It had been a while since Barry Boobs had hit the hills so he was eager to join me on a jaunt to Scotland where we would be staying with Jamie Juggs who had recently moved back after a miserable six months in Peterborough. It would be a chance for Barry to revisit his roots and to reacquaint himself with deep fried curly wurlies, Irn Bru and Tam O Shanters; that alone would surely be a tempting reason to return north, but with the prospect of some hill walking thrown into the mix there was no stopping him and we booked our train tickets weeks in advance at the knock down price of £36 return to Glasgow, an act of frugality that any self respecting jock would be proud of, but that is enough stereotyping for now.
With the big day of our departure looming, news came from Scotland that Jamies’ wife Nicola had prematurely given birth to their twin girls, Isla and Eubha; this would mean that Jamie would not be coming out to play in the mountains but he very kindly told us to come up anyway and fill our boots. While we were out enjoying ourselves Jamie would have his hands full looking after his other two girls and keeping on top of the housework, and not once would he mope, moan or feign interest in the tales we brought back from the hills; a real friend right enough, if you ken what I mean but.
And so, with hearts full of spring we boarded the train and headed off to Alba in blazing sunshine and in possession of a weather forecast set fair for the duration of our stay; this was going to be good. After a change of trains at Edinburgh Waverley and after that Glasgow Queen Street we embarked on the last leg of our journey to Alexandria, a stones throw from Loch Lomond. After catching up with the latest gossip and devouring our nosebag I suggested that we take a trip up the road to the loch to give Barry his first glimpse of the gateway to the highlands. He was suitably impressed but personally I find the view from Loch Lomond shores a bit of a tease, delightful wares are set temptingly before you but remain just out of reach. I have sat here many times looking out to Ben Lomond and beyond, wishing that I could be amongst it all and not languishing in the Vale of Leven with the neds and tourists. For the sightseer it is an enthralling view, but for the mountain man bereft of transport it is a reminder that great things are just beyond his grasp. I consoled myself with the knowledge that tomorrow I would be in the thick of it.
When one starts to consider the exploration of the Scottish mountains it quickly dawns on them that there is a big problem; where the hell do you start? There are lots of mountains and they cover a vast area. First off there are the Munros, the Scottish mountains above 3000ft of which there are 284 (and possibly one or two more); then you have the Corbetts, the mountains between 2500ft and 2999ft and there are 221 of those; not to mention the Munro tops (227) and countless other hills below 2500ft. In short there is a lifetime of opportunities for walkers to stretch their legs, an inexhaustible itinerary of adventures awaiting those willing to put one foot in front of the other. However, due to our geographical location and the fact that we would have to rely on public transport to return to our base, one group of hills screamed come hither, the Arrochar Alps. I was keen for Barry to open his munro bagging account but I also wanted to scale the Cobblers highest pinnacle after bad weather had beaten me and Jamie back on our last visit. A quick look at the map and a plan was hatched; we would bag Beinn Narnain (3040ft) and then head down to Bealach a ‘Mhaim and walk up to The Cobbler (2899ft) before racing down to catch the bus home. This would give us a good day in the hills but shouldn’t be too taxing for Barry; or at least that is what I told him.
Early the next morning we were dispatched at the head of Loch Long breathing in the still, salty air under a cloudless sky of blue; weather which the uninitiated may deem perfect for a day in the mountains. Though churlish, I inwardly cursed the fact that the haze and dearth of clouds would make for some uninspiring photography; nevertheless, it was better than the last time I was here when Jamie and I romped over the Cobbler in torrential rain and poor visibility before beating a hasty retreat back to Peterborough. That day we had reached the Narnain boulders only to find that Jamie had forgotten the camera; my smouldering disgust was hard to conceal as at the car park I had asked him if he had packed it in his bag, which he assured me he had. I can remember sulking and trying to convince myself that at least we were on the hill and although bereft of a camera it was better than being stuck indoors.
Today though would see no comparable clangers, and after a brief discussion with a Cletus type who grinned inanely through black stumps we started up the forestry switchbacks at a fair whack; or at least I thought we did. Halting for a quick view down the loch I found that I had left Barry in my wake and sat smoking on a rock until he caught up. “I’m sorry mate, I just can’t walk that slowly” I said with mild ignominy, Barry was struggling in the heat but kept to his own pace finding it less tiring than stopping every ten minutes and soon his spirits rose as the Cobblers summit fangs appeared over the horizon.
