The Ben

Monday morning. Half past nine. The sweat was pouring out of me. The unpredictable weather kept changing from hot to cold, rain to shine. Colin, Chaz and myself had started ascending the track which rose up from Achintree Farm after crossing the shaky bridge over the River Nevis. The path led us up between the fields at the foot of the mountain and it wasn’t until we were over the stile at the top of the farm that we really knew we were climbing up on to the mountainside, the peak of Ben Nevis our far off goal.
As we began hiking up the large stone path the rain started and the first group of the fellow hill climbers overtook us, all foreign and most with the hiking, walking sticks. Colin and Chaz paused to slip on their waterproof trousers, hobbling and hopping about on the spot as the rain became heavier, sweeping down from the side of the giant hill before us in sheets. With my heavy headedness and my dodgy, but now recovering, stomach, caused by the night before, I began to wonder if I was really going to be capable of climbing Britain’s highest peak. The sheer size of the Ben loomed over the long, zig zagging path before us, the road we were on disappearing round the first side of the hill a sizable hike before us.
After around ten to fifteen minutes the rain dwindled down to a smir in the air and as the wind died with it we found ourselves making good progress, looking back behind us, over the valley of Glen Nevis, our campsite and the road to Fort William beyond.
We were taking the ‘Mountain Track’ up the hill, which apparently used to be called the ‘Tourist Track’. They must of caught a hell of a lot of stupid tourists out with that title in the past. Thankfully we didn’t come across any skeletons lying sprawled over the path on the way up with ancient Hawaii style short sleeved shirts ragged and torn about their heavily pecked bones, an old cracked, grimey camera lying broken and insect infested around their emaciated, splintered necks by a ragged strap. Gulls did seem to group at various points over the side of the hill as we hiked, congregating over hidden spots over the long grass and rocks. It did make me wonder whether they were grouping around another hiker that didn’t quite make it.
The Mountain Track was the main route to the old Observatory and the main path for horses and ponies to take on their way to the peak of the hill in years gone by. It is certainly not for tourists, or any other casual walkers, wanting a quick jaunt up in order to take in some nice views of the Highlands of Scotland.
As we headed round the first side of the mountain the sun was soon shining over us once more and Colin and Chaz were disposing of the jackets. Suspecting deception on the weather’s part I kept my jacket on, stomping on up the path, the hangover from an hour ago now fading rather more quickly than any previous hangover I’ve ever experienced. Chaz had bought me a cup of tea at the campsite’s burger van before leaving as he and Colin had bought themselves rolls and sausage for breakfast. Opting out of any breakfast after my sudden loss of stomach outside the tents I had kept a safe distance from any such greasy food but the cup of tea was doing nicely and soon enough I was stealing Coco Pop bars from Colin’s backpack.
The path round the first side of the hill was hard going. The large rocks, although fixed into path formation, were often large, cumbersome and misshapen making the path difficult to navigate, forcing you to concentrate where you placed every step. One misstep or one slip could end in a topple and a crack of the head off one of the large, often jagged, rocks underfoot.
After around an hour and a half or two hours (I wasn’t really keeping an eye on the watch) we had reached the Loch Meall an t-Suidhe, a small Loch lying on a plateau between the rises of the mountain. After this point the path turned and twisted up on to the main body of the Ben taking us up by the Red Burn and as Loch Linnhe came into view behind us we started the treacherous zig zagging slopes, the green grass and vegetation giving way to the grey of rocks, scree and stones. The temperature dropped and the slopes became steeper, harder, and seemingly more deceptive, most of the rocks lying loose making it far easier to misstep, slip and slide as you made your way up the slopes.
The air got colder and breathing became slightly more difficult. The landscape transformed into some kind of lunar like surface. Mist descended down upon as as we climbed up into the clouds, clinging to us as we looked on up the hill. We narrowed our eyes in an effort to try and make out the peak of the mountain above us.
Unfortunately Chaz made the mistake of asking a descending walker how long was left to climb, one thing you should never do as, Colin pointed out, the answer will either be bad or worse. It also makes you look desperate and amateurish. Something Colin and myself were unwilling to admit to. The guy lied through his teeth anyway, telling Chaz there was approximately 10 minutes of climb remaining. It turned out to be at least 40.
After passing by the misted, and pretty scary looking, Gardyloo Gully, we eventually made it to the fog shrouded summit, 1,344 metres above sea level with it’s spectacular views... of cloud. Unfortunately the weather being the way it was, we didn’t get any inspiring landscapes and had to make do with a photo standing atop the trig point and a very cold lunch, not to mention acting as the Ben’s official peak photographer for at least two families, my fingers were so cold they almost stuck to one foreign guys camera. He looked at me a little oddly through his round spectacles as I shivered and shook the camera back into his own hands after he climbed back down off the Trig point (I’d forgotten my gloves).
It was all well and good climbing the hill and reaching the top, the only thing left to do now was get back down. After hanging around at the peak for around half an hour, admiring the fog, we set off for home, most of the path on the way back down the hill seeming more dangerous and unpredictable than it had done on the way up. As families, old folk and seven year olds swept by us, Colin, Chaz and myself slipped, slid and struggled our way down the hill and by the time we reached the Loch Meall an t-Suidhe again my legs were uncontrollably shaking and I felt like I was doing a David Byrne dance down parts of the path, whilst Chaz slid violently and steadied himself, finding himself sliding to a stop in one instance with a pointed finger in the air, like a rather over eager John Travolta on a slippery dancefloor. Colin seemed to simply take it all in his stride, not slipping or sliding, as far as I could see, and barely complaining of any pain until we were within our last hour’s descent at which point we stopped for a rest and I willingly collapsed on the rocky path, unconcerned about any jagged headed rocks behind me.
As the seven hours marker hit we stepped down on to a smooth, gravel path, our legs filled with the dull throbbing of exertion and we made our way back to the campsite, tired but more than a little pleased with ourselves. We had done it. We had managed to scale Ben Nevis in seven hours, apparently the average time for the more experienced climbers. The climb was tiring and pretty hard going at times but turned out to be a great cure for a hangover.

