Dipping a toe

…into the loch and into trail shoes. Did I mention my toe? I imagine I’ll remember vividly how running across the living room into a guitar case that I’d left there giving me no one to blame but myself stopped me dead in my tracks from enjoying the recent spell of awesome weather.

The toe is black, the sky is grey and my mood is, I dunno, multicolored probably. May is going to be quite the month on this old place, just got to get to next week when mountain Mayday #1 arrives.

Whispers to self, don’t screw it up… don’t screw it up… don’t screw it up…

Hardware Headache

The new camera is taking a while to get my head around. Everything I take is out of focus, which is my job description, not the camera’s. May is full of stuff and I really hope I can get this thing to do what i want it to before I put in the miles and stick pegs in the ground with no decent photies to show for it.

Back to the manual it is. Page 113…

Seventy Nine

I would never have known it was there. It was mother’s birthday dinner, we were having a lovely time but I had to slip outside for some cool air as the kitchen was like sauna.

It was cool and grey and I sighed and sat in a garden chair, leaned back and looked up. Well, all the good weather was just there in a wee oasis in the sky.

Lovely.

Also, that’s not my fringe, it’s a bush.

 

37 116

Since my up close train encounter at Bridge of Orchy a couple of weeks back I’ve been seeing vintage diesel locomotives everywhere.

I say seeing, but hearing then glimpsing is probably more accurate. The west coast main line might run past my window but the sound is mostly blocked until it’s right there in front on me. Been missing all sorts of 50s and 60s wonders.

Still, got this bugger just in time as it growled through the station and past the workshop. 1962 and still going strong, there’s a little bit of hope for us all.

 

If you have ghosts, you have everything

Linda was finished for the day, I was nearly finished for the day. Lunch we said, the where was the thing, let’s go and see some snow? So flasks were filled, our fridges were examined for useful content and we threw together a lunch of sorts so we only needed some sweeties from the garage on the way.
The road was as quiet as you can get in the afternoon but the big surprise was that the falls of Falloch car park only had one other car in it. There’s something you won’t likely see again this side of November.

We were ready to go so it was packs onto shoulders and a dash across the road to try and find something a wee bit special on the north side of the glen, the Clach na Briton.

It’s 15 years since I was last up here when there was a team handed sprint up the lochside after work to find the stone when we’d all been inspired by Tom Weir’s enthusiastic description of it in an episode of Weir’s Way.
That’s long enough for the hillside to feel brand new again and as soon as we crossed under the railway we were definitely exploring with a vague “It’s kinda that way I think…” as a route guide.

Ben Oss and Beinn Dubhchraig feel very close here once you gain a bit of height, close and very tempting. Later on we kinda cursed ourselves for not packing more food for more miles but that’s okay, there’ll be other days.
The grass can be hard going, it’s basically fuzz covered footballs underfoot everywhere and as soon as you take you eye from the next step up to the scenery you’re sideways or down.

It was lovely though. A bit windy but not so cold, broken cloud over blue sky and an already low sun beaming light and shade in equal measure. Perfect for being out.

It wasn’t long before the smooth grassy skyline was interrupted by a very obvious pointy thing, our pin point navigation has led us straight here. Clach na Brritaaaaaaannnn as Tom had said. With grins wide and maybe a wee bit of excitement we picked up the pace to get there and throw down our packs for lunch, or dinner, it was getting on.

It’s an impressive place, so much history must have been witnessed by the stones over the centuries but so few hard facts are known about it.
Clach na Briton, stone of the Britons, so called as it’s said to have marked the meating of three ancient Scottish kingdoms, Dalriada, the Picts and the Scots.

Its age, which is unknown, might have blended it into the landscape but this is at least partly the work of many ancient hands. There’s a wide rocky base, piles of huge stones on top and the giant spearhead dragged onto the top.

Maybe they found an outcrop which is the visible on part on the downhill side to give them a start, but whatever, their hard work has endured.

There are matching named stone mounds to the west, perhaps marking a very definite border. Ah, if only the Romans had came here as visitors and not invaders we might have some written records. All we have is 500 year old words on a battle fought here near the Minvircc, the stones’ old name.

We sat in the sun, it was warm while the cool but gentle breeze had us pulling in our down jackets. We are our pieces, drank from our flasks and then just sat. I’m very much for just being when I’m in the hills, the drive to achieve goals and reach summits is long gone and I’m so glad Linda is the same, so we just sat.