I started to get very excited, here we were, a world away from the indifferent mediocrity of our home town, unencumbered by trivialities and indeed without a thought in our heads. The mountains do that for you, they empty your mind of the extraneous clutter that accumulates given too much exposure to the media and city streets swarming with shoppers, beggars, chavs and immigrants. Some people are blind to the fact that media bombardment and city life in general is an illusion, a transient dream world of fads and fashions; we who tread the high places know different as our natural habitat is very real, elemental and immutable. It cares not for passing fancies and in a world confused by endless shades of grey it gives us clarity as to who we are and more to the point, what we are.
We entered the Cobblers secret glen, the gradient eased and we walked along the dusty track as zephyrs soothed our hot skin. The only sounds were our breathing, our footfall and sweet music from the nearby burn. All around us lay huge boulders, discarded by the crags to which for eons they once clung; in this desolate place, complete with a powerful aura of pre-history, one would be forgiven for expecting to chance upon warring dinosaurs, troglodytes and pterodactyls circling around the Cobblers towers. Soon, we found our own little cave at the famous Narnain Boulders and chose to stop for our first real breather where Barry ate peanuts and I imbibed of my newly discovered hill fodder ‘Tasty Fish’, neither tasty nor fish but gelatinous high calorie sweets, mmmm. It was at this point we decided to take our time and not worry too much about missing the bus. There would be another one a few hours later and if we had to wait around for it then it wouldn’t be the end of the world. The important thing was that we enjoyed our day at a leisurely pace and wrung as much pleasure out of it as we could, for it would be a while before we could return to the highlands.
Rested and refreshed we moved on through spongy trackless terrain vaguely following a burn up the increasingly steep hillside. Barry cursed at the incline and his inability to move more than twenty paces without having to lean on his pole gasping for breath. It was hard work to watch and brought to mind images of Himalayan mountaineers struggling in the thin air. Higher up we entered a miniature corrie filled with boulders of every conceivable size and shape, the biggest was the size of a three story house. At sometime in history it had fallen off a nearby cliff and came to rest where we now found it; I tried to imagine the terrific noise this event must have created but quickly abandoned this train of thought as Barry collapsed at its foot signalling an enforced rest. Not wanting to stop I tried to encourage him, “Come on mate, one last pull and we’ll get onto the ridge”. That didn’t work so I suggested that it was the time of year when sluggish adders come out of hibernation to bask on rocks not unlike the ones we were sitting on. This did the trick and we were off again, slowly but surely. I soon became aware how steep the going was becoming, we were nearly on safe ground but we had to be very careful as a trivial slip would see us bouncing off rocks for hundreds of feet until something hard and immoveable halted our terminal descent. At long last we gained the ridge and the view grew exponentially, a fitting reward for our efforts. However, we still hadn’t bagged our first peak of the day so I cruised on suffering from summit fever.
Barry now forgot about the physical trials as we walked with a big drop to our left, “This is fucking ace” I enthused; “I’m fucking shitting myself” was Barrys’ contribution. Our way lay through impressive rock architecture on narrow ledges interspersed with short sections of scrambling. Above us towered the Spearhead, a fine climbing crag and I vowed to come back one day to climb it as we entered a gully to its right which would see us on to Beinn Narnains’ summit plateau. The gully fell easily, little more than a walk and a nervous Barry followed until there was no more up and we walking once more in the bright sunshine. I hurried over to the trig point and waited for Barry to join me; it was a proud moment for me to see him touching the trig and claiming his first munro, “One down, 283 to go” he said with a broad smile etched onto his sweaty red face.
Though extremely hazy, the view was tremendous, especially to the north where the unmistakeable bulk of Ben Nevis stood proud, a vast panorama, a seemingly endless parade of mountains. It was sobering but hugely inspiring that all we could see was the tip of the iceberg, a small showcase of what lays in store for us, should we continue to be blessed with good health. For me this was virgin ground, my munro count at a measly 6; in Snowdonia there are few mountains that have yet to feel my boots upon them, yet here there is much to discover and I can only hope that my opportunities to explore this land of wonderment are many and frequent. At close hand the nearby mountains were no less stirring, Ben Ime with its fearsome crags, Ben Lomond seen as a graceful pyramid and the ex munro Beinn an lochain being alluring in the extreme; but it was the diminutive Cobbler, Ben Arthur that held our attention, for that is where we would be going next.
