We travel through the mystical scenery of the Scottish Highlands - unspoilt rugged mountains, castles round every corner, deep blue lochs and empty glens - until we reach the venomous mountain, the giant of the land: Ben Nevis.
Sensible tourists start their quest to climb the iconic ‘mountain with its head in the clouds’ by following the relatively easy pony track from the Visitor’s Centre in Achintee, which steadily winds its way along the slopes for the first 2.5k until it reaches the main path.
So, we don’t bother with that.
We opt to commence our ascent of the highest mountain in the UK – 1345m above sea level - from the Youth Hostel. This provides a nifty little short-cut. 17km up and down the Achintee route, 13.7 km up and down from this point. Why wouldn’t you?
Consider our party. Daz and Becky, serving RAF personnel, fit, strong and disciplined. Me, an experienced dog walker, gym avoider, Great Grandma. Oh, and three miniature schnauzers.
Whilst not quite vertical, the scramble – I use the word deliberately - to join the main path, is up a steep rocky seam of haphazardly plonked boulders. Within minutes I am compelled to question the wisdom of donning boots which, though comfortably old and battered, have never stepped upon a mountain. My backpack, bearing little more than a sandwich and small bottle of water seems unduly weighty and I can hear my glutes – at least I think it’s the glutes – could be any one of the many muscle groups, screaming for mercy.
‘Head for that clump of trees,’ says Daz. ‘That’s where the path starts.’
Starts! We haven’t even started?
Oh well, onwards and upwards as they say. Well, no, upwards and upwards is what they should say.
Bodger leads the way like a nimble mountain goat. Thankfully, those miniature muscles are honed enough to help haul his clumsy lady owner over some of the more treacherous stones. Becky is dragged up by Milo - fiercely intent on confronting one of the many grazing sheep, and Silva, the precious pooch even older than me, is gently encouraged by the ever-patient Daz to put one foot in front of the other.
We reach the path where the track from Achintee and the clamber from the hostel combine. We pause. Draw breath. Wait for the thud of our hearts to calm a little. Remove a wholly unnecessary ‘just in case’ layer, wipe the sweat from every portion of our bodies where it is seemly to do so and gulp greedily from the magical elixir otherwise known as water.
Having focused entirely on the safe positioning of my feet, the unexpectedly spectacular views of sweeping glens and dramatic, undulating hills partly shrouded in magical, swirling mist, comes as a reward for the effort so far.
Our trio of desperately panting dogs are revived by a little rest and water and we intrepid mountaineers are eager to carry on.
‘Come on,’ says Daz, ‘let’s go.’
OK. Upward and upward. We can do this!
I can’t help but feel for those ponies as we trudge further up the endless zig zagging vein of perilous rocks. The zigzags make it easier. Apparently. One could be forgiven for thinking this track, laughingly regarded as a path, was the spiteful work of a disgruntled devil, or the result of a volcanic explosion millions of years ago, where The Ben spewed its stony guts all over the grassy glens and the foraging dinosaurs crushed the gigantic boulders into a jumble of jagged rocks snaking its chaotic way to the summit. But one would be wrong. It’s man-made. And maintained. We see such a maintenance man, armed with pick and plastic bucket, as bronze as a Scottish penny and as rugged as the mountain itself. Imagine waving him off to work in the morning.
‘Where are you bound for today, Jamie?’
‘There’s a wee bit of tidying to do at 1000m.’
‘You’ll be needing an extra wee dram then.’
After an incalculable amount of thigh-searing, lung-ravaging zigzags, we pause for another rest. Purely because the dogs are knackered, you understand.
‘How’s Silva doing?’ I gasp.
‘Not looking too great,’ says Becky. ‘I’m worried.’
Determined walkers tramp by as we pour blessed water into and onto the sweltering dogs and ourselves. Those who can still speak – usually the ones equipped with walking poles – proffer a cheery ‘good morning,’ and those who can’t, grunt, nod, or blank us completely.
The cooling mist swirling about the summit is still frustratingly far away and following yet more zigzags I’m convinced those too-tight dresses in my wardrobe will now, in fact, be a bit on the big side.
When Silva belly flops into the gravel, Becky calls a halt. I could kiss them both. That’s it. Daz must reach the summit alone, whilst Becky and I accompany the struggling schnauzers on the descent, which let me tell you, is no easier on the knees than on the way up.