Actually we reclined, heads back onto the grass by the rocks, knees relaxed, sun on our faces, eyes closed, no chat, happy just to be.

I though I heard voices, or was it a radio? There’s a fence line close by, it could be someone working. I sat up and looked and with a field of view hundreds of metres in scope, there was nothing. Ach, I put my head back down. I could still hear, something though.

Linda was soon fidgeting, “What’s up, I’m trying to sleep…” I murmured. Hmm, the singing had distracted her too. I sat up and looked again, I stood up, climbed the rock to see nothing, no-one at all. It was quiet too now I was up. The breeze had dipped and the air was drifting by rather than blowing, it wasn’t wind whistling through the rocks I was sure. I put an ear to the ground, it’ll be water inning below the surface, snowmelt heading to the river… nothing but my own heartbeat.

We looked at each other with no answers to share and lay back down to watch the clouds slip by as lazy as we were ourselves.

The singing was still there too. No instruments, it was layered voices, mostly female, light and melodic but melancholy too mixed with sweet. We lay there and listened and the song remained until we sat up to go when the light dimmed a little more.

We talked about it, we still do weeks later. I still have no explanation. I am all about science and dinosaurs, but my mind is always open. Once on Ben Macdui I had an experience that still lives with me. I think this might be another.

Whatever it was, it was welcoming, that I know.

We left cheerful with a spring in our step and no desire to head back, we were heading up the glen.

Now Linda is the love of my life, where my heart has found its home, but dear god she can’t walk ten feet outdoors without decking it.

The terrain was tough, and when you’re four foot eleven the obstacle clearance options aren’t great so I’m not mocking here at all. Just gently enjoying it with a generous side salad of concern.

Fionn Gleann is fantastic and it’s a first time visit for both of us. The terrain does improve higher up on the rocky knolls we headed over and it was a lot of fun just exploring.

There are broken walls high up, shielings and a cottage by the looks of it, but here we had to plan a way back. Bummer really, we had headtorches but no food left, the will to keep exploring was strong,we just hadn’t planned for it.

We descended to the deep gorge which was an unexpected gem. Black rocks and tumbling water with unfamiliar views of familiar places.

We sat by the water as it rushed and gurgled over our quickly dipped and removed bare feet then finished our flasks as the sun dropped out of sight.

A wonderful spot, an absolute joy that I had never even known existed.

Oh, get off that beaten track.

The evening light was beautiful as the brown winter slopes glowed orange as we walked down the hideous hydro scheme road on the other side of the glen.

Our knees we’re glad of the assistance after the trials of the walk in, but it’s still s blight on this lovely place

The bigger hills looked magic, so close but just a little far. We’d had such a good day we were happy enough to have them as our wallpaper.

We cut off the road and headed for the cattle creep above the hydro house as it got dark. We found it but the bastards who did the hydro scheme have wired it up so you can’t slip through. This left us with some choices, none if which I was happy having to take Linda into.

We couldn’t cross the river, the gorge here is very deep indeed, and we weren’t reascending to look for a safe crossing point either, so the railway line it was. If I’d been solo I’d have walked the railway line back across the river to the ascent route, but a quick shin across the tracks was safer. We also had to climb four fences to do this.

I was livid. The cattle creep is still on the map. How the hell did they get away with this?

Once over the A82 were onto a stretch of the old road hidden in the trees with its crumbling stone arched bridge and tarmac. Nature is taking it back.

We followed this back to the car park with banter flowing and talk of what hot food we were getting on the way home.

It’s a day full of joy that even the railway crossing couldn’t info, a wee day that had everything. And thinking back to the singing by the stones if you have ghosts, you really do have everything.

 

Congregating in Paisley

It’s always a little odd going to Paisley as I spent almost every day of my early working life there, years of it in fact. Once the local authority revamp came in and a wholesale change of personnel in change of maintenance with it, with us unwilling to bribe our way into keeping the work we’d been doing to a high standard for many years I was suddenly never ever in Paisley again for years.

I’ve picked up a few customers there since so I’ve still seen the town evolve and it really does try pull itself up with continual remodeling and also a string of fantastic events over the past few years.
It’s a town that had everything it was built on taken away and I wish it well as it keeps trying to rebuild and find its place again.

The photies here are from a recent light show that saw the history of the planet projected onto Paisley Abbey. It was an absolute joy to witness as the animations lit up the abbey in precise detail, even picking out the window frames while other installation around the area featured other animations and videos of people telling the story of what we were watching.
Despite being outside on a cold night it managed to be immersive and captivating for the three of us. I even stopped talking about how I’d worked in every building in sight for the whole show. The girls must have been pleased.

