Scotland is for the Brave A brief journey to the highlands in 2015 Benny Goodman  
Cover photograph: Glen Coe: By Wojsyl (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/ copyleft/fdl.html), CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/) or CC BY-SA 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons
Copyright Ⓒ Benny Goodman August 2015. All rights reserved. Benny Goodman has asserted his rights under the copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. Ben Nevis stands on sentinel overlooking Fort William and for the most part buries its head in the clouds in case it sees the follies of humanity below. It cannot escape folly for it calls unto itself all manner of hiker, climber, scrambler, tourist and the merely curious. It stands 1,344 metres, or 4,409 feet in height and any one wishing to reach the summit will have to ascend every one of those metres, or feet, as the base is at sea level. Ben Nevis By Thincat (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Based on blogs written at the time, this is a story of Ann and Ben’s discoveries in Scotland. We did not know it at the time of planning the trip but ‘The Ben’ was to become a special part of it. What follows takes in a brief visit to the highlands, via Windermere in the lakes, taking in the glory of Glenfinnan, the Jacobite steam hauled train to Mallaig, and of course an attempt to reach the highest point in the UK. We are both the wrong side of 50 years of age to be trekking up mountains like gazelles, but in fact age is not a barrier, only your fitness and your vision, or lack of, will stop you. The West of Scotland is wet, it is also magnificent and sunshine is only a bonus not a prerequisite. Dust off your walking boots, stretch those legs and get going.
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. Cornwall is a long way from Scotland, most people know that. I have often flown to Edinburgh, Glasgow and Aberdeen. I’ve taken the train from King’s Cross to Waverley, the West Highland line from Glasgow Queen Street to Fort William and driven from Camborne in Cornwall to Loch Lomond in one go, just the once around 1999-2000. Ten hours it took back then. This trip would be by car, and so taking in the length of the journey into account, Ann and I settled for a slow journey via Gloucestershire and then Windermere. Nothing at all happens in Gloucestershire, that is why people go to live there. We stayed overnight in a pub B and B, just off the M5, which was remarkable only for its rural ordinariness and decent ale. The sun shone that evening on the nearby church tower while hordes of martins skitted around it. The following day we faced the potential horrors that is the M4 and M5 all the way to the Lakes. And yet the journey was easy; no tailgaiting, no road rage, no accidents or screaming tantrums. I’ve no idea what went on in the other cars. Destination Windermere was reached in time for a walk before dinner. The B and B, The Haven, was wonderfully decorated in late Victorian style, spacious, clean and comforting. We found a short walk to Orrest Hill, or Head, famous among walkers for being the summit that so inspired Alfred Wainwright that he went on of course to complete many other walks in the Lakes and to write his ‘guides’. It is an easy summit for any beginner, starting in the town, winding up through woodland with occasional views over the surrounding landscape until one breaks through to the open summit itself.
Orrest Head. By Matdumont at en.wikipedia [CC BY 1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/1.0)], from Wikimedia Commons
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes.
At the summit we stopped just to take it all in. One really needs to just, stop. Look. Feel. In Cornwall we have a nearby hill called Carn Brea which similarly provides breathtaking views. It is often the case that time is short to just stop, think, and see what lies all around us. The young Alfred certainly felt something and we are all the better for it. The sun broke through, the wind had a slight chill but not enough to make one scurry for shelter but enough to work up an appetite. With that in mind we wandered back into town and found a cracking ale house, the New Hall or Hole in t’Wall, built in 1612. There’s now’t like an ale after a good stank. This sets one up nicely for dinner. Wordsworth may have wandered around Windermere having gazed upon his host, but he will not have walked into Giotto’s Italian restaurant. Italy has come to the Lakes to bestow its culinary gifts among the populace, who, having spent the day trampling over hills, fields, meadows and daresay the odd yellow flower, will be in need of sustenance in preparation for the next days fell conquering. It is tucked away down a side street in the middle of town, and its full name is Giotto’s Italian Pasta and Pizza restaurant. Personally, I think that the addition of 'Italian' in the restaurant's title is a little superfluous. Its like mentioning that the Pope is Catholic, that the Titanic sank and that "all coppers are bastards". After a swift googling and a read around of the reviews on tripadvisor to ensure the place has not been on TV's 'Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares', we decide to give it a punt. The fact that it takes two minutes to walk from the front door of the B and B is a bonus. We are shown to our table by someone pretending to be a waitress, but doing so, I suspect, only half heartedly. I don't expect oral sex, or a tickled scrotum, but perhaps a little less haste and efficiency would be in order. After all, its not as if we are 'first sitting' in the school canteen, or is it? I do mean 'less efficiency', as the restaurant experience should not begin with the stopwatch clicking as soon as one enters. It may be good for profit to have swift throughput, but I'd like the chance peruse the decor, smell the roses* and imagine the succulence and sweetness of morsels to come before being shown the door. We cannot fault the food though. Anne went for the risotto with chorizo, spinach and hamster. I dared the "Inferno". A pizza with the toppings from the deepest fiery pit of hell. A whole red pepper languished in the middle of it as if daring me to try it, its very redness taunting every fibre of my being like a demon fresh out of demon school having come top of the class and wishing to try out its tricks for real. This was a pizza to inspire Dante, while Beelzebub could only dream of inflicting half the amount of thermal pain that just one slice promised. The journey this little slice of Italian bread and peppers was going to make through my body, would indeed turn my gastrointestinal tract into the road to hell. This journey would not be on a road paved with gold, it would be paved with heat, pain and regret at about, oh I guess six thirty tomorrow morning? My tongue and throat became the Omaha beach to the invasion of red hot chemicals. Page 5