Camping and karaoke in Fort William

My calf muscles have never been sturdier. It is now three days since my return home from a camping trip away and my legs are still sore.
On Sunday Colin, Chaz and myself took a drive up to Fort William, Stevie Wonder, along with some dodgy eighties music, blaring from Chaz’s Volkswagen Golf speakers as we made our way up the A82. Throughout the journey the car made it’s way through rain, sun and hail, over the winding roads, through Crainlarich and towering mists of Glen Coe as we discussed the many important topics of the day including work, film, music, radio stations, Steve Martin and how I, in fact, never seen ‘Father of the Bride 2’ as Chaz has so adamantly claimed in the past. Chaz had it in his head that I had apparently called something off, at a younger age, in order to see this cinematic classic with Colin upon it’s first release which I have always ferociously denied and to which Colin, as it turns out, had no knowledge.
Anyway, we arrived in Fort William at around 5pm in the evening and set up camp in the Glen Nevis Camping Park.
We had two three man tents to house us, and our accessories, which included sleeping bags, food, beer, a cooker and a gas canister which was only approximately a quarter full, which was probably just as well after Chaz gave us a horror story about a family named Gillespie who apparently blew up on their way to a camping holiday a few years back. We had brought the two tents, as my own, apparently three man, tent would have been too small for the three of us and there was no way the three of us were cramming ourselves under the one canvas.
We picked a rather pleasant, semi covered grass area under some large trees keeping in mind the large, grey clouds that were constantly threatening from above, surrounding the giant mountain towering over us from across the road.
Our own personal Mount Doom stood there watching us. It’s peak submerged in cloud. With the mountain looming over us we wasted no time in getting the tents up whilst our neighbours milled around.

