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.
3.50pm. The nick of time.