June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. The human digestive system is a miracle of both anatomical structure and biochemical wizardry. From the throat down it can deal with all kinds of assaults that the idiot in control can swallow. Any amount of booze, chocolate and of course spices, are dealt with in a rather perfunctory manner usually pain free apart from the odd bit of heart burn, belching and expectatory farting. So efficient is it at masking the inner war involved in dealing with chillies and the like, that one can often continue to abuse the system with Guinness and a kebab before bed. The gut does not send a message to brain asking it to get the gob to shut. And so an inferno can rage inside while outside life can still be bliss. There are, however, two weak points, two tiny little chinks through which havoc can enter the scene. The first weak point is, as mentioned, the mouth itself. Upon realizing that something hot and peppery has been bitten into, the warning signs not to swallow are indeed sent. These warnings, like an oik at the Palace garden party, get ignored. The first and probably only defence thus breached, a journey begins down a very very long tube, for such is your gut, until we reach point of exit and weak point number two, which incidentally is what you will be needing at about six thirty as mentioned. Love and marriage go together like a chilli and an interesting few minutes experiencing the renaissance of the thermal torture that was tonight’s dinner. Unlike the mouth's signals to stop that were ignored by the brain, the signals now being sent thrust themselves unceasingly into every recess of one's existence, rendering all human life irrelevant, and focuses all bodily functions onto just one. Breathing halts, the heart stops, only the sphincter twitches in agonising anticipation. And just like marriage following love, the death of hope follows its promise. Vows are made to be broken, and just as you vowed to 'in richer and poorer, forsaking all others' while fettling the boss's wife/ daughter/donkey**, you will return for another go "with extra chilli sauce please.�
The Hole in t’Wall, or New Hall, Bowness
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. And so it was that the pizza and risotto set us up nicely for bedtime. Today in Windermere, tomorrow we head North. *** It may be a long way to Tipperary (somewhere in Ireland), but whoever penned that line never travelled from West Cornwall to Fort William. They should try it. By my reckoning, it is about ten and a bit hours at least, and we've clocked 670 miles. From the Tamar to the Scottish border is about 400 miles. Scotland is bigger than we think it is. The breakfast in the B and B in Windermere was first class. Fresh fruit, good coffee, orange juice and a 'full English'. For our foreign friends, a full english is not Faragian rant against anything non Home Counties...you know 'old maids cycling to church past the village cricket green' bollocks which exists only in the puerile and unimaginative minds of Tory MPs. A full english consists of eggs laid by free range chickens who are hand fed individual ears of corn which have ripened under a Kentish sun, eggs whose yolk can only be compared to the milk of ambrosia but a bit more yellow; bacon from pigs given first names, as they roam snuffling among the verdant pastures for acorn and mushroom, cared for by men named Denzil, and whose slaughter was accompanied by a lullaby and a nosegay of lavender to put them to sleep before the quiet slitting of throat by razors made of silver, sharpened by master armourers; tomatoes of the sweet succulent red redolent of a Tuscan sun; hand picked baked beans lovingly marinated in a rich tomato sauce for three weeks so that they are infused with the love of the gods; mushrooms unearthed by truffle hunting pigs, cleaned, individually washed and prepared by virgins; and a sausage that counties such as Cumberland, Wiltshire and Lincolnshire would be ashamed to compete with. Now, that is a breakfast. The only way to improve upon this feast would be to have Nigella Lawson cook it, serve it on her, of course, heaving breasts and then wash up the dishes afterwards. Or is that just me? At this point I would ask my mate Linus to imagine having to eat the beans from between her cleavage but I fear he may have a heart attack just thinking about it. And yes I am fully aware that this is a bit sexist, but you ladies have had your fill of Poldark, so its quits. In any case, at his age, Linus needs a little light indulgences, so its the least I can do. We decide to travel north to the M6 via the Kirkstone Pass and the edge of Ullswater. This proved to be a great decision. The pass climbs to over 1000 feet and is spectacular. The road is twisty narrow, lined by dry stone walls and sheep. A few ‘petrolheads’ take it upon themselves to drive like the self absorbed, control freaks they are, notwithstanding the number of sheep, cyclists, caravans, other cars and very narrow roads. I half expect to see cyclists as Lycra clad road kill. That aside, the countryside over the pass is worth driving 400 miles to see. Think Dartmoor on steroids. Page 7
