we headed out with one x bike pump, 1 x spare tube which may have been an 26 “ or a 29″,( we weren’t sure), and 1 x Allen Key which was of a size unlikely to be of any use to anyone - each item supplied by a different member of the group. We felt confident that we were resourceful enough to make this count under any circumstances and most importantly, the girls also had some very very tasty stuff in hip flasks.  The sun was shining.  Speyside in full glory.

With a lack of selfie experience, I kept yelling - “can you see the Barracks noo?”  “What about the noo?”  “Help, I canny see, it’ll just have to do.”

PeeCeeFee and Mee

10 minutes into the ride was a hip flask stop.  Which was about 5 minutes after the Selfie stop.

Apart from recognising that we had crossed over Feshiebridge, and must surely by in a place that was most likely Glen Feshie, I really hadn’t a clue where we were - but that didn’t matter.  These girls were born and bred here, so I felt in good hands.

By an amazing coincidence we came upon a carpark by a wee lochan, where Lenka was waiting with hot pies for the boys.  This really did come out of the blue to me as I was fairly sure we were in the middle of nowhere.  But these girls knew what they were doing.

There were a lot of boys ( Lindylou spied a lady and wondered what she had to do to get on the ride - turned out that she had provided homebaking and home brew in the shape of plum gin, which she was willing to generously share, whilst Lindylou was jealously guarding the Gunshot Gin in her hip flask - a fact that was not lost on her husband, to whom she had given the Gunshot gin for his christmas.  This is the kind of attitude that gets one barred from the event.) Anyway, thankfully there was a lot of pies and as Lenka is also a gentlewoman of Kingussie and should really be on the girls event, we managed to get our teeth into some of them.

The boys then hooked onto our ride and distracted us with some extra climbing and single track which gave me the opportunity to do some downhill running with the bike to keep me upright.  The only time I spoke to my own husband was to complain about the substandard bike he had provided for me - another attitude which can get one barred from the event.  Grudgingly, in retrospect, it may have been my skills that were substandard and not the bike.

As the sun was setting, we were approaching the first of two watering holes.  

Loch Insh. http://www.lochinsh.com/eat-drink.asp 

The girls modestly sipped a few gins from the benefit of a tiny kitty.

The boys were operating out of a kitty the size of a man eating lion.  It was noted that Sarah - the maker of the plum gin, was drinking pints.  This is the kind of behaviour that gets you into the boys camp.

Lindylou - still worried about repercussions from with holding the Gunshot - hoped that heavily disguising herself as a pint of Guinness might help her to blend in.  Sarah, through lack of experience of the ethos of the day, had unfortunately made a schoolboy error.  She had made a prior commitment to provide an evening meal for her inlaws.  Her husband had peeled off before the pub stop, to nip home and check all was well there with a casual “off you go and have a pint darling and I’ll pick you up in a wee while.”  Sarah had a pile up of pints awaiting her at every turn and by the time Mr Sarah and son turned up, she was looking good for the next watering hole. But women are so reliable and off she went to get dinner into the oven, and off we went for the long, 2 mile cycle to the Suie in Kincraig - once the boys had stopped gabbing. 

They are just lucky they didn’t get mugged on the way with that giant kitty.

(potential muggers)

Lenka delivered the remaining cold pies and settled in by the fire with her daughter and the wummin.

https://www.facebook.com/suidhelodge/

The boys had a lot of cash to get through......

Unfortunately, this resulted in a dilemma as we left the Suie on a frosty night, with the option of two vans of shame.  Who was the most in need?  I’m not quite sure how it happened, but all three husbands and a cold South African made it into one of the vans.  I did get some advice from PeeCeeFee that certain death awaited my wobbly husband if he attempted the 6 miles to Kingussie.  Sir Malcolm of Thainstown had gallantly offered to come and get us girls anyway, but there was only room for my bike and no room for me so I was sent to the boys van, where I received a prickly reception.  Not only were the husbands still smarting from the unwillingness to share the contents of the hip flask, but in a shameful bout of neediness, we girls had wanted the boys to wish they were in our camp, so we had weaved a tale of a hot tub in a secret location for which we were willing to consider written and photographic applications (that they possessed adequate attire for the tub,)  None of the husbands had made the cut, and this  seriously back fired on me as I tried to get in the van.  Apparently I hadn’t made the cut.