A live choir sang while we watched plants and animals evolve until we finished on a current note with digital information flowing across the stonework. In the middle of it all a projection as bright as day turned the abbey into an ancient Egyptian temple.

Brilliant to see. It times of such worry when we are being governed by self serving arseholes in Westminster, a Russian madman wants to eat the world and we’ll burning our furniture for heat next winter if we haven’t already eaten it, it’s good to know that we can create some wonder and beauty and also that we will turn out in big numbers to enjoy it.

Hydrostatic Head

The pandemic has made the fun things of life a little tricky and our little overnighters all over the country all but stopped dead. So it was with a mix of excitement and maybe apprehension we hit the road to the Pitlochry Hydro. Amazingly it was late when we left because I had to go to work, so rather than a leisurely wander up with the hope of dropping by to see friends it was as much of a mad dash as the average speed cameras on the A9 would allow.

But we got there in the end and the Hydro is actually pretty nice, clean and warm inside with friendly staff and the food later on was great. Although the bar tender couldn’t catch his amazement in time when I wanted a pink gin cocktail the same as Linda’s after dinner when I should maybe have been ordering something more er, manly?
Before that though we walked into town and had a little poke around as the shops and cafes hurriedly pulled down their shutters as we approached. Hey, it’s Scotland I’m used to that, I remember with fondness and amusement the fallout I had with Visit Scotland when I suggested their new slogan should either be “Welcome to Scotland, bring a packed lunch” or “Welcome to Scotland, ye’ll have had yer tea?”.
However we found lights on, coffee machine steaming, cakes on display and a warm welcome at Mackenzies, the last cafe standing in the town. And of course it’s run by a Yorshireman. Good lad, and thanks for sending us into the woods to look for the waterfall next day.

The woods were under a very grey sky and rain was threatening but the dampness seem to brighten the colours of everything, dead or alive and it was a very pleasant want to the rather impressive Black Spout waterfall. It’s really, scary high. So it was with some relief I got Linda away from the edge and we found some endless snowdrops spouting by the burn which she didn’t fall into either. Which is probably a shame, the photies would have been magic.

We had intended to climb Schiehallion but the weather was minging and I have never seen a view from the top, never mind Linda never having climbed it so we’ve save that for another time and decided on some general exploring. The road and trees make any journey around here a joy so we headed west in vaguely homeward direction.
We had cuppas and pastries so we weren’t intending to go too far at first so the cuppas were still warm and I pulled up into a little forest car park which I’d never noticed before, Allean Forest it said.

One of the best accidental decisions ever. The signs said there was stuff hidden in the woods, trails to follow and things to see. Off we went. In jeans and Converse.
It was mainly good forest roads so the going was good and I’ve rarely been somewhere this accessible but yet so quiet. We came upon the pictish homestead first, a large stone circle that used to be roofed when occupied and latterly they think used for storage or housing animals. The trail goes up and on through the trees which swayed, creaked and swished as a strong wind tried to get to us but they trees didn’t let it. I think it gets to nearly 400m before it snakes down again and takes you too another abandoned settlement, this time it was occupied in living memory despite the rather medieval look and feel of the place.
We explored fully and it was fascinating. A little group of building where workers lived, families grew up and now there’s nothing but stones, not even real memories to find and absorb. The main building has been re-roofed to give you a flavour of living conditions. Hmm, maybe we’ll just visit rather than move in.

 

 

The two historic sites we saw here are very well maintained with good access and not a single sign of litter or vandalism. It’s joy to witness.
We found a mysterious sculpture in the woofs at a viewpoint, that lets you view the tops of other trees. Is majestic Schiehallion lurking in that grey? We never know.
The rain started spitting, that wind was getting its way, so the weather took a two pronged attack. Back at the motor, we shot along to the cafe at Kinloch Rannoch for hot soup and a view down the loch. Still lots of grey, but lively nonetheless.

From hear to home were roads familiar but wet though happily quiet. The mountains stayed hidden the whole trip but that’s okay, it made us look elsewhere and that was the best thing that could have happened.