June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. At 6.30 am the 'Inferno' had, as predicted struck. Once before breakfast and once afterwards. The Kirkstone Pass gave it another chance. Not only was concentration required to stop ourselves being killed by aforementioned car freaks, but it was also needed to control the inner contortions of twisted bowel and internal gaseous exchanges that threatened to make an early, and inconvenient, exit; an exit which of course would be accompanied by the gases' companions. However upon arriving at a beautiful lakeside spot called Glenridding, I espied a garage which surely would not only sell petrol, beach balls and condoms (every man's weekend necessities) but would also be only too pleased to assist in the relief of 'post inferno eruptions'. Sadly my confidence in the provision of such amenities was short-lived. This particular garage supplied, apart from petrol and diesel, amusing toys from china, gaily coloured bunting, a full set of the encyclopeadia britannica, tickets to see Elton John, a full english breakfast, bone china from the Titanic, Kylie Minogue's knickers and free entry to the Horse of the Year show for the next ten years. Oh, and a sheep called Terry. But if you need a wee, you can stand there and wet yourself. They will be able of course to supply you with any amount of post incontinence cleaning materials, including a ferret and some swarfega, but not anywhere actually to engage in what should otherwise be private bodily functions. The only helpful advice was to turn around and drive to Glenridding's public car park. Inferno had done its worse and I had no choice. There is a happy ending. I did not need the ferret or the swarfega**. Loch Lomond. Martin Kaiser (mkaiser30) for the German Wikipedia (and other wikimedia projects) under CC-by-2.5
After that ordeal in the lakes, the drive North was a dream. The M6 was as empty as a Scotsman's wallet on Burn's night and this is an occurrence just as rare. Navigation was easy, just follow the northern star along the A74 (M) avoiding Glasgow city centre, cross the Erskine bridge through Dumbarton and on to the A82. The M8 through Glasgow had very helpful signs, such as 'Use your safety belt', 'check your tyre pressures' and a real belter, 'Don't drink and drive'. So, I put down the bottle and decided to concentrate on the road. The A74(M) also suggested that drivers should 'plan your journey' ! Who writes this stuff? Graduates from the 'University of the Bleeding Obvious'? Six year olds? Soon to be retired civil servants with axes to grind and a poor Page 8
June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. grasp of the complexities and opportunities for expression that the language of Shakespeare can provide? The A82 soon becomes a single carriageway A road hugging the shores of Loch Lomond (I got there before you) and stays a single carriageway all the way to Inverness. Any sane person knows that average speed will drop to that of the slowest caravan or motorhome as passing places are as rare as a whisky swigging Calvinist on a Sunday. This results in convoys of vehicles bunching together as they progress. The views are of course stunning. Go to your larder and find a biscuit tin, probably the shortbreads someone gave you at christmas. Now, look at it. Yes, its that view. Mountains, Lochs, oak, birch, scots pine and rain. This should be enough to compensate for the leisurely pace one adopts through the Western Highlands. As one drives, the heart rate naturally slows, breathing becomes more relaxed, the vexations of the M5/M6/M25, and the A3047 through Tuckingmill, become distant memories. You would think. For some this is not enough. The importance of themselves, or the perceived importance of their arrival somewhere that is probably inconsequential, drives a certain kind of driver towards a destiny with death as a statistic in the 'road traffic event' data kept by the Office for National Statistics. We used to refer to 'accidents' but 'event' is more accurate, for there is nothing accidental in the poor decision making by self focused drivers. At least three cars, at which point I thought 'stop counting', decided to overtake our little convoy on blind summits, bends and adrenalin. Several drivers coming the other way now have extra trouser cleaning to do, but it is probably best just to throw their post 'near miss' underwear away. The A82 is shared by cyclists; some loaded with camping gear, some on race bikes and quite a few on 'off roaders'; motorcyclists, a gathering of whom we passed at the 'Green Welly Cafe' in Tyndrum; sheep and their droppings and a cars towing everything from kayaks to caravans, and not a few egos, given their propensity for f*ckwittery in overtaking. Buachaillie Etive Mor by Doug Lee [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. We stop at a high viewpoint overlooking Rannoch Moor and are dwarfed by a conical shaped mountain called 'Buachaillie Etive Mor' which is gaelic for 'bleddy gert hill'. The road drops back below us and we can see the bridge crossed far far below. The West Highland line hugs the opposite mountainside about two miles away, and joy of joys, a train slowly crawls along the landscape (a class 37 with 11 coaches). At this point a tourist bus pulls up and three thousand and forty two asian tourists disgorge themselves, carrying more cameras than a Sale at Jessops, and are beside themselves with excitement. This last I have to guess, unskilled as I am at their language and at reading the non verbal facial expressions of Asian tourists. If excitement is measured in camera clicks, then this lot are as excited as a schoolboy with porn, but without the tissues, mess or lingering regret. We arrive in Fort William thankfully without 'event'. It is not raining. Yet. But it will.
** like baby oil, only greener.
Fort William from Loch Linnhe. By Original uploaded by: Deus Ex (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Note: it is not raining.