Everyone did make it back safely to Kingussie and it was with great delight and relief that the girls event was completed with a home made curry and a cup of tea by the stove at Lindylou’s and that we were spared the slippery slope of the Silverford.  Who needs a hot tub anyway?

Thanks to Jonesy for the continued hospitality year on year and the boys promise they will finally repay it in Lochaber next year.  As will the girls, in their own way with or without adequate tools or bikes - or hot tubs. (And we promise to be better at sharing.  (Let’s consume the Gunshot before we start and stick something less special in the flask))

Having watched with helplessness and horror, the unfolding events that have brought untold misery to millions of people across the globe, the news that 5 Syrian families are to be re-settled in Kinlochleven, had me hot tailing it down to the village on Monday night for the public meeting at the High School. 

There was a wee warning on entering the building as I heard someone greet ‘Donald’, with a how do you do, who replied “I’m just here to agitate.”

Of course there were going to be concerns.  It is change.  It is world news coming to town and becoming real.  When someone is re-housed in Kinlochleven, which they have been doing for many years, I presume it is not generally discussed by the community via public authority meetings, though I’m sure the community have strong views on the matter.  When housing became available in a big way 25 or so years ago, when the Smelter drastically reduced it’s workforce, the dynamics of the village changed and some accused the Housing Department of ghettoising parts of the village.  I knew this as hearsay when I first came to Lochaber. It was talked of as a dumping ground for people who couldn’t get a council house anywhere else.  Many people who were re housed there were not suited to such a rural area and social issues emerged that the village had previously not had to cope with at that level.  It’s a good 40 minute drive from town, and as I drove down in the darkness the other night, I was viewing it through the eyes of someone arriving to live there without having chosen it - never mind how a traumatised Syrian family might feel.  There are about 11 buses a day, but it’s an even longer bus drive than in the car.

For those who grew up there or chose to live there, it was a fantastic community back in the day - it’s very remoteness from the main town of Fort William presumably playing a large part in its reliance on each other.  Apart from anything else, it is in a stunningly beautiful setting.  Over the years, Kinloch has rebuilt its community spirit and reputation, and also has a full 6 years of High school education available whereas in the past, teenagers had to go to Fort William if they wanted to do a 5th and 6th year.  

On Monday night, I was certainly not the only person in the crowded school hall to exchange horrified looks as Counsellor McLennan opened the meeting with a shockingly sapsy introduction that heavily implied a terrible draw back to the community spirit of Kinlochleven was about to befall them.  And here was me worrying about Donald The Agitator!  I’m afraid you are not getting off with it either, Counsellor Murphy, as you hung your head and kept your eyes down in the same apologetic and fearful manner. Too much checking of Social Media before the meeting had done you no favours.

“I never imagined we would ever have to encounter this kind of problem.” began the Counsellor - body language adding weight to the words.

The first applause came for Laurence Young, about 4 comments in, who spoke from the audience and said that he hoped people would view it not as problem, but as an opportunity.  

Parents complained that they had heard this first from their children.  This came about via School Bag Mail, which the head teachers of the local schools had agreed was a good way of reaching parents to invite them to this meeting.  There were quite a few unhappy about this choice of delivery system.  A young mother, shy and hesitant, said that whilst she respected people to have their own views and concerns, she hoped that they would quickly move on from how they found out and look at what they could do to help the 5 new families to settle in the village.  She reminded us that everyone came from somewhere.  She lived in the village because her grandparents were from here.  And she grew up with stories about her grandmother learning some German words, so that she could speak to the prisoners of war who were interned in the village in the First World War. (these were mostly citizens who lived in Scotland at the outbreak of the war - folks who taught us how to make Lager, for example and were contributing to Scottish society in general, and who became ‘Aliens’.)  

Sarah, who is French, spoke emotionally about how wonderful the recent commemorations for those prisoners were, and she hoped that in 100 years time, people would still be talking about how Syrian refugees were welcomed to the village.

A man voiced concerns that while he couldn’t access support for his mental health issues there was suddenly to be support for the mental health of refugees. Understandably, this bothered him. The hope would be that with extra services put into Mental Health services, he may find an opportunity to access those himself.  

The Head Teacher of the primary school told me before the meeting started that the school was positively buzzing.  The pupils had already been learning about Global Citizenship and about the plight of the refugees.  When the children heard that they were to get the opportunity to welcome some of those refugees into their school, they were incredibly excited.  