The day the camera died

It would be disingenuous to say I know nothing about taking photies, at times both me and others have said “Oh, that’s nice” at something I’ve taken and I have sold stuff many times over the years.
But it is absolutely true to say I know nothing about photography, like at all. I have no idea what the manual settings do, I have no idea what the terms describing the settings or their effects on what I see mean. I still use the idiots presets for everything, AI, landscape, night stuff, sunset etc.
When I went to my LX7 it didn’t have any preset long exposure settings for stars and camping lights and I didn’t take any night shots for years because I couldn’t get it to work on manual.
It’s not that I’m stupid, I’ve been running an engineering business for 30 years, I can do technical stuff while I’m sleeping in the truck, but when it comes to camera manuals and settings, I tune out instantly.

So point and click it is and I absolutely love it, this place has illustrated more than 15 years of my life with the power of point and click at low res intensity.
But this little trip to a favourite spot on Loch Lomondside finally killed the LX7, so I may have reached a turning point.
The Beinn an Dothaidh trip below this post was all taken on my LX5 (not my original, Linda got me this one a couple of years back so I could take night photies again…) so it looks great on small screens, but the camera itself is well worn and is probably functioning by luck and the power of positive thinking more than anything else.

We sat by the lapping water after trudging around the swampy woodland for an hour trying to find a spot with the water level still staying so high this winter. We had a lovely three course picnic dinner as we watched the sky go pink and we were menaced by swans who really liked the look of the tarts we had for dessert.
I tried to take photies but the same problem that’s been intermittent for months became the default setting, the lens would jam half way in or out and the camera would have a meltdown.
I’ve researched and acted on advice and the tapping it upside down when the lens motor engages thing worked for long enough, but now there’a a grinding noise as well. Yay.

I eventually got the lens out and to keep it that way I hung it around my neck and kept the camera on, pressing the shutter button now and again to keep it from attempting to retract.
But there’s more happening inside it than is obvious, almost everything was out of focus and had odd colours, I think the gubbins are misaligned now with all the shaking, slapping, knocking and er, throwing and dropping.

With dinner done and the light gone we headed into the woods under torchlight to work our way back to the road. I put the camera in my pocket, now ironically jammed completely in the on/lens out position.

Poor Linda, I shrieked so loudly and unexpectedly she stopped and dropped into a crash landing position with her hands up to her ears.
I thought it was a boat or something but the deep orange light I’d spied was the moon that had just slipped over the horizon as we’d reached a clearing by the bank of the loch.
It was absolutely a stop in your tracks moment.

I pulled the camera back out and the rear screen was lighting up at least, so I pointed and clicked and hoped for the best.
It was gorgeous and glorious and if we’d been further into the trees we wouldn’t have seen any of it.

With a fully functional camera it would look less like Minecraft up close, but ah what the hell.
The camera died after this water level shot below, the battery was drained after being constantly on for so long and as it tried to turn off the lens jammed half way shut with a squeak. And so it remains a week later.

I swapped the memory card into the LX5 to get the photies out and now that old timer is my only functional camera. I’d be quite happy at that actually, it’s like a camera for kids it’s so simple, but we’ll see.

Anyway, it’s all about making bookmarks for the memories later, you know when we’re old… er.

 

Always take a left

But that’s getting ahead of myself. I had laid everything out the night before, before we headed into Glasgow to see 80’s NWOBHM legends Demon play a fantastic and insanely loud set at Ivory Blacks.
We got back and I was out before my head hit the pillow, so much going on recently I think the blowout that was the gig reset my dials and I just shut down for some re-calibration.
This did mean that when I was woken up by a lovely surprise breakfast that I was at first confused and then really rather demotivated for heading out, despite the weather being eyewatering through the gap in the curtains.

Linda was having none of it, she pushes me when I need it (whether I like it or not) and this time the push i needed was to be abandoned while she went off the park with here maw (Hey Babs!).
I initially sat with a cuppa with the music loud, the pile of gear in my peripheral vision not being ignored as such, just a little overlooked. I put the kettle on for another cuppa, but this time I absent mindedly filled the flask.

Ah, I guess I am going then. I was ready fast but oh so appropriately, so very righteously, so completely joyfully, it was late when I left.

There were two places left at the Bridge of Orchy car park which I was glad of, and was happy to reduce that number by one. I stuck an old pair of winter Keens on and I was away. As I walked up to and crossed the road I could hear something, machinery, rumbling, maybe a generator? As I got near the station I could smell that sooty diesel perfume of vintage joy at the same time I spotted the freshly burgundy painted Class 37 sitting at the platform.
I speeded up in case I missed it and leaned over the level crossing gate with my camera to catch it leave.