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. Fort William is just like Las Vegas, but without the gambling, neon lights and strippers. It does have a Morrison's and a Lidl though, which in my book makes it superior, only don't try booking a hooker at midnight in Fort William, it just is not going to happen unless you like surprises that could land you in hospital. After finding the lodge, and a few midges, we decide to be sensible and go shopping in the aforementioned Morrison's. You cannot say we don't live the high life. Guess what we bought? Porridge, haggis and a bottle of Glenlivet 'Founder's Reserve'. Thats breakfast sorted. We also bought other more mundane stuff like bread, eggs and tea. And wine. We also bought ground coffee requiring a cafetiere, which of course is not supplied in the lodge. This morning I had to imagine the smell of coffee, which is a bit like smelling an imaginary dung pile, not as rewarding but just as ineffective. Morrison's car park is beside the railway station, and as we parked we noted a rake of 1930's railway carriages each painted maroon with 'The Royal Scotsman' in gold lettering. The rear lounge carriage also had a viewing balcony. This set was for luxury. Dining car, sleeper cars, all designed for the discerning, and wealthy, passenger. The Queen would expect this as standard, for the rest of us we would possibly consider that we had caught the wrong train as the luxuriant splendour from another era indicated that this train was not for 'scat ups'. It was of course a private charter rather than a scheduled service. It could be compared to the luxury of the Orient Express. I do compare it to the Orient Express thus: "This train is comparable to the Orient Express, but in Scotland". I press my nose against the window of the restaurant car and dribble. I may have given off a little fart of excitement. Ann sensibly just takes pictures. The guard eyes me suspiciously as if thinking I might steal something. He makes me feel like a Victorian urchin whose unwelcome appearance at the Savoy reminds the ruling class of poverty. Perhaps I should not have licked the window? We hasten back to the lodge before the police are called.
The Royal Scotsman. sylvia duckworth [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons[CC BY-SA 2.0 (http:// creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. Following dinner, we walked to neptune's staircase, which is a series of 7 lock gates on the Caledonian Canal. This canal goes all the way to Inverness and at this end of it, fantastic views of Ben Nevis greets the curious. Blue sky patched among the fluffy white clouds which all day had been cosseting the peak, but as we walked they flitted away to reveal the snow clad top of the Ben. The lowering orange glow of the setting sun highlighted in light and the shadows the rough and the scars of the rock faces of the mountain. Glorious. It was not raining. To accompany the scene, house martins danced above our heads while blackbirds sang. Broom is in full yellow splendour and rhododendron thrust their vibrant colours into your face, bluebells still grace the verges and fox gloves are in promising mood. I swear I can hear the pipes. I reach for a shortbread tin to check it is all real. It is.
Neptune’s Staircase on the Caledonian canal. By Klaus with K (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/ 3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. The evening stroll along the canal led to an 'Inn' called 'The Lochy', which is the name of the river that runs alongside the canal. My mates Linus and Simon will remember this place after a hard day in the hills. We had been staying at a B and B nearby. Our hosts were most generous with wine before we toddled off for dinner at The Lochy. Needless to say having been fortified thus and then imbibing with dinner at the pub, the walk back to the B and B required a little more concentration, a song and the baring of buttocks. I might have made that last bit up, as buttock baring in Scotland is reserved for the Brave. Ann and I entered the bar only to to find that for me the previous visit was a complete blank. I did not recognize it at all. Previous revelries indicated that it must have been a decent place, how wrong can one be? No real ale, cheap fizzy cider and their chateauneuf du pape was of an inferior vintage. Not a Margeaux in sight. Instead, offerings included several varieties of fizzy lager, gaseous keg bitter and a punch in the mouth. Several 'lads', dressed identically in blue jeans and Primark T shirts, hogged the bar, while their women smoked in the car park sharing their fags, teeth and body odour. I might exaggerate a little here, but you get my drift. The Lochy is the sort of pub your mother warned you about, and if she did not, she should have. I yearned for a pint of 'Old Reg' or 'Aye Up' as served in a pub 'down south' in Preston. Instead I sniffed a pint of 70 shilling. I should not have given even 70 pence for this example of brewer's piss. There's more flavour in a spat out piece of chewing gum after 3 hours of fevered mastication. I demanded my money back and told the assembled multitude that I was glad the English still rule because at least they could access decent English ale if they but dared to get off their increasingly fat Scottish arses, put down the chips on their shoulders, and travel to Preston. I think I just made another bit up. We did however only stop for one before returning back to the Lodge. The Glenlivet had to be opened for a wee dram before bed. It is the law around here, and who am I to break the Scottish law. After all, I am a guest in a foreign country, I know whats best. At 2300 hrs it was still very light up here, which explains the the late night drinking. One can still see the whisky glass without the aid of candles.
A wee dram.