There was an oddly aged family group in a large tent at the top of our hill whose group included the loudest snorer I’ve ever heard. At night his snoring roared through the area around our tent, even though we were three tents away.
There was the fifty odd year old guy that turned up in an estate with two thai mail order brides. He stood back and shouted orders as his two female companions erected their family sized tent, arguing back and shouting at one another.
There was another small family behind us, who mostly wore kilts, which consisted of a man in his late fifties with a woman of around the mid thirties and a small three year old girl. We thought it was the mum and daughter out with the Granpa until we realised their tent was exceptionally small and they had a rather flirtatious manner whilst playing tennis.
Then there was the couple in the very small tent under the trees immediately behind us. A tent we neglected to notice until we had erected our own shelters. This couple barely left their tent for the whole time we were there. It wasn’t until we’d set up camp and were sitting having our first beers that we realised their tent actually existed. We presumed they were out at first as we started our first beers, chatting away and it wasn’t until the two shapes within began shuffling around, mumbling and making the odd noise
we began to suspect that we may have interrupted a quiet, romantic, rather cramped looking getaway.
After a disappointing meal in the disappointing pub/restaurant attached to the campsite, involving a burger which I thought I enjoyed at first but which then lay in my stomach for the rest of the evening, Chaz, colin and myself ventured into Fort William. We walked the 2.5 miles into town in search of some Sunday night entertainment. As it happens, it wasn’t too hard to find. After a couple of pints of cider in the hole that was The Crofter, Chaz sussed out from the helpful barmaid where the other drinking holes were located. Once we’d finished our pints and refrained from buying any of the vending machine gifts in the toilets, which included an inflatable sheep among other rather worrying items, we lifted our jackets and headed out on to the High street again.
After a short walk we entered the depths of an underground bar across the street, a dark, stone walled, karoke playing horror show in which we opted to stand in the shadows, up against a wall. Chaz, now bored with the beer, bought some spirits which I immediately considered a bad move considering we were climbing Britain’s biggest hill the next morning.
After escaping that bar we then moved on to the Volunteer Arms. A rather fitting name I thought as it turned out to be another karaoke playing night for which Chaz was our willing volunteer. As bar brawls broke out around us, among the rougher looking locals and the bar’s one security guard shuffled around it, Colin and myself mulled over which song Chaz was to sing. Following further lovely renditions from another few locals singing their hearts out up on the makeshift stage, Chaz’s name was called. Following the calling Chaz made his way up to the mike as a good portion of the drinkers in the bar looked round at him, and us, as if they’d just realised we were there, and immediately began eyeing the tourists with suspicious disapproval. Chaz didn’t let the locals put him off though, either that or he didn’t notice, as he belted out a rather joyous rendition of the Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’. He managed to get a few girls dancing but mostly just caused a lot of cagey looks from the gathered Fort Williamers. After he’d finished Colin and myself looked at one another and hurriedly finished our drinks, and as we left, we felt the locals following us to the door with their eyeballs.
With barely any sleep and a ridiculously bad hangover, unfairly bestowed upon me from the fairly normal amount of alcohol consumed the night before, I clambered out of the tent and shuffled myself to the campsite’s toilet block.
We slowly cleaned ourselves up, pulled our jackets on, fastened our backpack clips and shoved our bottled water and sandwiches, bought at the garage the night before, into our bags. Just as we were breathing in the cool air, looking up at the mountain before us, flexing our shoulders, stretching our legs, I puked.
I believe the exact words I uttered were:
“Oah, guys, I think I’m going to - ….”
The woman with the little girl behind our tent looked on in disgust as I collapsed down on to the grass, Chaz and Colin struggling to suppress their laughter. It was the campsite restaurant burger’s fault. That coupled with Chaz’s vodka buying.
We covered the barf with the Fort William map the receptionist had given me at the desk the night before and set off, for breakfast, to the burger van.