“My camera” being a now almost vintage Panasonic Lumix LX5. It’s the only functional camera I have now and as it turned out, I’m quite happy with that.

However, leaving was apparently not on its agenda given that there was no one in sight anywhere on the train or in the station.
“Is it possible to steal a vintage train” and “Would it be worth the hassle when they got me for the absolute joy of tearing up the track to Fort William with English Electric power roaring behind me…” were two things that absolutely did not come to mind as I walking along the platform to find another vintage joy, a Class 47 pushing from the back.
I really could have sat and waited all day, the sounds, the smells, those happy 1950s locomotive faces smiling at me, but no. Those streaks of snow high above me were calling. Loud and clear too. It was with lightness of foot and heart I skipped down the station stairs and onto the path into the coire.

It was bright and breezy but I was warm and didn’t need gloves yet, there’s a rare pleasure. I soon started to run into folk coming down (yes, it was that late in the day) and almost everyone was happy faced and wanted to chat in the passing, I didn’t have to trap them or anything.
It became a welcome punctuation of my ascent for the next couple of hours, a chance of a wee rest, a good few laughs and many words of caution. Was I kitted for ice and snow was a common concern and did I know how to get down in the dark was one inquiry from an older gent wearing gaiters and a raised eyebrow.
I found this heartening. So much of life post lockdown (I use that with caveats obviously) has me seeing angry ignorant people everywhere, but in our hills I’m finding the best side of folks, especially today. It was a real highlight and it’s making smile again writing this.

So aye, ask me if I know what I’m doing, I’m not offended at all. Looking out for each other is maybe the finest of human qualities and I wish it was all pervading in our lives.

I loved these guys. The wee dug had got sore paws on the ice and was hitching a ride back down. I hope you’re good folks, thanks for the banter.

Using the old camera again was a lot of fun. It is more limited in it’s scope, terrible zoom, no automatic lens cap, but I think it takes a nicer looking photie than its replacement.
The timer is a wee step back, I’m running around counting out the seconds for the single shot at the count of ten. I got it wrong so many times, never seen myself girning into the lens trying to figure out of the shutter’s gone so much as I have tonight looking through them all. Loving it.

This boy wasn’t hanging around.

I could see some coloured dots coming down towards me (they are in the shot, oh yes) and by the time we got close I knew what was wrong, I put my hands up to stops them “Guys, you’re walking in the wrong order. It’s red, amber, green…” They looked at each others jackets and when the penny dropped I got laughs rather than abuse. Okay, they said we’ll walk in proper traffic light order until we’re out of sight. Good, some things have to be done right you know.

Coire an Dòthaidh is a fantastic place. Crags rise high on either side and a few boulders sit proud above the grass and bog to give you targets and leaning posts as you tackle either the slippery peat or mobile gravel paths. It has got more eroded around here since I was last this way.
At its head the coll gives nothing away at all until you stand on it with the little lochan and the sudden wonderful views.

It was cold here though, the wind was coming straight for me now. I pulled on my windshirt and beefy gloves and I was just right again.

I looked to my right, beautiful Beinn Dorain, the iconic and shapely beacon that welcomes us as we climb the road to the central highlands. It’s much photographed, much visited and in my early days it was high on my must do list. But now I think that the best looking hills aren’t the ones you should climb, it’s the ones next to them that deserve your attention. For one, you get to look at the calndar stars from an unusual angle, and also they ugly sisters are always quieter. I mean my best day with Buachaille Etive Mor was probably my winter camp on the summit of Beinn a Chrùlaiste about 100 year ago.

So, I turned left onto the rocky path to the wide shallow hollow that tries to be the southern coire of Beinn an Dòthaidh.

I chose wisely. The back end of Beinn Dorain looks mighty from here and I saw one other person from leaving the coll until I passed car on the way home hours later.
The wind was whipping across the whole time but I was still cosy enough in my light layers and I was moving at a moderate pace to keep my vitals on the right side of the line. It was unbroken snow for hundreds of metres ahead and it was soft after hours of sun, I wasn’t fighting that. I’ve got plenty of time, I’ll get to the ridge when I get there.
A friendly youngster caught me up on his way to grab the summit before shinning it back down to catch up with his girlfriend. I pointed it out, I suggested he take a line around the head of the burn as I could see the snow over the water there was many feet deep and he could catch the path easy enough on the other side. He followed my advice, took a safe line and he moved fast, but he missed the summit. I won’t tell a soul, it’s just between us.