By Trollhead (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. Harry Potter. Not the first thing that comes to mind in the morning, but the link is with the West Highland Line from Fort William to Mallaig. Along this 43 mile stretch of track chuffs what Harry Potter fans will know as the Hogwarts Express. Except in reality it is a black, and not a red, engine, and carries no trainee wizards. The line itself is about 200 metres from our lodge nestling in a cutting. The lane from our site to the road crosses a narrow bridge, under which steam engines puff their way to the sea and back again. After breakfast, and at 1015, 'The Jacobite' leaves for its daily round trip and we are there standing on this tiny bridge to see it coming. One hears it before it comes into view, the unmistakable sound of 'chuffing' followed by a huge plume of white steam. We watch, looking down the line which sits among trees either side so that the white of the steam is framed on either side by the lush green tunnel of the foliage. We can see for about 300 metres straight down the line before it bends to the right, so the sounds precede the sight, enhancing the anticipation. The green and the white is then punctured by the black of the engine as it heads straight for us, pulling behind a rake of 7 or 8 maroon carriages circa the 1950's. Huge plumes of white steam erupt from the chimney with each turn of the pistons. The bridge is momentarily smothered on a dense fog of white as it passes below and onwards. Joy. The hissing and chuffing begins to fade leaving the clack of carriage wheels over rail joints to whisk one back to childhood and what of course is a nostalgic, almost melancholic wistfulness for a slower, less stressful age.
The Jacobite after leaving Banavie, heading to Mallaig 
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. The midges, sensing an opportunity, begin to gather around us, but in truth they are not as ferocious as their reputation warrants. In any case, we are dressed in wet weather gear so there is very little target area on show for the wee bastards. This may of course be tempting fate but so far their presence is noted rather than feared. This may change, we shall see. I do have a bottle of spray in my pocket just in case. It contains chemicals that have been tested on spaniels' eyeballs and has demonstrated in clinical trials the ability to melt those eyeballs in three seconds flat. I do hope though that midges are made of the same stuff as a spaniel, otherwise these experiments would have been for nought. My back up plan, should toxic chemical warfare prove ineffectual, will be to run away, waving my arms, windmill fashion, in front of my face while screaming blue murder. I saw a Chinese tourist do this once, so it must work.
The Jacobite on its way to Mallaig. By 96tommy [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. In 1745 a young upstart with royal connections and pretensions, and more ego than narcissus, landed ashore in a small boat on the loch side at Glenfinnan. Thus sparking off the 'Jacobite' rebellion which later of course provided the romantic nomenclature for the steam train. After a gathering of the clans, the royal party led by the 'Bonnie Prince', got as far as Derby in the quest to wrest control of the crown from the sly wee bastard called Edward or was it the fat german nutcase called George? I think it is the latter. Following battle success at places like Falkirk and Stirling, the Prince sallied forth southwards then reluctantly turning back north until The Duke of Cumberland kicked his bottom at Culloden. So, it all ended in tears for the Scots and the dreams of an independent and sovereign Scotland were dashed until recently, when Nicola Sturgeon similarly crashed onto the electoral shore and raised her standard. If the SNP put up a candidate in Derby, no doubt a victory would have been achieved, a success beyond the achievements of the Young Pretender Charles who died a sadder but wiser man in Italy (or France - in any case somewhere hot and garlicky).
The Highlander Monument at Glenfinnan. By Photo taken by Flaxton (Transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Glenfinnan today is a majestic location. At the head of Loch Shiel, surrounded by mountains, the Glen is crossed by the railway viaduct built by 'Concrete Bob' McAlpine. The Jacobite steams across the Glen as both Potter fans and railway buffs get all hot and bothered with excitement. At the spot where Charlie landed and raised the royal standard of the House of Stewart is a column, atop which stands a Highlander. If you Page 16
June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. stand in the right place and look up, you can get an 'upskirt' view of the contents of his kilt. The sculptor went for realism for the statue and so included his meat and two veg probably to keep the girls amused. Good sport can be had by watching naive Japanese tourists snapping away at the column until they espy his 'column' (at rest it has to be said) and take fright. They now know what a scotsman wears under his kilt in Okinawa and Tokyo. If you ever find yourself in Glenfinnan, just go and take a look and call me a liar. Lunch was taken at the Glenfinnan House Hotel, sat in the bay window overlooking the Loch and across to the Highlander monument. This place is a hotel, not a Travelodge, and so was all wood panels, tartan carpets and stags heads. A log fire crackled in the entrance, even though it is June. This is after all the west coast. Everyone is dressed for January. If I didn't have to drive, I might have taken the waters...heavily diluted of course with a Malt. After lunch, we walked under the viaduct and then took a path that led upwards to a viewpoint looking back down upon it. At this point one can see that the viaduct is in fact a curve across the glen. To our right the river under the viaduct ran into the Loch, while all around us the mountains towered, their upper slopes grazed by sheep until they reach a height where only eagles dare. The Jacobite appeared on its way back to Fort William, belching white steam as it crossed. A thousand Japanese cameras clicked as it did so, while their owners simultaneously waved their arms around like dervishes.