One of the parents asked about whether these people had had criminal checks done.  This was after the Council representative who spoke at length about her work in helping 5 families to settle in Alness,  had reassured more than once that the families chosen to be resettled had been put through vigorous vetting by the Home Office - 2 layers of such.  This man had also had a lot to say on the School Bag Mail issue.  His companion looked grim faced and continued to say how unhappy she was about finding out in this way.  I wondered if any other system would have eased her grimness?

An English woman observed that there were many English accents in the room, and that she had always felt welcome in the village, but would there be help for the refugees to learn the language if they didn’t speak English?  Voluntary Action Lochaber and others were there to give people the opportunity and contact details to offer support for the refugees.

Someone suggested that if 5 families had settled well in Alness, why not settle these 5 families there?  Another woman spoke up and wondered if the opportunities to integrate were far greater with only 5 families settling at a time. Another person asked if there really was housing available in Kinloch that couldn’t go to locals?  An elderly Englishwoman said that there was an empty flat next to her which had currently been empty for a long time and before that, for 9 months.  She said she would be far happier to have a Syrian family live there than for it to remain empty.  

My overwhelming view at the end of the meeting was that it will be the people of Kinlochleven and Lochaber who will make the positive difference in the lives of the Syrian families. I wished I had been brave enough to stand up and ask the people who had concerns, if they would still feel able to extend a hand of welcome - be it a smile or holding a door open, or a nod of understanding that this must surely be far harder for the Syrians, than any concerns of a villager.  As for the sapsiness of the Coonsellors - these are the folk who will now be part of your Wards.  Thankfully, Lochaber - your Ward - is full of folk who understand an unconditional Highland Welcome. I don’t live in Kinlochleven, but it was well worth hearing the voices of those who do.

With 3 days to get life back in order before going back to my parents, I did wonder whether or not to accept Running Girls invite to join her and Climbing Kev on a walk over the hills to Loch Morar.  Reminding myself that getting out and about no matter the weather was the best way to see out the winter and keep physically and mentally well, and that time spent with friends was never time wasted, I nipped to the shops and arrived at RG’s with 10 minutes to spare to make up a cheese piece for the day’s nutrition.  I encountered Climbing Kev outside the house looking a wee bit glum (not always easy to detect this look from a happy look.) A last minute offer of a scissor scaffolding structure to aid the installation of the street Christmas lights couldn’t be wasted and this was now to be his day’s activity.  I believe the glumness became easier to detect throughout the day as the man who doesn’t even like Christmas carried out his community duty (for the 5th day) but I’m sure the whole of Corpach and Banavie will really appreciate his and his companions efforts.

 Proud of my decision to ignore my laziness and the chilly weather, I was glad that Running Girl would be so pleased to see me as now she would still have her day on the hill. 

The look on her sleepy face and the ruffled appearance, said more “why haven’t you brought donuts?;  why the hell did I ever mention it to you?; and what are the chances of me sneaking back to bed and ignoring you altogether.?” 

This passed - eventually - and we drove out the A830 Road to the Isles to the far end of Loch Eilt, just through the roadworks.  By the time we reached the start of the hill path - a few hundred yards from where we’d parked - we’d had 3 separate indications of direction from the smiling workmen as we navigated their traffic cones. We could have done with them further up the hill as the path became boggier and fainter.

  Thankfully, RG doesn’t do iphones and does do OS maps.

Despite having looked at the map before we started, we still had the idea that we would simply go up one hill and down the other side to Loch Morar.  We were hoping to find Meoble Bothy and chatted about Sandy Meoble who had been the last shepard out there and who still lives in Caol.  But of course, there was more landmass and bog to cross and the loch that we saw below and hoped was Morar was Loch Beoraid.

Lot’s of scrabbling about ensued, trying not to fall into what was presumably Prince Charlie’s Cave, before we finally made it to the wier. 

 Then a walk along the road before consuming the cheese piece.   More walking, past the Estate house and Gamekeepers cottage, lot’s of Hinds close up with Stags not much further away, we finally got to the pier on the shores of Loch Morar before realising that we hadn’t seen any obvious bothy.

We wondered if this might be a bothy, but it was a boathouse.