I got to the edge and it reminded me why Beinn an Dòthaidh is actually a brilliant hill and in no way in the shadow of its fancy neighbour. For a start there’s the views to Beinn Achaladair’s fine flank and beyond, but right in front of you are fantastically steep and rugged cliffs and today they were wonderfully corniced.
I was quite happy where i was to be honest. I’ve been here since, but i haven’t actually stood on the proper summit since the RAF had Jaguars in active service. This is because I looked down on a Hercules and two Jaguars up to something warlike in the glen below while I had my lunch.
Wait, going to check Wikipedia…
Okay, so they were retired in 2007. Nah, it was way before that, 90s probably.

Anyway.

I was quite prepared to hang out where I was but the summit looked really rather pretty, a snow crusted fin sticking up only a few hundred metres away. Off I went.

Now I forgot to mention that I’d already lost my sunglasses, my good clip–ons too. The last ever made in the Scottish Polaroid factory. That’s okay though, I rarely lose or break stuff and it’s bound to happen from time to time so I can’t complain and I was having so much fun that it didn’t damped my joy at all.
The camera and tripod spinning through the air as I tried to take some timer shots did upset me though. I saw it hit the rocks and when I got close I saw it hadn’t landed on the lens which was still extended, I lifted it and turned it over, deep cuts in the screen like a tigers claws or something… oh dear god, that’s it.
Off, on, off , on, press, click… Bloody hell, it still works. I need spare of this model. I was more careful from there and the summit visit was joyous. The light had faded and warmed, a haze had settled and broken clouds were skittering over me and trying and failing to block all of the sun.
This was perfect.

Back on the slightly lower top I found a painted rock that had placed there recently. Whatever your views on memorials and the like being left on the hills, if you have a soul you can’t argue with the message on this one.

I headed round to a familiar spot, a small crag where Phil and I had camped a few years back. I put my down jacket on and cooried down out of the wind with a hot coffee and just watched the sky as the wind whistled over my head.

There’s an odd mix of calm contentment and bubbling excitement at moments like this. I grin so hard my face hurts, I jump up, run around with the camera laughing and sit back down out the wind and clench my hands like a five year old who’s just seen their birthday cake. Then I sit and stare at the dying sun as my cheeks chill, my breathing slows and I can’t hear the wind anymore, I’m just there. Perfect peace and perfect joy.
I used to say we’re all just dressing up to go out and play and I’ve never felt that to be truer, but it’s so much more besides too.

I stayed where I was, why would I want to leave? I wasn’t cold, I was wrapped up and had plenty left in my flask and the sky was beautiful. There was thicker weather coming from the east but i wold just descend out of that, I had a plan for that. Me and Phil took a steep but very doable line straight down from where I was down to the station, I’d do that. I had plenty of time.

I sat back down and let it all go in front of me.

When the sun went so did I. I packed up and followed the edge of the crags down to the wide shelf below. With all the colour now gone with sun the rock and snow were stark monochrome opposites and the realities of their danger felt almost oppressive as it grew steadily darker. I took a safe line onto the grass and pointed towards home. The mountain world is indeed one of contrasts and you need to sample all the flavours to try and make sense of it, not just your favourites.

It was pleasant walking. The snow patches glowed against the deepening black of the hillsides and the horizon glowed wearily as low cloud rolled in and shut out the last of the days’ light.
I got to where we descended the last time and I did not like the look of it in the dark one little bit. A damp band of black rocks with nothing visible beyond. I checked the GPS, I was exactly where I was supposed to be but was I about to take a leap, or possible slide and roll of faith? No, of course I wasn’t.

Back uphill it was. The mist was fully in now and the light was completely gone, I walked through the haze of my headtorch beam in a lazy arc that would take me on an easy–ish line for my now tired legs over the lowest part of the ridge above and into the shallow bowl behind where I’d find my way back down to the coll.

It was fine, I knew where I was, I knew where I was going and at no point did I waver. I think I needed this, a wee challenge for my mountain brain after possibly too long having it easy.
I swung round south once I got onto a big snow patch and I eventually caught up with some footprints and then the path as the snow started to break up. Within minutes of reaching the lochan and the coll the mist cleared and the stars came out to cheer me on as I slipped my way down the eroded path. Aye, thanks for that, half an hour earlier would have been better.

The stars twinkled as the lights of the station and the hotel floated in the black ahead of me but grew ever closer. I was hungry again, the diversion was done at a slow pace and I’d been out a lot longer than planned, but I wanted to get down before I ate, I was too close now.