Glenfinnan Viaduct. By Christoph Str채ssler from Oberdorf BL, Schweiz (Glenfinnan Viaduct) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/ 2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. The midges (not the same ones as earlier) gathered to try their luck as we waited for the train. If you are moving they are barely noticeable, if at all. Once you stand still, the odd one appears as if by magic. I think they can smell human blood from fifty paces. Once one appears, it calls silently to its mates and soon half a dozen are whizzing around your face. They don't bite at this stage as they are looking for the weak spot, a chink in one's defences. My weak spot is covered in three layers of wool, several applications of cream and is in darkness. Before too long several squadrons have arrived all armed and ready for action. Some brave ones land on your clothing and are too daft to realise it. They ingest man made or natural fibre and die, such is the dissimilarity between blood and cotton. The easy way of avoiding them is to move, just put one foot in front of the other and walk away. Their sense of smell may be acute but their brains are tiny and so they can't work out why their food is no longer in the vicinity. Unbitten and with my weak spot thus protected we walk along the hillside enjoying glorious views of the glen and loch below until we reach Glenfinnan station where an old 1950's carriage has been set up as a cafe. The only thing to decide at this point was shortbread or fruitcake with the tea? Midges? What is all the fuss about? As we walk back to the car I can hear screams of terror mixed with rage uttered in strange asian languages, I think I caught the word "bastards" (they don't have that word in Japanese and so they borrow ours). I also watched a fat Bavarian and his winnowy wife use a whole bottle of spray on just one midge that had dared to crap on the bonnet of his BMW, I think it was his final solution to a day battling the local fauna.
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. There used to be a weather station at the top, before Carol on the BBC, Ulrika on ITV and even Michael 'there's no hurricane' Fish. Back in the day when weather forecasting relied on seaweed, bunions and toads, there was very little data to work with. So, at a height of 1,344 metres, a weather station was built so that forecasting could be just as haphazard but with more data. There is very little trace of the 'observatory' on Ben Nevis now. Not surprising really given the prevailing conditions up there. In clag for 9 days out of ten, and with nothing between the summit and the arctic circle at all, the winds can be a bit 'bracing', strong enough to blow your granny's knickers off in the time it takes to snip elastic with a fish knife. The day started bright enough, porridge for breakfast and then pootling about getting ready, bags thrown into the car and then a stop off at Banavie station to see the 1015 to Mallaig chuff through. Standing on the platform affords a glorious view of Ben Nevis as its snow topped peaked ridge glowers down in between very short breaks in cloud. Banavie signal box controls the whole of the West Highland line including the swing bridge over the Caledonian canal at the western end of the platform. No one else is at the station, except the signalman, Ann and myself and a gnome named Boris. It is a pleasant 15 degrees or so, no rain and bits of blue sky poking through fluffy white clouds. This is what passes for summer in Lochaber, but thats ok because it is perfect mountain weather. I'm informed by one of the locals that summer arrives for a day or two in July when the temperature might reach a balmy 20 degrees, perhaps 22 in a 'heat wave'. The rest of the year is either early Winter, Winter proper and then late Winter. Spring lounges about a bit in between late winter and the two days in July. Autumn squeezes in between those two days and early winter. Whatever season it is, Ben Nevis does not care, it covers itself in snow at any time.
Looking back down into Glen Nevis, 400 metres done, another 1000 to do Page 19
June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. Right now the weather was actually doing a passable impersonation of spring (ish) with just a hint of summer around the edges. Taking our chances we load up with water and food and head off down into Glen Nevis and the carpark at the foot of the Ben Nevis path. As we park, the weather thinks it is those two days in July and momentarily it is summer. The birch trees rustle quietly in the breeze, the river Nevis tinkles over stones and the chaffinches sing merry songs. No other sound can be heard except for the odd scream of a child drowning in the cold mountain river Nevis. As we park, I notice another two intrepid hill walkers getting ready for the day's challenge. Two women in their late thirties/early forties heave on boots and small backpacks. One is wearing very short denim shorts, the kind where the pockets show, the kind that 16 year olds wear who know no better. I think to myself, "she'll catch her death in those...". I bet she wasn't wearing a vest either. Her companion, as far as I could make out was wearing lycra leggings, the kind that looks like a second skin. I don't think she was wearing a vest either. I know she was not wearing knickers; spoils the look of the Lycra you see. My mate Linus would have approved. Anyway, they looked the sort who have gym memberships in Islington, a boy friend in New York and a husband looking after the spaniels in Chipping Norton. I doubt they have children, spoils the look. When ready, they embrace, give a high five to each other and jog across to the footbridge over the river to the start. They pat each other on the buttocks for mutual encouragement.