The prospect of a beer at the Ben Nevis Inn at the foot of the mountain makes dodging the Youth Hostel and hiking the additional 2.5k along the pony track, worthwhile. This oasis comes into view just as we hear Daz has made it to the summit. Two beers it is! Maybe three while we wait for him.
The pub’s shut. COVID.
Forced to make do with the Visitor’s Centre, which sadly does not sell beer, I treat Daz to a I climbed Ben Nevis T-Shirt. I consider one for myself, but my catholic roots forbid the lie. Shame there is no I climbed ‘a bit’ of Ben Nevis, or I would have made it to the top if it hadn’t been for the dog T-Shirt.
‘The Youth Hostel has a bar,’ says Becky.
‘Let’s go.’
What’s yet another 2.5k?
SHUT!
****
We leave the mainland and cross the bridge to Skye, or Isle of the Mist. On a good day, it only rains every twenty minutes, but is generally more inclined to stick around for twenty-three hours or so. The dramatic Cuillin mountains dominate the landscape of rocky slopes and vast rolling plains, dotted here and there with white painted houses. Sparsely populated – unless you’re a sheep. More than 100,000 sheep and only 10,000 people. Should have no trouble nodding off here.
Becky’s in charge of the ‘must see agenda.’ First stop – Fairy Pools. A series of waterfalls tumbling into crystal clear blue pools on the River Brittle. A short walk, obviously, is required to reach them, but after the Ben, this is a breeze. An hour’s steadily inclining tramp along a gravel path, bit muddy in parts and only two points where one is obliged to cross the river. Helpful, if erratically placed, stepping-stones ease the crossing. Crazy Milo ignores the stones and splashes across the river like his bum is on fire. Princess Silva demands to be carried and I discover Bodger, in his determination to keep his feet dry, is an accomplished boulder leaper. I succeed in tripping into the water and consequently discover my boots leak. We fail, however, despite much peering into sparkly pools, to discover a single fairy.
The next day I get a bollocking from my phone for having walked 9,700 steps fewer than the day before.
By way of apology, we head for the Old Man of Storr. This large pinnacle of rock, part of the Trotternish Ridge was created by a massive ancient landslide and can be seen for miles around. The steep rocky hill it stands upon is a paltry 719m.
Piece. Of. Cake.
It’s early. We need to get to the top, photograph the views and race back down before the sky falls in. Then we’re off to the pub.
The gravel path at the start is as close to decent as any I’ve seen. But this is still a hill and the way is steep. And muddy. When the route changes to zigzags I get a little worried. More zigzags?
‘You OK Mum?’ says my thoughtful daughter.
‘Yes, fine,’ I lie.
Having failed at Ben Nevis I’m not giving up on this. We keep going, needing only to stop for the dogs. True!
As we approach the Old Man, we’re forced to scramble over rocky, uneven steps. Where there are gaps in the steps – and there are many - we squelch through furrows of well-trodden but soggy mud. I envy those clever sods with the walking poles as they glide effortlessly by me. Maybe I should have grabbed some when I bought the new mountain- climbing boots. Had it not been for the boots and my trusty schnauzer-come-husky I may not have made it to the top. But I did.
Daz captures the fantastic views, looking out over the sea to the mainland on one side with the islands of Raasay and Rona in between. Storr Lochs and the Cuillin Hills on the other.
I appreciate you can’t demand a T-Shirt when you climb to the top of Old Man of Storr, but how about a badge? Fridge magnet maybe?
But, the sun has hogged too much of the morning, and, clearly vexed, the menacing sky launches its vengeful dance. With the fury of Zeus, the heavens churn above us. The blackening sky swirls and twitches like a nest of writhing serpents and swoops at the prey below, swallowing us in seconds. Driving, horizontal rain pelts our faces and makes us blind. The dogs are drenched before we even leave the ledge. We flee as quickly as we dare, stumbling past the now invisible Old Man of Storr, along the treacherously muddy track, utterly consumed by the smothering mist.
‘You’d be advised going down this way,’ says a man with walking poles.
We opt to follow him. Men with poles probably know what they’re doing.
We make it down. We make it to the pub. The smell of wet dog hangs around all day.
Tomorrow. Loch Ness.
Will I be expected to swim with the monster I wonder?