I could smell it before I heard it and I could hear it before I could see it in the dark. the Class 37 was sitting where I’d left it, engine running. As I got to the station underpass the driver put the cab lights out and shut the door.

Wait, can train drivers read minds…?

 

Dinner Can Wait

Another late dash. It starts with spring over the wall and follows with as much of a sprint as my lungs will allow across the field to get to the trees and onto the giants staircase before the light fades.
This time, the lungs weren’t so wheezy, my stomach was on a slower spin cycle, is the post covid shite finally lessening it’s grip? Time will tell.

As beautiful as ever. The evening light brings this place alive and it’s a joy every single time. I was already feeling better than I’d expected and this despite having both boots and a rucksack that I’d just taken the labels off of.
My feet were wanting to go and I let them, I just them followed along. I like when someone else drives, I get to look at the view.

The brown scar of a recent rockfall stuck out quite obviously. The debris was no where near any of the paths, but it’s a worry. I’ve never seen one this big before.
The plateau is now almost devoid of trees as the 60 year old plantation has been made into flatpack furniture and LFT boxes, is more water now running faster to the edges of the plateau and increasing erosion where it’s not obvious? It’s a wee bit of a worry.

It’s stunning though, what a place to be, especially as dusk.

I had come prepared with flask and pieces. I descended into a wide rocky cleft just off the crags where i haven’t been in ages and jammed myself out of the wind with a down jacket and a grin to watch the dark take over.
Bliss, peace and contentment.

I pushed on until it was black around me, but not above. Stars blinked as half a moon shone optimistically but too weakly to light my way home, so I followed my own light back down to Overtoun.

The boots I hadn’t even thought about, that’s always a good sign, and the pack was forgotten about too it just “was”. I think gear has evolved a wee bit more than I’d expected in the past couple of years.

Epilogue.
My increasing amounts of “out” time have increased the amount of outdoor washing constantly hanging drying. I think I’m going back to gaiters. Hmm…

Valentines Day

All we needed was each other, the road, somewhere to eat and this to look at. After the greyest of weekends this light and shade and colour brought joy to our hearts.

Well, more joy I should say. The unlikeliness of our original meeting and windy road to our joining has own forever joy.

It’s never too late, for love, for hope, for life for putting things right and yes, making new mistakes to try and fix.
I sometimes feel like I’m walking a path of largely undeserved second chances, but I will take every gladly one offered and try to make the most of it. For me and for you, the kind soul who offered it.

By the way, Saint Valentine’s skull is on display in the Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin in Rome. It’s got missing teeth and is crowned with flowers. That’s got to be the most heavy metal thing I’ve heard for a wee while.

Here’s to love (picture a parma violet gin and diet lemonade held aloft in a jaunty fashion).

Half an inch too short

Let’s face it, if anyone I know is going to spontaneously create a rainbow from their fingertips, it’s going to be Linda.

It didn’t start as a wee trip to the lochside, I was in fact just down the road starting to fit a replacemnt pump in a church. Due to Brexit screwing me, my suppliers and the manufacturers over so that Tories can wallow in baths of cash while misty eyed over the dreams of empire, the pump was difficult to get and after paying nearly £1K up front for it, I was very keen indeed to see if I could get the thing hooked up, Saturday or not.

It had gone well, it will fit and it will work, but a pipework alteration would be necessary on the 2″ header and I’d have to get to that on Monday at the workshop then fit it, refill the system, test it and bill the bastard.
Linda had come along for morale support and as we were kinda there anyway, a wee trip to the Bonnie Banks seemed in order.

Good grief it was windy. I had work pants on, but hill gear on my top half and I was still feeling it. the wind cut through us like 5G through your unconscious mind to make you invest in cryptocurrencies and NFT’s. I hate conspiracy theorists, but it does give me a rare chance to be meta. Ha, see what I did there.

Sorry, it was the cold.

But crivvens, it was lovely.

In the woods there was welcome shelter but the sunstreaked flanks of Ben Lomond and even Conic Hill glowed through the bare black limbs of the tree around Luss’s Glebe.

The water was deep dark blue with white horse racing to the shore, the clouds caught an evening glow and out feet were staying alarmingly dry on the well worn but today deserted path.
We had only one pair of gloves, but holding hands solved that, and that’s also something you should never grow out of.

Cuppas were had, ducks were marveled and strangers were photographed. Sorry, but you were just so well positioned.