Our plan is to walk up to the lower slopes of the Nevis path and gauge how we feel. Following an 8 mile walk along the Caledonian canal the previous day, my right ankle gave in and I had to hobble to the car, take anti-inflammatories and the rest the bleddy thing overnight. Thus, I was not sure if the ankle would get me even 100 yards today. Ann's previous attempts at hill walking involved Phillack hill to the 'Bucket of Blood', Hain Walk to the 'Sloop' in St Ives and Station Road to the 'Brea Inn' (can you spot a pattern?). Last Friday, we did get to the top of Orrest Head in Windermere, a jaunt of about half a mile and up about 180 metres. We did not need sherpas. The guidance for a Ben Nevis ascent states that it normally takes about 4 hours to reach the summit on a good day. Of course, getting to the top is only half the battle, one has to get down again. Any attempt has to bear that in mind, as a dodgy painful knee has to be endured from when it shows up until one reaches the valley floor. If my ankle flares up with an hour gone, I face another hour (or longer) back. Any niggle in knees, hips, ankles, would be ruthlessly exploited by the mountain.
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. Glen Nevis: By Czmadzia (Own work by uploader (Magda Strzelczyk)) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons
We were however prepared for a full day if it came to that, but always the plan was to take it literally step by step with no goal except to be outside taking in the magnificent views. If it all went Pete Tong, then the Ben Nevis Inn would be on stand by for solace. At about 1100 hrs we followed in the footsteps of the two bouncing ladies who were by now 100 metres ahead. All body parts were suitably settled, so we were off.
The path is flat for about 300 metres as it follows the bank of the Nevis on the shade of birch, oak and pine trees. The sun is really out now and so the shade is welcome. We are clothed for winter but this cannot last so we strip off some layers. The midges are noticeable by their absence. I think they have noticed a denim clad pair of buttocks prancing in front of us and are following in case she stops for long enough for them to get their teeth into firm blood warm flesh. They ignore us. The path then crosses the river over a suspension bridge which warns that no more than 5 people should cross at a time due to it swinging about. The water below is crystal clear, swallows and martins skim the surface for flies. The trees on either bank dip their branches as if to sip the water as the child's body drifts below, after succumbing to hypothermia. The path then follows the flat bank for a short while before turning 90 degrees, over a stile and up a path beside a dry stone wall. A sheep looks over at me as if to say "you daft bastard". The path begins to rise gently at first until we get to another stile where it turns 90 degrees to the right to start on the lower slopes of the Ben. This is how it is going to be now for, well however long we can take it. There is no let up, no flat bits, just up. I can see the Ben Nevis Inn just a short 50 meters away. Inside there is cold beer and pies. And seats. And a window with a view of the Glen. And a physiotherapist, paramedic and whisky. Banishing such thoughts we look up to the path and put one foot in front of the other.
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. After 30 minutes, there are no pains or niggles to report. It is getting warmer, and the views down into the Glen are breathtaking. We are traversing the hillside, slowly going along, getting to about 150 metres where the path from the youth hostel joins. We can look across to the hills on the other side. Right opposite is the 528 metre summit of Bidean Bad na h-lolaire. In Gaelic this means 'Bleddy Gert Hill'. The Hillside we are on is called 'Meall an t-Suidhe', which means "Bleddy Gert Hill, me bewdy' as it is 711 metres high. For those of you brought up in old money, think of Carn Brea as about 200 metres high from sea level, not from Camborne or Redruth which are both already 70-100 metres above sea level. The path at this point is boulder strewn, so that one is picking one's steps as if going up a badly made staircase made of big rocks. Most have been put into position before the building of the weather station to allow ponies to ascend. The weather has taken its toll because the path is falling apart. In places it resembles stepping stones across a stream. In other words, this is not a flat uphill path, your feet have to consistently find good footings on big flat rocks. We are joined on the track by the usual mix of seasoned hill walkers and kids in trainers who bounce lightly upward, almost dancing with the mountain. There are family parties, lovestruck couples holding hands (its a bloody mountain for christ's sake, not a bloody honeymoon suite), toughened individuals who look like this is a daily sport, dogs, runners and madmen. The odd midge hovers around lazily for company but can't be arsed to bite anyone. There is no breeze. We get hot. At 300 metres we stop for lunch and even more water. There is a natural stone bench useful as a picnic seat. We can see even further down into the Glen where snow topped mountains circle around. The river Nevis runs into its valley, while tops from the Mamore range begin to peak over the ridge opposite. Now is the time to turn back. from here we can make it back down without too much pain and anguish. However, no niggles are felt. Perhaps the adrenaline has kicked in. We decide to walk on in the knowledge that at any time we can turn back if it gets too much of an effort. Phillack Hill is but a distant memory. The path keeps ascending and turns left around a spur in towards a large hollow in the mountain where we come across a loch, at 560 metres. The path momentarily becomes flatter and more even. The walking becomes easier. To our right the shoulder of Ben Nevis looks like a sheer grey green wall stretching up another 700 metres. there is a well known landmark called the 'Red Burn', a fast flowing stream of white water cutting a slice into the steep sides of the mountain. The path will circle around to the right and cross it at about 650 meters high - about halfway up. We look up and think there is enough in us to make that point. We have water and food and benign weather. Three hours in and we have made it to the Red Burn. That means a two hour descent at least if we turn back now. It is now a mental game. The advice at this point is that it will take the same time again to the summit if we choose to go. The path here also rises far more steeply and begins a series of 9 zigzags to the 1200 metre point. The grass and trees have disappeared. It is all small grey scree slope ridden rocks. I don't tell Ann about 9 zigzags, just that there are 5 (with a couple of small ones at the top). Undeterred Ann decides to go on, legs feeling a little tired but still enough in the tank to get up and Page 22
June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. back down. We have discussed the issue about summiting at length, it is of course the obvious thing to realise that getting to the top is not really the point. Getting back safely is. And with as little pain as possible. My ankle is fine. But deciding to continue is about judgment; about how much energy we can muster, and about pacing. I'm not sure we will summit, but we will very, very literally take it step by step in the knowledge that we have to have reserve for the decent. Each person has to feel where they are in those terms. I'm on the look out for any signs of tiredness. I'm not looking for signs of exhaustion because by that time it is already too late. I ensure Ann eats, even when she says she is not hungry. At the start of the second zigzag, the ascent looks alike a grey wall of rocks and one can just pick out tiny specks high above as people traverse the 1000 metre line.
