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Some thought me mad, even irresponsible. A few understood. However, this walk wasn’t about the jeopardy of arctic conditions or the risks we take. At the very end of the day, it became one about a single word, the one in the title you’re possibly scratching your head about.
Looking back, I had a score to settle. A five-year grudge was to be revenged, but only in ideal conditions: a prolonged spell of unrelenting heat or bone-chilling cold.
At -7C, fingertips tingled as I scraped ice from my windscreen in the dark. At -4C, parked by the side of the A82, I felt smug having suit-and-booted even before leaving the house. I know, positively tropical compared with what’s often recorded at Altnaharra. Ben Lomond was still a silhouette against a sky in which the palest yellow hinted at an approaching sunrise.
Half a decade earlier, on a misty and equally chilly January morning, I’d clambered over the gate across the road from Glen Falloch farm. Naivety assumed that, once above the cloud blanketing the glen, Meall an Fhudair would be a straightforward way to start the year. The Hill of Powder, on the other hand, had other ideas and lived up to its name. Fluffy, loose and granular, with nothing that could be described as a crust, the white stuff sapped my energy. By the time the first top, Troisgeach, was reached I was blown.
Legs were like lead and lungs gasped. The two-kilometre trudge across the intervening bowl to the Corbett’s summit held little appeal. I could live without a plod through unconsolidated snow and the threat of a plunge into the bog below. I beat a tactical retreat. If it wasn’t for the spectacular cloud inversion swallowing Glen Falloch and Loch Lomond, the day would have been a write-off.
- January 2019 - Glen Falloch blanketed in an inversion ...
- ... along with Loch Lomond.
Until 2025, when the temperatures plummeted, and optimism resurfaced.
I wasn’t tempted to repeat the dispiriting grind up the east ridge of Troisgeach: once was enough. Instead, after crossing the railway bridge and zigging up the zags, the hydro track into the Lairig Arnan offered an alternative. Then, taking a rising traverse up the southern slopes, directly to the summit, I could revel in what little sun we experience at this time of year.
- Ben Lomond's early morning silhouette from Meall an t Sagairt above Inverarnan
- The hydro track leading into the Lairig Arnan - as the early morning sun catches Beinn Damhain
The Lairig Arnan was still deep in shadow, holding in a hard frost the reputed bog-fest underfoot. After a few hundred metres, any tracks or paths were lost in the snow. Hoof and paw prints revealed where more agile beasts picked their way. Spotting a small herd of deer prance in the distance confirmed their search for food differed from my summit aspiration. A pungent bovine aroma hung in the air where scuffed snow exposed a patch of bare earth and nibbled debris where they’d spent the night.
- The cluster of hills surrounding Beinn Ime from the southern slopes of Meall an Fhudair
By now, my own initial aim was to weave a way through crags and outcrops to cross the line where shadow met sunlit snow. Frustratingly, Meall an Fhudair, that Hill of Powder, continued living up to its name. Fine and floury, I wasn’t quite plunging knee-deep with every step, but conditions thwarted efficiency or rhythm. I was tiring again.
Eventually, I perched on a rock that had been my target for the past ten minutes. It was the first to cast a shadow, reveal flecks of colour, shed its monotone grey. Looking south across to Beinn Damhain, I could feel the sun on my face. It might have been cold, it wasn’t sheltered, but there was a subtle, invigorating warmth. At the next stop, only for a photograph you understand, the rock had lost its chill to the touch and allowed another pause to face the sun.
When the gradient eased, and the summit shelter came into view, the hill came into its own. It was no longer a viewless slog, effort endured not enjoyed. Meall an Fhudair doesn’t have a fine profile, it doesn’t stand proud. Instead, it lurks, hunkered down, but unveiling panoramic views of the big boys boasting their presence on the horizon.
- Approaching the summit shelter on Meall an Fhudair
Brushing snow off some flat stones, I took advantage of the sun.
Ben More dominates, Ben Lui, Ben Oss and Beinn Dubhcraig form a wall, the Arrochar Alps and Beinn Bhuidhe hide the coast to the west.
- North east up Glen Falloch to Ben More
- West to Beinn Bhuidhe
- A satisfied shadow enjoys the prospect of Ben Lui, Ben Oss and Beinn Dubhcraig before descending back into the Lairig Arnan
I’d rejected a circular route, planning to descend the way I’d come. There was no need to revisit Troisgeach, no purpose in expending more effort. Relishing time in the sun was sufficient, there was no need to cover more ground just for the sake of it.
- Ben More, Glen Falloch and the late afternoon sun
But it wasn’t until I got back to the car that I discovered what I’d been enjoying, and it wasn’t simply the satisfaction of ticking off another Corbett.
- Ben Lomond and Loch Lomond - descending as the light fades means you've used the day to the full
On the radio, Michael Rosen was discussing words with lexicographer Susie Dent. She was sharing a positive word she wished got more use. It was old, uncommon, and a word that doesn’t appear in the multiple dictionaries on my shelf. Yet, it summed up my day:
Apricity - appreciating the feeling of the sun’s warmth in winter.
You never know, AI generated text may harvest it and Susie will get her wish.
Apricity. Apricity. Apricity.