Falls of Clyde

On Friday Ka and myself arose to a gloriously, wonderful, sunny day. Who would have thought?! Scotland in early April with such a lovely day? Weather like this in Scotland is immediately suspicious. You usually expect the clouds to close in within a few hours but yesterday, thankfully they did not. After a quick trip to the gym, Ka and myself headed off to Lanark for a walk around the Falls of Clyde, down around the small conservation village of New Lanark. Upon arrival Ka and myself settled down for a picnic at the top of the hill alongside the mill water wheel. The village was extremely quiet with only a few elderly couples murmuring to each other on the wooden benches around us and one bearded gentleman, maybe not quite as old, sprawled on an adjacent bench obviously recovering from a jog or cycle as he wore skin tight sports gear. When I say sprawled, I mean he was lying back taking up the whole bench with one foot propped up on the bench's back support and one foot hanging limply down over the ground. Unfortunately for Ka who was sitting closest, the man had a large tear in the groinal area of his joggers and either had not noticed this or was simply unembarrassed by it. Fortunately we had the rather brilliant view of the surrounding forests and passing Clyde waters before us to deter us from this rather unsettling, alternative view.
After finishing our picnic we headed out into the forest and up the River Clyde, pausing at the beautiful waterfalls and viewpoints along the way. After passing, and greeting, the third bunch of fellow walkers heading back, Ka questioned my particular cheery disposition with these walkers. She had no idea of the hikers code. The code that states you should always make an effort to greet or nod fellow walkers upon every passing. I'm not sure who made this code or if it is written somewhere but it somehow goes with the territory. On our way up to the most northerly waterfall, the Bonnington Linn, we also chatted to the park warden who let us look through his binoculars at the nesting Peregrine Falcons in the reserve. Ka nodding describing the white feathers which I was slightly puzzled by as the bird I had seen was grey. We then realised Ka was in fact looking at a rock.

Ben Arthur

The pictures from my Ben Arthur climb are now in the Reidnet photo album. Harry and myself are seen here poised on one of the rocks infront of the Cobbler's 'needle'. I was ineptly sliding down the slope of the rock as the photo was being taken and Harry stands relaxed over the 150ft drop behind him. Some of the shots are pretty good considering the weather conditions. Unfortunately the mist at the peak of the mountain completely obscured the supposedly wonderful views you usually get from the highest, middle peak at 'the needle'. However, the mist did help make some of the shots quite eerie and would not look out of place on some old, british horror movie. An American Werewolf in Arrochar perhaps. There's also a few nice shots of Loch Long. The Faslane Naval Base have a depot on the Loch, up at the village of Coulport, and use the Loch's depths to practice sailing their submarines. Faslane is the home of the UK's armed nuclear submarine force, or nuclear deterrent, as they'd probably prefer it to be known. In fact, I'm sure Sharon used to go the Peace rallies there to wave her boards about. Strange to think of a place of such tranquility and beauty housing nuclear warfare.
Anyway, Click here to go straight to the Ben Arthur photos.

The long way up

My legs are a little achey today as yesterday Harry and myself climbed Ben Arthur, or the Cobbler, as it's most popularly known. A good walk, 884m (2946 ft) in height and and 5.5 miles in all, though it seems longer. Harry is the expert when it comes to the hillwalking having completed all the Munros south of Fort William, as well as walks in New Zealand and Sri Lanka to name a few. Unfortunately I am a mere amateur. The last time I was on the hills was around three years ago on Ben Vorlich. Harry led us into Arrochar in the morning, the small town that sits on Loch Long, and from the small car park at the foot of the hill we set off. Unfortunately for us it was a very grey, misty day and the clouds hung low over the peaks around Loch Long but the rain held off and the temperature remained pretty warm, with only a slight smir of rain in the air, making it a pleasant climb up the front side of the hill.

We took the harder route up over the rocks and burn descending on its southern side. The mist held fast though and the views and skyline were still completely cloaked at the top of the mountain. The rocks were also quite slippy so, once at the top, we had to opt out of 'threading the needle' which is involves crawling through a hole in the summit rock formation from the north side and climbing up on to the very highest peak, a metre length rock standing over a 100 ft drop. The rocks were just too slippy for any foolhardy attempts.