The temperature starts dropping. The cloud starts forming about 200-300 metres above. At zigzag 4 we see a small snow field next to the path. At zigzag 5, the sun disappears as the clouds begin. At zigzag 7 we are in high cloud, no sky and snow fields begin to appear. We have no view, just the path ahead. I still have to consider if we can do this and whether we should turn back now while we still feel ok. At this point it is a 3 hour descent at our pace. Ann is fine. Just one pace. But that is good, she just keeps going. There are some who walk past us, but even they at this point are not so quick. The kids in trainers cannot be seen. Everyone is dressed for mountains properly as the temperature plummets.
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. At 1200 metres we are nearly on the summit plateau, still another 144 metres to climb and unknown to us, across three snow fields. The silence is deafening. Even the Ravens have buggered off. The ground is a litter of grey rock and snow. At one point a snow pipit cheekily hops in front of us. I had no idea birds would come this high into so inhospitable an environment. The clag descends, the path disappears completely under snow, cairns mark the way. We can see for about 10-20 meters ahead maximum, sometimes less. The walking becomes harder, colder and slower. We cannot see a thing and stick close so as not to lose sight of each other. There are footprints in the snow, but that should never be taken as a guide. Who is to say some silly bugger has not walked off the cliff at the top? The summit of Ben Nevis is dangerous, there are several gullies and cliffs to fall into, none of which can be seen in these conditions. Earlier this year a young lad did just that, his body was found 6 days later. We are joined by a couple of Japanese tourists, he is concentrating on taking pictures, christ knows of what. It is practically a white out. I spot 'Gardy Loo' gully, and advise him to step back a few metres. Then I spot the summit trig point.
Good, because it is scary up here. After 6 hours, we are alive, we have water, we have cake. We also have morale. We have confidence we can make it back down. I also spot a little cornish flag on a stick poked into the rocks of the very small emergency shelter. I cannot see the remains of the weather station. I do have some data. It is feckin' cold, I can’t see a feckin' thing and it has snowed. Up your arse Michael Fish. Forecasting? Piece of piss. The lycra and denim clad buttocks are nowhere to be seen. They are probably back in the Glen sipping chardonnay, while sexting their boyfriends in New York. Page 24
June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes. Right, Down. It will take hours to get down but it is all fairly straight forward. We pass the red burn and back into decent weather. The path snakes away far far below. I'm now dreaming of a pint in the Ben Nevis Inn. Descending is where sticks really come in handy, really takes the pressure off knees. We are fine until the last hour and the last 200 metres, then tiredness starts to kick in. Mentally one can switch off, but this has to be resisted less one twists an ankle. We finally see the Inn, but the pace is now snail like. It takes an age to get there for our 'Ice Cold in Alex' moment. But what a moment. 1344 metres, 9 hours, 4 litres, cake, sandwiches and determination for what was only going to be a 'bit of a walk in Glen Nevis'. Epic!
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June 2015 A trip to Scotland via the Lakes.
Glen Coe
Scotland is a bit far north for us Cornish folk, and delivers as much rain as we get. One can drive there in one day, I’ve done it. However, a break in the Lakes is recommended if you take the car. Alternatively take a flight to Inverness, and drive to Fort William? Consider the Night Riviera to London and then the Caledonian sleeper to the Fort. There are options, however the point is to go. The scenery is majestic in any weather, and if you like haggis neeps and tatties with your malt whisky, it is heaven. There is a rich history to explore, some of it to make the English blush. Some Scottish nobility also ought to blush at the treatment of the Highlands. Land ownership is an issue, as are the grouse moors and deer stalking. Both the latter provide an unnatural landscape devoid of previously indigenous large fauna such as wolves, beaver and bear. Nonetheless, We’ll be back. There are the islands to explore: Skye, Islay, Jura and Arran. The fact that there are distilleries, and whisky galore, to visit and to sup is merely a bonus. If you like sunshine and want to improve your tan, you know where to go, but don’t overlook the glory that is Scotland.
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