At this point, RG realised that we had taken 3 hours to get here and that there was 3 hours of daylight left.  We broke into a panicked run which lasted less than a minute as waterproofs and boots are simply not conducive to a jog, never mind a sprint.  RG gushed that should we come across a man in a Landrover we should hitch a lift.  All we had seen so far was a tiny boat away in the distance up Loch Beoraid and a Land Rover at that Lochside that presumably belonged to the pilot of the boat.   Anyone - man OR woman - in a Landrover turning up conveniently on a road effectively from and to nowhere, seemed unlikely.  The only way into and out of Meoble estate is by boat from Bracora away down the other side of Loch Morar and we hadn’t seen a soul.  There is just one estate road into Loch Beoraid and that’s as far as it goes.

Lo and Behold, at the Gamekeepers Cottage, was the Land Rover from Loch Beoraid.  We were just joking about commandeering it when the afore wished for man appeared from the cottage.  He asked where we were going and offered us a lift the 2 or so Kilometers  back along the road to the best path over the hill.  Running Girl was politely saying ‘no’ while I was just about hugging him.  

I jumped in the front and immediately got tangled in his fishing hook.

Ed and his wife had lived here for 6 months.  He was the handyman and Mrs Ed looked after the estate house which belonged to Ferranti.  There was no one else lived there and he said they were coping well with the isolation. I imagine that 2 women walking past the house equated to a social life which was very much to our advantage as we headed up the hill sooner than anticipated, now secure in the knowledge that we would be off the hill before the gloaming and would not have the embarrassment of explaining ourselves to our current and ex Mountain Rescue member husbands about why we were out there without a head torch between us.

I can’t complain about life over the last 2 weeks, which followed on from a very sad time - now no less sad, but those who we loved and lost didn’t want us moping about.

  The 29th to 30th October saw Running Girl and I marshalling high up in Leanachan Forest for No Fuss’s Relentless 24hr event.  That’s a lot easier than cycling around the forest all night -  to be in with a chance to win, meant not stopping so there were some interesting spectacles of people having pushed themselves to the very limit of their endurance.  But for us, it was a fairly chilled out experience.

From there, I spent a couple of days supporting my parents before Mr Munro picked me up to fly out to Spain for a week’s holiday.  I spent 3 days myself in Orgiva on the Alpujarra side of Sierra Nevada while he and my brother headed straight to Monachil (after Shaun - their Ride Sierra Nevada host kindly diverted to take me to my town.) http://ridesierranevada.com/

Glorious peace - sort of.  I met up with an old friend I hadn’t seen for 30 years, met new friends, drank a lot of wine, talked a lot and headed to Monachil by bus with a slightly sore head......

Unaccustomed to regular drinking (apart from a wee or large dram) a theme seemed to be developing....

one gentle, but continuous uphill cycle,

Followed by pondering - and consuming - whisky in my hot chocolate to see if it helped my descending...

Lovely long walk...

Followed by a glass of wine and some tapas - just to calm my nerves after a very small dog chased me. I felt that was important. 

 Things continued in that vein with most occasions interspersed with a glass of wine until I went back to my parents to offer a few days of support, before going to watch Scotland narrowly lose to Australia at the rugby.  Deja vu.

Some comfort was then required - below the ramparts of the castle.

And then a little more comfort in the great company of Barr Saunders, Munro and MaGoo in The Grassmarket.

Next day Mr Munro tried to apply his mountain leadership skills to getting us to the Maplin’s store near Haymarket in Edinburgh - a relatively short walk from where we were staying, and from there, to take the bus back to our park and ride near the airport.

Whilst he may be handy with an OS map, he is less sure of an iphone and which way up it goes.  Having been diverted from Haymarket on two adjacent roads, on account of the Remembrance gathering, he declined my offer of asking the on-hand policeman to recommend an alternative route.  This is a simple solution which women seem to find easy to apply (police or any passing individual,) but that some men, to make a generalisation, tend to be less comfortable with.  As chilled out was my other theme of the past 2 weeks (alcohol assisted at times, to be sure,) I had never consulted his iphone map, nor attempted to work out where Maplin was, so I meandered around Edinburgh, following my trusted guide, who was becoming more befuddled by the moment.

For example, why were we crossing the Forth and Clyde canal?  Perhaps we should walk along it, he mused.  At one point he considered scaling the wall or swimming across the canal to get out of there as it looked like we were walking from the river Forth to the river Clyde.  When we finally arrived at Maplins we had taken the squiggliest, circular route imaginable.  But he was nevertheless triumphant.