Leaving only footprints and taking only photographs we left Beinn Narnain as we found it and headed down to Bealach a’ Mhaim, a soggy pass that separates Narnain from Ben Ime and the Cobbler. Looking up, Ben Ime looked inviting and gave me a come hither look that was hard to ignore. Ignore it I did though as a steep 600ft ascent lay between us and the Cobbler and at this point Barry was (if you would excuse the phrase) absolutely buggered. Not wanting to see him struggle I shot off and told him I’d wait for him beneath the north summit, but soon even I was finding it hard work as I toiled up this unrelenting staircase of pain. I looked back periodically and winced as Barry appeared to be moving backwards and getting smaller as I ascended. With much relief I reached the last section of the climb and found a nice slab to sit on. I smoked, ate tasty fish and reclined decadently as I waited; ten minutes went by and then twenty when at last Barry appeared looking none too chipper, “You cunt” was his considered response to seeing me in such recumbent repose and I burst into hysterics before offering him a tasty fish in an attempt to show what a considerate and kind person I was. “That was a brave effort man, that path is a nightmare, well done”, this was met by “Bollocks to your fucking tasty fish, fuck you, you fucking cunt” as he sat beside me on my slab, needless to say I was laughing hard now, nearly choking on a tasty fish in the process.
After gathering mind and body back together we set of to claim the north peak; Barry wasn’t happy and after much cajoling he declined to follow me up it only to have to descend again and tackle more up to the central peak, the true summit. I gave him my camera so he could take a shot of me looking tiny on the north peak. After a short slog and an easy scramble I was in position ready for my close up. I spotted Barry across the col and waived my trekking pole to signal my readiness to be photographed. Just then and from out of nowhere an ear splitting din was upon us and I cowered behind the cairn and recoiled in horror as a fighter plane shot between us, it was so close that I could clearly discern the face of the pilot. I found this brief episode terrifying and a feeling of nausea filled my entire being. To me, these abominable aircraft are purveyors of death, their only purpose being to burn aviation fuel and drop bombs. I am a confirmed pacifist and a lover of all that is beautiful in nature and the human condition; in such sublime surroundings this intrusion was at best incongruous and at worst a reminder that we live in the sickest of times. The reason I go to the mountains was brought into sharp focus as this airborne monstrosity disappeared from view. Its passing was all the more poignant for it had spooked a group of stags who raced across the bealach below me in terror and confusion. Simple creatures with simple needs, for a moment I envied their ignorance and contentment in this wild habitat that is their home. Sometimes I wish that I had been born a dog. Barry now started to move upwards again and I assumed that he had got the shot, so I scrambled down and made my way up to the central peak where this time he was the recumbent one.
The true summit of the Cobbler is a slender pinnacle and to reach the top requires a steady head and some climbing skills, it is said that to prove his manhood each young warrior of the Campbell clan was expected to do just that. To gain this airy position was my sole reason for coming back to this grand mountain, otherwise I would have tagged another munro onto the walk. By now the wind had got up and the thought of standing on this precarious finger of rock filled me with dread. But here is was and come hell or high water I was going to give it a lash. I steeled myself and walked up to the pinnacle; first I had to crawl through a small hole (Argyles eyeglass) to reach a ledge. On the ledge I found it to be much wider than I had imagined and were it not for the horrendous drop just feet away I would have ran up it. The wind was bothering me and I had to be careful, this was no place for a trip or slip and Barry wasn’t helping matters, “Don’t do it man, for fuck sake don’t be a twat”. Moving up the ledge I found good holds and heaved myself up, just spitting distance from the top block but all too aware of the abyss beneath me. I became concerned that if I made another move I may not be able to reverse it; this and the wind made up my mind for me, it would have to wait for next time, and of course there would be a next time as the Cobbler has a magnetism that is hard to resist. I retraced my steps and crawled back through the eyeglass muttering something about discretion being the better part of valour; Barrys’ relief was palpable and we sat for a while eating tasty fish and concurred that there was no way we could get down in time to catch the bus. Did we care? Of course not, we had had a wonderful day and now had the pleasure of a languid walk down to Loch Long and Arrochar where maybe we would find a chip shop or a pub.
Leaving the Cobbler we said our goodbyes and promised to return one day to scale its very highest inches. On our way we had cross a short section of knife edge, I thought Barry would protest but he took it in his stride we were soon traversing around the bottom of the south peak. Here we found a small brass plaque attached to the rock in memory of one Peter Bone who had with his friends met his end on the mountain. The plaque told of how he died doing what he loved, I forget the exact wording but fixed in my mind are the final words in which I found great sadness but also great beauty….”Climb high Peter, Climb high boys”.
This gave us lots to think about as we made our way off the mountain, but remember my friends that there are many dangers in life, for me the biggest danger is to shirk the challenge of the outdoors. The risks are there, but the rewards are more than commensurate. It would be a tragedy to confine yourself to ‘safe’ urban haunts only to be hit by a car, murdered or struck down by a terrible illness. It is better to live one day as a lion than a hundred years as a sheep.
