In fact, I sense a Shakespearean muse about to emerge. Apologies to Burns, but I am English after all.
Henry V: eat your heart out.
Inchnadamph was our Calais: Conival and Ben More Assynt our Agincourt. I’m not sure how Charlie the dog fits into the script: maybe he was Henry himself, encouraging us on with his limitless energy and enthusiasm.
We had our “dark night of the soul” on the eve of battle as the wind buffeted and slammed into anything that rose above the horizontal during the night.
“If it’s like that down here, what’s it going to be like higher up?” Rhetorical or not, we already knew the answer. The site of future battle was lost in the mists that clung with Velcro-like stubbornness to the hills above.
- There's a mountain up there somewhere - up the Gleann Dubh
As we began the trudge up the River Traligill, past the caves and up the Gleann Dubh, the comic appeared with the predictable assumption that someone else had a map, and was actually using it. Of course, we all did: but no-one was. Instead, our attention was deflected by the bizarre laxity of the Sutherland planning department and the turret sprouting from the hillside in defiance of the Quinag behind: another holiday home for a southern laird or a future location for WH meet?
- A planning aberration - or the French camp above Inchnadamph
In a landscape where the mountains rise abruptly from the surrounding scoured ground, the brutal preparation for war was soon upon us. It’s a mixed blessing when you can’t see what lies ahead, just upwards, ever upwards.
To a “high grassy alp” the SMC guide insists. Oh, it sounds so idyllic and redolent of balmy summer afternoons frolicking in the Swiss summer sunshine with Heidi. However, as the shoulder of the ridge was finally reached we were back in Henry V’s territory, “when the blast of war blows in our ears.” And boy, was it blowing by now.
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” and together we got our heads down and ploughed on upwards. Sinews were definitely stiffened and at times during the next hour I’m sure the temptation-ridden question was asked by more than one: “would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety.”
- Onward, upwards - and unto the breach
- Final summit stretch on Conival
- The tigers and greyhounds arrive
With that unspoken mutual encouragement we plodded on until, as a flatter stretch of crag emerged from the mist a couple of hundred metres ahead, a curious sphere appeared above. With perfect timing and tactics, and seemingly outnumbered by those elemental forces ranged against us, not only did the summit cairn appear, and a sliver of blue sky, but so did ...
... the swooping ridge to the east. The Harfleur of Ben More Assynt had surrendered; we were now ready to “imitate the action of the tiger.”
- The ridge to Ben More Assynt appears
The struggles of the previous couple of hours were behind us and our enthusiasms reborn, we definitely did:
“stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit ; and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Harry! England and Saint George!’”
Well, OK, that last bit might be a bit tenuous and dependent on a vote in September, but you get the drift. Should it be “Cry ‘God for Alex, Nicola and Walkhighlands”?
Anyway, the day had now changed. Wider views appeared as the clouds raced by or twisted in their hurtling journey across the ridge. The wind hadn’t relented, but the prospect for the remainder of the day had. It was still hard work keeping balance as the gusts buffeted us from one side then the other, but the ridge lured us on.
The weather gods had the last laugh though. They stubbornly refused to relent while we crouched like huddled masses on reaching the top of Ben More. It was hardly Ellis Island and the cairn was no Statue of Liberty, but this was the promised land: at the start of the ascent it had been touch and go.
- Ben More Assynt still cloaked in mist
- The huddled masses on the summit of Ben More Assynt
Charlie was fed on the scraps of sandwiches hurled into the snow, while copious quantities of jelly babies and wine gums were consumed by those of a less discerning nature. Then it was time to return.
- The return journey - looking back towards Conival
Conival, take-two wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It’s surprising how uplifting spectacular views can be: that, and good company fuels the body and the spirit.
- Ben More Assynt and its alluring ridge from Conival
The descent was taken more gently so the soaring cliffs of Na Tuadhan and the ice-flows on its surrounding lochans could be admired. The wind had dropped, the day was becoming almost pleasant – and so concentration lapsed. Either that or obeisance was being paid to the mountain gods as knee and forehead of one of the group met the horizontal hard stuff. Dressings, patches and the occasional “this might sting a bit” and the casualty bore the badge of the walking wounded, and the bill for a new pair of trousers: there’s a limit on what a Goretex patch can cover.
- Warriors return - with cliffs Na Tuadhan in the background
Like hyped-up warriors returning in victory, the walk-out was a buzz of amiable conversation and that glorious ability we all seem to have to blot out the more painful experiences of the day when it has been so successful.
- So there was a hill up there after all - Conival in its glory
“My best EVER day on the hills” was one conclusion against which few would argue.
In fact, “... gentlemen in England, now a-bed shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here.”
Now, how can I weave Macbeth into a report?
was a great day out.