Once the required products were purchased, he came out and went off to the right, in the direction from whence we had come.  I did query this as not quite feeling right but he was by now confident.  We walked, and walked - passed Gorgie City Farm, Tynecastle (I actually thought we had walked to England by this time but I was confusing it with Tyneside and Newcastle) and enjoyed the apparent happiness of the Destiny Church (definitely gospel) and the rather more bleak appearance of the Mission church, and the increasingly unhappy and gaunt looking people who perked up once they had a tin of beer in their hands (because we met people going to buy their fix and also met them coming back with it because Mr Mountain Man finally acknowledge we should have turned left out of Maplins.)  My chilled approach was becoming muted by the blister rubbing on my toe. It was also a stark reminder of the other side of life in Edinburgh.  We walked passed Maplins again and found Haymarket less than 5 minutes beyond it.  Mr Munro had previously stated that on principle he would never ever take the Edinburgh tram.  But with the tram stop being the clearest route to our park and ride and a disgruntled wife, he had to eat his hat.

Whilst not competitive with my daughter, but not wishing to be outdone on the Munro front, I allowed myself to be challenged by Mr Munro with whom I have shared my life for over 25 years.  He is currently on a Mountain Leadership course and, keen to get some more ‘quality’ days under his belt, he decided to test his new leadership skills by taking his slightly truculent wife out for morning coffee, lunch, a potential afternoon tea and take in a couple of Munro’s at the same time.  There has been a dearth of dating opportunities recently so I was willing to go along with it.

The plan - morning coffee to be enjoyed on Gearr Aonach at a height of 2270ft via the zig-zags. That is the shadowy hill in the centre of this photo in Glencoe - the middle one of the The Three Sisters.  Lunch was planned for the next peak to the right - Stob Coire nan Lochan at 3658ft and set further back in the sunshine.  Afternoon tea was nowhere within sight, but was Bidean nan Bian at 3772ft.

I was naively, quite gallus at the start.

However, from this angle, coffee looked as accessible as the Inaccessible Pinnacle on the Cuillins.  But I had promised Mr Munro that I would be the perfect client.  Pliant and trusting of his every move - treating the Mountain Guide as a God-like figure.  He had been up here on the course and loved it.  With reassurances that this was graded ‘easy’ in the book of Lochaber scrambles by Noel Williams (https://www.amazon.co.uk/Scrambles-Lochaber-Around-Including-Cicerone/dp/1852842342), we continued on, with our relationship intact.  There was quite a bit of to-ing and fro-ing as we neared the sunny bit as the zig-zags got lost in close up, but there was no doubt that any height gained was done so without any apparent effort compared with a long trudge up a grassy slope. It got a wee bit dodgy here and there for someone with varyingly mild to mind-numbing levels of vertigo and I was beginning to view himself as less than a deity-like figure.

More of a tormentor than a guide at this stage.

“Look! I’m not going to say it again.  Coffee is on the top of the hill, not here.  It will NOT be too windy and you WILL thank me - eventually.”

This photograph does not do justice to how steep it was, nor does it let you hear the sound of my thumping heart or heavy breathing.

There were moments of respite on the zigs - it was more the zags that were causing a problem.  On the last scramble to the top, the A82 appeared to be directly below my bottom but very very tiny, and with my right foot high on a tiny ledge, left foot on the grass and my arms stretched out on ragged rocks without a clear and comforting ‘curl the fingers around’ grip, my body squished as flat to the rocks as I could manage, I needed to bring my enormous weight onto a safe place with only the strength in my right leg.  Mr Munro was above, watching my bottom lip droop into a pre-wail boose and wishing he was behind me as much as to not see my expression as to offer better assistance..  But I wouldn’t let him come back down and fall to what I knew to be certain death, so he had to encourage from where he was, when really a reassuring hand on my butt would probably have worked better - or a discreet hand on the rucksack of any non-wives.  So lesson learned by the Rookie.  Scaredy cats need to go first.

I don’t recall thanking him at this point, as he had hoped I would, but it was a very nice coffee spot. 

Ben Nevis rising above and the Aonach Eagach running across the centre of the picture.