All this and The Stranglers at the O2 Acedemy last night where they played a stunner of a nearly two hour show. Give me snow, someone pay me and have it all I tell. All.

By all obviously I’m including a girlfriend who can make rainbows.

Can you sing it for me?

I really wanted to go out on the bike this week but energy and time weren’t quite as plentiful as I needed. Next week. Aye, next week.

However, the crags I can theoretically tackle at an easier pace. However as I wheezed up the giant’s staircase to try and catch the last of the light I did think that the bike would have been easier.

It was lovely though. A cool breeze, some colour in the sky as the sun went down somewhere around Arran by the looks of it and I sat with a wee flask as Ben Lomond caught a cloud full of rain and held onto it. Good job big yin.

I did a long loop and returned in darkness happily singing out loud. I had the whole place to myself, kinda like the old days.

Also, there is test kit in that photie below. Unusual brands on my usual trails. Going to be a lot of that.

And… Action!

I spent this weekend on an unusual adventure, the band made a video for our recent single You’ll be There.

It was kinda hilarious, I think being older takes the angst out of this stuff and we had a relaxed and fun shoot which went very smoothly.

Ian Mutch who filmed it was easy going, efficient and good company and he’s already cut together something that I think is releasable.

I feel for everyone on my social media when we do release this.

For now here’s an “ace guitarist mountaineer” from the day. Not my words, it’s what they called me on the radio, where we are played regularly.

All that’s also hilarious.

Beach Bums

I was on the laptop at half seven this morning. I didn’t look up until ten to eleven when the phone went at which point I realised I hadn’t had breakfast yet.

It was a productive time and after a couple of rolls on beef and cheese (both of whose use by dates hurried them out of the fridge and onto my rolls) and a fresh cuppa I was back on. Then the phone went again and it was two hours later. It’s like a black hole or a time vortex or some bloody thing been in front of that screen.

Fancy a wee walk to catch the last of the light said Linda. I put the kettle on to fill a flask. Enough, I’d done my bit and was pleased with myself. Not the frequent event you might imagine. I like earning my time out, I always have. Every time I dived away midweek for a summit camp because the weather was good is because I’d worked for those free hours or knew I’d sweat them out as soon as I got back.
I like having a purpose, I like having goals. Having the focus to do them, that’s the hard bit at times.

It was bright enough but the light was soft and warm, even if the air drifting off Loch Lomond was chill. Through the trees, through the mud, under that branch, over that log and finally a crunch of pebbles on the beach.
Conic Hill looks so small from here, bet it was lovely there today, especially for anyone who saw the sun go down just a wee bit later on.

A bimble and a blether took us through the trees and over swollen burns to the gravelly point that was still hidden by the high waters of the loch.
It was still a fine spot anyway, we sat and poured a cup each and watched the sun sink as the water rippled in suspicious but hypnotic ways just a few feet away.

As it got even colder we took to our feet and into the trees to find more mud and the lovely twisting trail back the the gates. It’s lovely in here, in a 1971 British horror film way.
The car park was close when the sky lit up properly, all the colours all at once we got. And for our cameras we had a potholed car park. We made the best of it.

Local adventures. Yes please.

Banned

I have been immune to advertising since 1999.

Might be better to say I’ve been unmoved by advertising since 1999. Back then Karrimor’s new owners launched into a huge campaign that went well outside the outdoor world and into billboards and the sides of buses.

I loved the look, the colours and the cheeky attitude. I loved that it quickly got the brand into trouble and the adverts got banned in case the message was taken too literally and workplaces were suddenly devoid of colleagues who had gone to the hills.

They reacted to the bans by changing the tagline from Phone In Sick to Go To Work. Ha.

 

I found these tidying up old magazines and they made me smile. Still my favourite gear and the early days of my love of colour.

In general the 90s were a golden era for gear I think. Leafing through the old mags I can see rapid gear evolution which has not continued at the same pace in the years from then to now.  Aye we’ve got lighter and better fabrics and cleaner construction, but that’s tweaking, not making leaps. Maybe there are none to be made, I certainly don’t find my 90s gear to be lacking so much it’s unusable or even compromised, they got so much right back then.

With that in the back of my mind I’m undertaking some gear grouptests for a well respected magazine over the next few months. I’m not expecting to be stunned by anything, but I hope I’m pleased on occasion, and if I’m properly impressed any point that’ll be a joy.

I just hope they send some bright colours.