We rested at the foot of the needle and had our lunch talking with some fellow walkers, who were taking a break from Fir Park. After our short break, Harry led the way down the northern side of the mountain, not hitting the proper path until around a quarter of the way down. We passed many a walker on the way down, all following the walkers code of pleasantly greeting one another as we stomped along on our various routes to and fro. I was even surprised to meet someone I knew from back in the Auldhouse days when I worked behind the bar. Alastair was sitting rolling a cigarette, having a break with his son, his camera tripod sitting at his side. He was going up the hill to try and get some photos. On the trek I managed to get a few shots on the hillside myself but it was just unfortunate the views from the peak were mere cloud. I'll probably revisit it at some point in the near future and try and get a decent view next time (I'll be putting the rest of the photos I did take on reidnet's photo album shortly). As we descended it looked as if the mist was clearing a one point only for it to quickly drift over again and submerge the top half of the hill once more. Even though the views from the top were poor there's nothing quite like a good walk in the hills. It's strange to think that these hills, and fantastic landscapes, sit just an hour outside the chaotic city scenes of Glasgow and home.
In the evening Ka and myself headed to the Shawfield Stadium, for the first time, to the dog racing, and to meet up with Claire and Martin and the rest of the mad squad to celebrate Claire turning the big 3 - 0 . There was also the hope of maybe winning some money at the same time. Claire's brother, William, had hired her a wee surprise. After we arrived and hooked up with Cheryl, Roslyn and Aaron inside, Claire, Martin and some of the others turned up after a few glasses of champagne on the Scooby Doo Bus! All drinking champagne except the birthday girl, herself, of course, who is preggers. Scooby snacks have certainly changed since I last watched the cartoon. Needless to say some fun was had, but alas, Ka and myself were unlucky with all our bets and didn't win anything. Claire's Dad managed to win over fifty quid, Jane managed to win a good thirty pounds but our dogs were pipped at the post (or finishing line in this case) everytime. Can't win 'em all. We all had a good time though and enjoyed the night.

It's a cracker

Went in to work to the expected questions about the car this morning. Mary and Margaret having another heckle from their box. I explained that it'll be fine. No great emergency. They looked a bit disappointed. Finally returned Lost Ian's DVDs this morning. He gave me the whole series of 'Cracker' to watch around two months ago and I managed to finally finish it at the weekend. What a great series that was. Definately Coltrane's finest hour - why aren't they still making it?! Brilliant telly with so much depth put into the characters through the brilliant storytelling of Jimmy McGovern. Great. By the way, the reason he's called 'Lost' Ian is because that's the name he's given in the flat. Ka has never met him so he goes by the name of Lost Ian as, like us, he is a big Lost fan and records it for us every week as we no longer have Sky (after Sky decided they would no longer sell their channel to Virgin Cable back in '07). The same goes for Creamy Chicken John. John gave me a brilliant Aussie recipe for pasta last year, involving herbs, cream cheese etc which Ka has used on more than one occasion and as a result he is now called Creamy Chicken John. There are other names which I'm sure I'll write later but just can't think of at the moment or which I daren't mention!
Came home after work to find Claire (Montgomery) and Jane in with Ellie relaxing after a plate of Ka's meatballs and spaghetti. Nice. Fortunately there was some left, which I'll keep for myself till a later date. Had a bit of Ka's gorgeous lasagne in work for dinner, straight from the microwave. Have never been sure of microwaves. Work is the only place I use them, except from the occasional hot chocolate. Sometimes it's like Radioactive city in that work kitchen with all the microwaves droaning away at the same time probably damaging our brain cells with their cooking power.
Also watched the excellent 'The Matador' starring Pierce Brosnan and Greg Kinnear at the weekend. Very enjoyable movie again with great characters. Brosnan played a blinder. A hired aging hitman stressed out with age, anxiety and maybe even guilt alongside Kinnear's straight guy salesman. I wasn't solely just sitting watching tv all weekend by the way. It just sounds like it... but the fact I have to drive whilst holding the door at my right shut is a definate hindrance.
I was hoping to get out on to the Scottish hills this weekend but it looks like work is going to get in the way of that now! It may have to wait till next week. Harry said he's going to pick an easy hill for us to climb. 'Easy'? Why easy? Does he think I'm not up to it? It must be about three years since my last Munro walk mind you... Ben Vorlich. 3232 ft high. That was a great day but tiring. Towards the end of the walk I think I was actually tumbling down the hill rather than walking.
Off work for a week next week though so hope to see some of the fringe in Edinburgh. There'll be plenty of walking then.
Claire's just left with a piece of lasagne for Martin. Hope you enjoy it mate, that was my dinner for tomorrow!