Onwards for lunch.  A beautiful stroll towards Stob Coire nan Lochan brought some emotional equilibrium back to the day.  As it climbed steeply and I was facing the hill rather than the giddy depth to the Lost Valley below, I had returned to Gallus Mo.  The ‘easy’ scramble appeared to have cured me.

Lunch tasted fantastic.

“Now, Mr Guide - what about Afternoon Tea?”

“Eh?”

“REALLY??????”  Bidean nan Bian -  I asserted that afternoon tea did not look good for my health.

This was a wise decision as Gallus Mo shrunk to Hill-Creeping Mo on the descent.

This is actually quite elegant compared with the moments when I was on my bottom, trying to slide across the hill with as much of my body pressed against the surface as I could manage without being pierced by the stones.  Standing up-right clearly led to tumbling straight into the hanging valley below.  At one point, I tried to scramble back up the hill to avoid an extra scary bit while my guide buried his head in his hands.

Once on to this gentle, but still steep path, I was back to  playing the role of Pliant-Client and we even managed a jog down - mostly as it was a very long way down Coire nan Lochan and I was ready to get off it.  I had no idea we had climbed so high, so on reflection, the zig-zag scramble had been an inspired idea.  Thankyou??

Tonight, he and his group are sleeping out on Craig Meagaidh but I’m not sure if I conducted myself in a way that would inspire him to further his training by using me as a guinea pig.

If you call someone something long enough, they may feel some kind of entitlement to live up to that name.  Perhaps it was a mistake to call her Princess for so long.  But she has always been called Munro, because that is her family name.  Since living with her friend who shares the same first name, her friends now identify her as ‘Munro’ so that they know to whom they are referring and that both girls don’t answer when only one of them is being addressed.

So Munro decided at 21 that it was time to live up to her family name. This is a bit of a turn around from the girl who said she would never ever go up Ben Nevis. 

So now it’s a Munro thing.

On a beautiful sunny August evening, just as we were finishing dinner, her Dad looked at her and said “Will we nip up a Munro?”  That was all it took.  Off they went intending to do Stob Bhan above Glen Nevis, but on finding it’s path in the shade, decided to do Sgurr a’Mhaim as it was in full sunshine for all of it’s imposing length.  

Munro tackled the tough and unrelenting climb with a gusto that did not interrupt her flow of enthusiastic chatting. Her dad has not yet come to terms with her ability to talk at length. When he saw the cairn ahead, with only blue sky behind, he did interrupt to let her know that they were nearly there.  However, when they reached the cairn, they discovered it to be a false summit, where-in there was a little dip in the endorphins and he was lucky to escape without a black eye.  Her happy composure took a bit of a knock, but it soon returned.  And how could it not?

As they reached the summit, there was a call to arms from her friends on the group chat.  Did anyone fancy a wee evening walk?  Yes - what about parking at the West End and taking a stroll along The Achintore Road?  

Sorry girls, I’m currently out of range at 3,605ft.  She was then sent a snap chat of the group sipping Sludge Puppies on the Promenade. She thrust her phone at her dad “Do you see what I’m up against?”

(Ben Nevis)

By the time they were heading down, there was limited daylight left.

It’s an exposed hillside, and what you don’t see going up as you face the mountain, you are then faced with going down - and on a slippy scree slope besides.  Munro has always had a fear of open stairways and her Dad was worried that it might be an epic and emotional descent.

There was already a rescue enfolding on Ben Nevis, and he had no wish to call upon the Chopper.  But no such worries.  The enclosing darkness may have helped.  Spook got out the headtorch to find the batteries were done. 

 “Huh - schoolboy error Dad!”

But he is no schoolboy and the spare batteries were soon applied.  However, it was only one torch, so Munro wore it and he walked ahead with bandy legs so that the light would shine through them and show his way. 

 He has an app on his phone which is reserved for when I go on holiday with himself and my brother.  It is only recently that I have joined them on this exclusive jaunt, and I am under strict instructions to be neither wifely nor sisterly - implying that these things might have a negative impact on their holiday.  This app is a red card accompanied by a loud referees whistle.  As he walked with is bandy legs, he somehow fired off this app which had the effect of Munro almost jumping onto his shoulders in fright.  She is essentially an obeyer of rules and she thought that they had been spotted by an officious Landowner who had taken exception to their presence.  Once he had disentangled himself and stopped snorting with laughter, they had a very companionable descent only interrupted by my anxious texts to see if they were safe - which she found greatly irritating.